Latitude on 2nd The 2012 Spring Poetry Anthology

Latitude on 2nd 2

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ANTHOLOGY CONTRIBUTORS (In order of appearance)

Jay Bedingfield (Cover art, “Shadow DNA”) was born in L.A. in

1980, and his parents soon moved to the Sacramento Valley to

raise him and his three younger sisters. He became deeply inter-

ested in photography at San Joaquin Delta College where he ma-

jored in Mass Media. He approaches his subjects as they are,

outside the studio, in an attempt to articulate the otherwise intan-

gible beauty of the everyday moment, capturing snippets of life

which pass us by all too rapidly. To capture the moment is his

passion in life.

Walter William Safar (The Last Voyage, A Poem to My Beloved,

The Old House, Hope, Straw Man, Old Oak, I’d Like to Tell You

Before Leaving, My Voice, The Stationery Boy, Lonely Nights) was born on August 6

th 1958 in Sherman, Texas. He is the author of a

significant number of prose works and novels, including “Leaden Fog,”

“Chastity on Sale,” “In the Flames of Passion,” “The Price of Life,”

“Above the Clouds,” “The Infernal Circle,” “The Scream,” “The Dev-

il’s Architect,” “Queen Elizabeth II,” as well as a book of poems.

“Your Voice” was recently published in Empirical magazine. [Page

13]

Betsy A. Riley, (All Fall Down, The Laundry of the Mind, The

Thinker Sleeps) author and artist, has published non-fiction in the

fields of supercomputing, computer graphics, performance improve-

ment, and psychological/sociological considerations for introducing

new technology to resistant audiences. She has been a contributing edi-

tor for proceedings from scientific conferences, and consulting editor

during launch of a scientific magazine. She began publishing poems

and essays at an early age, and was a National Merit Scholarship win-

ner, and a Presidential Scholar. She has discovered a fondness for flash

fiction after winning several online contests. “Belief Systems” was re-

cently published in Empirical magazine. Visit her author site at

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http://BRWS.com and her imprint site at http://BlueDragonPress-

.com [Page 30]

Morning Star (Fallen, to Walk This Way) is a Mystic, a writer, and

a channel for Spirit. She writes spiritual prose, philosophy, and poetry

that are inspired by Spirit and the beauty of the natural world. She is

also a spiritual counselor, psychic, and healer. She is originally from

the UK, and now lives in California with her cat Christie. Her publica-

tion credits include: Circle Magazine (four issues), Sedona Journal of

Emergence, The Chalice, (two issues) and Two Worlds. Contact her at

www.OfSpirit.net. [Page 34]

Olav Bryant Smith (In the Eyes of a Child) is a philosopher, writer,

photographer, and singer-songwriter. He has a Ph.D. in Philosophy of

Religion and Theology from the Claremont Graduate University, where

he was editor of Process Perspectives and Editorial Assistant for Pro-

cess Studies. Olav is retired from the Philosophy Department at CSU

Chico, teaches Eastern Religions at Butte College, and is the author of

Myths of the Self (Lexington Books, 2004). He enjoys playing basket-

ball and hiking. He is the Managing Editor of Empirical magazine.

[Page 36]

Eftichia Kapardeli (Ruling Day, She, First Verse) was born in

Athens and lives in Patras. She writes poetry, stories, haiku, essays, and

novels. She participates in chorus as a soprano. She graduated from the

journalism department at the A.K.E.M. (Athenian Center Vocational

Education). She participates in many education seminars. She knows

H/Y 7 programs, English and Italian, and classic Kithara. She was a

guide for the Hellenic Girl Scouts. She is an active volunteer fire-

woman and participates as an auditing student in the Department of

Philology at the University of Patras. She has awards in Panhellenics

competitive essays, topics, stories, novels, fables, and haiku. She takes

earned recognition for her novel Secret March from D.E.E.L. and

“Sikeliana 2006” from UNESCO. Her work is published in various

magazines. Her first poetry collections are “Confindings of Secrets”

and “Light.” She has one paper, “The Creek Civilication” in the Uni-

versity of Cyprus. She is a member in the World Poets Society (W.P.S.)

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at http://world-poets.blogspot.com/ and the International Writer’s As-

sociation (IWA). Contact her at the following address: e-mail: ka-

pardeli@gmail.com

http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1377152190#!/profile.php?id

=1377152190

http://www.best-poems.net/kapardeli_eftichia/index.html

http://worldpeaceacademy.blogspot.com/2010/10/poets-for-world-

peace.html

http://douridasliterature.com/kapardeli.html [Page 37]

H.W. Bryce (It’s A Long, Long Goodbye; Just a Little Girl;

She’s Lost;What I Really Wish For) is a former journalist and book

editor, with several stints as a teacher. His work has appeared in such

publications as the “Fifty-five Plus” annual directory, “Today’s Senior

Magazine,” and “Bryce’s Blog For Seniors,” as well as “The Daily

Mirror Book for Boys,” and “…for Girls,” in London, England. He

currently lives and writes in the Metro Vancouver area of British Co-

lumbia, Canada. He is caregiver to his wife, who suffers from Alz-

heimer’s Disease. He is currently compiling a collection of his poems,

short stories and musings on the subject for a book. You can reach the

author at hwbryce@telus.net. [Page 41]

Michael Kwaku Kesse Somuah (We are One People, The Rudi-

ments of Nature) lives in Ghana and is an African Poet. International

Poetry congresses and festivals have included his poetry presentations

and writings in their programs. He is an award-winning poet and has

participated in Poetry events, readings in and out of Ghana, including

Greece. As a Kostis Palamas poetry prize winner and Guest editor of

Poetry Space-UK, he is being published widely in literary journals,

anthologies and newspapers in the UK, Canada, India, Ghana, Malawi,

South Africa, Pakistan, Hungary, Greece, the US, and other web-

hosting literary magazines. He uses his form of poetry in projecting

brotherhood of peace, love and beauty in all style, and is a distin-

guished member of United Poets Laureate International (UPLI-USA),

World Poetry Canada, Ghana Association of Writers’ (GAW) among

others. Michael’s poems have been translated into other languages such

as Polish by Piotr Balkus and Vinko Kalinic and read on Co-op Radio

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102.7 in Canada by Ariadne Sawyer. He is a Project Support Executive

of Rakes Company Limited, holds a Bachelor’s degree in Management

Studies from the University of Cape Coast, and finds poetry as a tool of

promoting peace and conquering the opponent with love. He is writing

his first poetry book. You can reach the poet at kmsogh@gmail.com.

[Page 49]

Don Ford (A New Day Dawns) started penning stories at the age of

15. After numerous short story magazine sales across the U.S., and

now in Portugal and Cyprus, this international storyteller also goes on

speaking engagements at retirement homes, club meetings, schools.

The environment is a hot topic with Don, and he has written numerous

stories regarding nature. Several schools have asked him to teach Writ-

ing For Publication Classes for Adult Education. He writes in most

genres and his story sharing is age appropriate depending on the group

he is speaking to. His storytelling is accompanied by his own digital

artwork as seen in area art galleries and libraries. Poetry is also a strong

suit as he crafts personal poetry for individuals. Some of his poems

have found homes in numerous magazines in e-format.

http://dgford.gather.com/

http://grassroots10.blogspot.com/

http://www.facebook.com/grassroots08 [Page 51]

Anne D’Arcy (La Fille de ma Mère, L’Étoile) has Master’s de-

grees in literature and religion/philosophy and a Ph.D. in philoso-

phy/creative writing. She is a former editor/founder of Telewoman, a

women’s literary journal. She writes in all genres except drama, and her

creative focus is écriture féminine. Her academic work has been pub-

lished by McGraw-Hill, and her creative work published in Inside Eng-

lish, Telewoman, and Paradise Post. She is at work on a sci-fi/fantasy

novel and revising a philosophical novel for publication. Recently re-

tired from teaching in the philosophy department at CSUC, Chico, she

lives in a cabin in the woods in South Paradise, California, with her

pack of rescued dogs. [Page 52]

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Nina Kossman (Exits and Entrances, Memory is Silence, Soli-

tude) born in Moscow, is a poet, short story writer, playwright, and

artist. She has written poetry and prose in English and in Russian for

many years. In the last few years she has been writing plays also. In

1995 she received a UNESCO/PEN short story award, and in 1999 she

received an NEA fellowship. She lives in New York. “Syrinx” was

recently published in Empirical magazine. [Page 54]

Jamie Oliveira (Escape Velocity) is currently an undergraduate at

San Francisco State University studying Philosophy and Cinema con-

currently. [Page 59]

J.D. Helfert (I Am) was born and raised on the hard-edged streets of

New York’s inner city. J.D. Helfert has survived the challenges of ur-

ban life through devotion to animals and a deep passion for Nature…

J.D. has spent time writing, reading and living for Art and Conserva-

tion. J.D. has been active in a number of animal education-related or-

ganizations and spent many years in the television industry. J.D. writes

about the human/animal connection, does regional lectures on the topic

and is also a certified Animal Rehabilitator. J.D. Helfert is the recipient

of numerous awards and honors, including a Special Congressional

Recognition for Work in the Arts by former Senator Hillary Rodham

Clinton; a Commendation in the Arts and a Certificate of Achievement

in the Arts. Poetry is one of the first mediums in which J.D. expressed a

love of the written word. J.D. is currently working on a new book about

the human/nature experience- release date to be announced. J.D.

Helfert can be contacted at: helfertjd@gmail.com. Blog URL:

http://JDHelfert.blogspot.com [Page 61]

Kitsune McCurtain (Death By Insanity) is sixteen years old and has

been drawing since she was two. She has never been previously pub-

lished and has always wanted to be known for her creations, mostly

fairies, mermaids, animals, and anime-style humans. [Page 63]

Matthew Harris (Ansley Dunning, The Scourge of Obsessive,

Double Entendres, A Bend in the River) [Page 64]

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Diane Jardel (5 a.m. Blues) is a published poet who spent three

years in Findhorn Foundation spiritual retreat in Scotland. This enabled

her to connect with the spirit of nature and clear her mind after 30 years

of teaching to write her stories and poems. She lives in Ireland now and

recently started a writing group. She is a regular contributor on

LinkedIn Poets Forum and Stories Space. More of her writing can be

found at: http://themomentiseternal.webs.com [Page 69]

Terah Van Dusen (Some Women Just Like A-Holes, The Best

Love is Self-Love) is an aspiring poet and memoirist. She lives in Eu-

gene, Oregon and works as a counselor. She is a big fan of Charles Bu-

kowski. This is the first time her writing has been published. For more

reads, visit terahvandusen.wordpress.com [Page 70]

Natalia McDonald (What We Take out of Life) is 24 years old and

the youngest of five children, four girls and one boy. Her father is a

pharmacist and a lawyer and her mother a homemaker. Natalia always

escaped to her own little world to create characters that seem real to her

as any of her good friends in her life growing up. She has been telling

stories since she was old enough to speak, writing stories and winning

awards for them at an early age. She is currently working on book se-

ries, and writing a movie and TV pilot. Natalia was born in Seattle,

Washington. [Page 72]

Paige Elizabeth Jackson (Just Friends) is an eighteen-year-old poet

living in Portland, Oregon. She has been writing since she was old

enough to hold a pencil to paper. She says, “It is the one thing that

takes me away from this world. I’ve never been published until now but

am glad to have my name next to this magazine [Empirical]. I hope I

can get more of my work out soon and open people’s eyes.” [Page 73]

George Freek (Melancholia, For Leonard) is a poet/playwright

living in Belvidere, IL. His poems have recently appeared in “The

Vein,” “The Poydras Review,” “Symmetry Pebbles,” “Structo Maga-

zine,” “The Stone Hobo,” “The Whistling Fire,” and “Red Fez.” His

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plays have lately been produced by The Leeds Amateur Dramatic Soci-

ety (UK), The International Theatre (The Netherlands), The Laurel Mill

Playhouse (MD), Theatre Unleashed (LA), Somerset College (KY), the

Auburn (NY) Community Players, and The Fells Point Corner Theatre

(MD). [Page 74]

Alexandra Wilson (The Frozen Hourglass) says, “There are two

ways to go about writing poetry; you either have to work at it diligently

or wait till it hits you like a steaming locomotive. The first stays true to

the phrase ‘slow and steady wins the race’; however, in this age, mas-

terpieces come with time constraints. The latter tends to have you

scrounging like a slovenly drunk to find a pen and page on which to

scribble incoherent thought before it dissipates. Just know that no poem

will write itself, it will never come out as the finished product, and not

everyone will like nor appreciate your work. Alas, if it is your passion -

in a world of the current 6,998,042,501 inhabitants, someone is bound

to agree.” [Page 76]

Aaron Kahle (On the Go) is someone who, with a severe hearing

disability, was told his whole life that he couldn’t write music or be-

lievable dialogue due to his hearing impairment. He writes, “So what’d

I do? I went out and proved them wrong by writing feature films, my

own album, and songs for a few hip hop artists. My songs have been

featured in three movies and three documentaries. In addition, I wrote

the feature length independent film Pandemonium that was a big hit at

the festivals a few years back. I’ve won awards for creative writing and

am currently writing a follow up novel to Out on the Curb. I never lis-

tened to the doubters and never will because, well, I guess I just

couldn’t hear them.” [Page 77]

John Hurst (Voice Menus in Place of Human Contact) is a bay

area actor/writer and poet who hails from New York. He is delighted to

have made his home in the bay area for the past several years. Besides

being a published writer he currently is appearing as Dr. Lasker in San

Francisco with the New Conservatory Theatre. He looks forward

to many more years of entertaining and writing. [Page 79]

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Laura Cato (Society’s Image) is 22 years old and grew up in Minneap-

olis, MN. Now married with two dogs, she has recovered from working

many years in retail. She has a special expertise in language to de

scribe world news, feelings on politics, pop culture, and society’s for-

mat, and she has the ability to compartmentalize all of this into a nar-

row aspect of herself. She has a special expertise in language to de-

scribe world news, feelings on politics, pop culture, and society’s for-

mat for compartmentalizing into a narrow aspect of self. She has re-

cently published a book of poetry, Making Full Circle, and is continu-

ing to discover new territory to interpret. [Page 81]

Martin Willitts Jr. (I is for Infrared, O is for Opaque) retired as a

Senior Librarian in upstate New York. He is a visual artist of Victorian

and Chinese paper cutouts. He was nominated for 5 Pushcart and 2 Best

Of The Net awards. He has print chapbooks "Falling In and Out of

Love" (Pudding House Publications, 2005), “Lowering Nets of Light”

(Pudding House Publications, 2007), “The Garden of French Horns”

(Pudding House Publications, 2008), “Baskets of Tomorrow” (Flutter

Press, 2009), “The Girl Who Sang Forth Horses” (Pudding House Pub-

lications, 2010), “Van Gogh’s Sunflowers for Cezanne” (Finishing

Line Press, 2010), “Why Women Are A Ribbon Around A Bomb”

(Last Automat, 2011), “Protest, Petition, Write, Speak: Matilda Joslyn

Gage Poems” (Matilda Joslyn Gage Foundation, 2011), and “Secrets

No One Wants To Talk About” (Dos Madres Press, 2011). He has two

full length books The Secret Language of the Universe (March Street

Press, 2006), and The Hummingbird (March Street Press, 2009). His

forthcoming chapbooks include “How to Find Peace” (Kattywumpus

Press, 2012), “Playing The Pauses In The Absence Of Stars” (Main

Street Rag, 2012), and “No Special Favors” (Green Fuse Press, 2012).

[Page 85]

Maria Redfern (Our Land) is from the island of Kiribati. [Page 87]

Gina Ferrero (Playground Reverie) can be contacted at: ginaferre-

ro@gmail.com [Page 88]

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Tamara Woods (200 Cigarettes and a Box of Wine) is a Hawaii

transplant by way of Fairmont, WV. She is a spoken word poet, who

fears getting on stage, but manages to muddle through ok. She has won

honorable mention in the West Virginia Writers contest and honorable

mention in the Hungry Poets contest. She has organized a spoken word

event called Tha.Speakeasy and is one of the original co-organizer of

The Morgantown Poets. She can be stalked on Twitter:@penpaperpad

or liked on Facebook at:

http://www.facebook.com/TamaraWoodsthewriter. [Page 89]

Ben Nardolilli (Harsh Emphasis, The Brains Behind) currently

lives in Arlington, Virginia. His work has appeared in Perigee Maga-

zine, Red Fez, One Ghana One Voice, Caper Literary Journal, Quail

Bell Magazine, Elimae, fwriction, Grey Sparrow Journal, Pear Noir,

Rabbit Catastrophe Review, and Yes Poetry. His chapbook Common

Symptoms of an Enduring Chill Explained, has been published by

Folded Word Press. He maintains a blog at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com

and is looking to publish his first novel. [Page 91]

V.L. Stroude (Stimulation) is a new writer with many goals and am-

bitions who yearns to be heard for the simple fact that what she has to

say is more than worth hearing. [Page 93]

robert macmahon (Schneider Says Sartre) lives in Central Califor-

nia and has been writing poetry and song lyrics for over a decade. He

has been in numerous bands and has also published poetry in the Amer-

ican River Review. Robert is influenced by nature and philosophy, and

enjoys reading the works of Dylan Thomas, Charles Bukowski, and

William Carlos Williams (amongst many others). [Page 94]

Yuichi Handa (Riding a Song, Carving up an Ox, A Teacher’s

Lament, Soft Languorous Warm, B is for) has a book publication to

his credit. It concerns the phenomenology of knowing mathematics.

More recently, he has been enjoying writing shorter pieces, such as

those featured in this anthology. He hopes to start on a larger project

soon, but is also on the lookout for stories by authors who are willing to

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have them rewritten (since he has no story of his own to tell, or so he

believes). [Page 95]

Amalia Fish (Daughters) was born in the U.K. in 1960 but lived her

early years in the U.K. She has traveled widely and emigrated to

Christchurch, New Zealand in 2004 with her husband and family. They

were refugees from Christchurch during the February earthquakes and

Nelson is currently their home. She has three grown children, one son

of 9 years old, and also one granddaughter. She has worked as a Home-

opath for the last 20 years and also as a care assistant. She began writ-

ing at the young age of 8 years and has written in bursts over the years.

She says, “I have had long unfruitful times without writing and then

suddenly began writing prolifically. It’s as if I am building up images

and experiences and storing them for the future when I have time to be

creative and to outlet again!” Some of her favorite writers and influ-

ences include Brian Patten, Ted Hughes, Charles Causley, Stevie Smith

and Adrian Gough. [Page 100]

John Elwyn Kimber, a.k.a. ‘Jonathan Delamont,’ (At All Hal-

lows) has previously been published in Resurgence in the 1970s, and

Poetry Wales in 1991. He is the editor of In Earthlight: Selected Poems

of Jonathan Griffin (Menard Press 1995), and involved with the forth-

coming Essex University Poetry Project. A ‘radical traditionalist,’ John

admires classic lyric poets—e.g., Skelton, Jonson, Clare, Hardy, the

early Frost, Graves, Cummings, and Ransom. Typically writing lyrics

of 3-40 lines, he enjoys the discipline of epigrammatic poetry. John

lives in Somerset, England with his partner and family. His poem “Psy-

chadelic Substance” was recently published by Empirical magazine.

[Page 102]

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1

The Last Voyage By Walter William Safar

Like a straw man,

Hunted by gusts of wind

(in order to outrun death),

I am returning to the valley of my childhood;

To see the old home one last time,

To see the old walnut tree one last time,

Under which my mother used to read

Mark Twain’s wonderful stories to me.

Nothing is the same anymore, everyone is dead,

Apart from memories and the old walnut tree;

Its old, trembling, bare branches

Are impatiently waiting

to hug me one last time.

When destiny leaves you alone in the dark;

When your mother and father leave you early,

All you have left are dreams,

Yes, my friend, life rolls along the road of dreams,

And each dream is finished soon;

Just one more time,

I’d like to touch the coarse face of the old walnut tree,

To find a long lost tear

Below its tired feet.

When I started on this long voyage,

The night was bright, and our beautiful walnut tree cried,

Yes, my friend, trees can cry too;

Just one more time,

I’d like to touch the old walnut tree,

To cling my face against my old friend’s face,

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Like a beloved son,

To hear the happy voices of my mother and father;

When your memories fade, drop down to your knees

To feel how the earth loves,

So your memories can find their sacred sanctuary.

When they want to kill your memories, hoist your flag of dreams

And keep on marching your way, like a noble soldier of freedom,

Because few are the poets who are honored

To finish their voyage

In the place they were born.

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2

A Poem to My Beloved By Walter William Safar

If I had to lie down

Onto the black hearse instead of our love,

I would agree to die right away,

But hope is the last thing to die,

Yes, my golden one, I am living with hope

That your tear, like the beautiful moon,

shall shine upon each letter,

each word, comma, exclamation mark and period of this poem,

as if it was the most honest of prayers.

My prayer is loud;

Like the prayer of an abandoned derelict;

Like the prayer of an abandoned child;

Like the prayer of a missionary in the valley of horrible hunger;

My prayers are searching for a sacred sanctuary,

To enter the cathedral above all cathedrals;

To enter your heart.

Just like a derelict is searching for bread crusts,

Just like a believer is searching for his communion wafer,

I am searching for your kiss.

This prayer is my last hope

That your tear shall slide onto my tear,

Into a world that is entirely ours;

A world into which the aureole of all human desires is born,

A world into which love is born.

In the darkness of a lonely night,

I am finishing this poem

With an inexplicable hope

That the time to say goodbye isn’t here yet,

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That our love shall not end on a black hearse,

That it shall live forever in our wonderful world,

In our hearts.

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3

The Old House By Walter William Safar

Silence comes after death,

Loneliness comes after silence,

Shadows sleep in a silky cobweb,

Poems are imprisoned in dust.

The old house has many a dark guest,

And now a bright guest is coming,

The moon arrives by way of its turquoise path to the ball,

The sleeping shadows rise from their silky beds,

Each one of them wants to taste the turquoise kiss,

To become a princess to the turquoise prince.

When the moon finds its princess

Below the heavenly dome a new star will be born,

To wink at the world from its silver cradle,

Good spirits will rise from the silver cobwebs,

Poems shall no longer be imprisoned in dust,

Silence shall leave the old house in solitude’s embrace.

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4

Hope By Walter William Safar

It is dreadful to once again fail,

to sink into the dark of hopelessness,

As if someone fired a canon into your heart,

As if you have lost your interior,

As if you were empty like a straw man,

And you are helplessly waiting for the first bolt

To burn you completely,

So you disappear in a moment,

Much faster than you came into this world.

In hopelessness, all traces disappear. There is no light,

Just a black hole

Into which all young hopes are sinking,

Like newborn dreams

in the vast expanses of dark nightmares.

How nice it is to get hope,

Not dead hope,

But rather living hope, the hope that your life is an open story too,

That love may enter into your life too,

That success is reality to you too, instead of only vivid imagination,

That you know the victor’s path too,

That you can reach the finish line before your own death.

It is wonderful to dream again,

Not black dreams,

But rather wonderful vivid dreams,

That hope has a place to anchor,

And isn’t about to set sail before you wake up.

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5

Straw Man By Walter William Safar

The straw man guards a golden field,

His eyes are empty, like his head,

A golden heart shines in his chest. Whose hand

had put this golden heart into his chest?

Can this heart put his body into motion?

This is what the crow is thinking about, and only the wind knows

the whole truth, that the girl with the golden hair

sat at the feet of the straw man,

waiting for the fairy to promise her

that she shall provide a heart for the straw man.

Like a man made of flesh and blood,

he loves it when the wind fondles his face,

and even more when the girl with the golden hair

is sewing a green shirt made of grass leaves,

so that someone might love him too;

When the sky darkens,

when the dark clouds come down like a lead curtain

(to bring our story to an end) the straw man

is standing alone in the golden field, waiting for his death.

He opens his mouth, but all that comes out of it is silence...

treacherous silence.

I cannot hear him, I don’t know his thoughts,

(after all, how can an empty head bear a thought?),

but I know for certain that he can feel, and I know what he feels,

I know what he wants:

For me to take him away

into distant golden deserts,

where the sun is eternally warming;

Where there are no crows to pick his eyes,

where there is no thunder and lightning, just the golden sun

and the girl with the golden hair. It is late

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(I cannot save him, being just a poet outside the story),

the fireball is coming down from the sky

to burn the straw man.

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6

Old Oak By Walter William Safar

In the shadow of solitude now I see Your eyes,

that so faithfully carry about the light

through my thoughts so dark,

and the pen trembles in the hand,

waiting for the prodigal son’s acknowledgement.

My one and only, acknowledgements arrive in solitude’s embrace,

just like tears, and where there is a tear, there is love,

always faithful and unbribable, invisible but so real

that you can touch it with thoughts

and with the fiery breath in the infinity of solitude.

I admit to using my verses as ransom for my guilt,

(and guilt is my silence),

and I listen to the rumor

that perpetually, like a bat,

whirls across the lonely poet’s street.

They say that me and You,

my one and only,

are fantasy, but a pen immersed in ink.

But You know, don’t You,

that me and You are perfectly real, full of wishes,

dreams and memories.

My one and only, I am listening to the whisper of the wind

in this warm, dreamy summer night...

It is silent, horribly silent without You,

and the wind’s whisper is dying down, farther away, oh so far,

as if called by death to its black hearse,

and I have waited for so many days, months and years to appear,

to bring Your voice to me,

gentle, soft, warm and yearning,

but it is so silent, oh so silent now,

that I can hear the screams of solitude

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chase away memories

into this warm summer night,

my one and only, I am standing in the shadow of the dignified oak,

and I am looking into his empty sleepiness,

as if its playfulness left along with You,

it is silent like the wind.

Its dear, green, eternally waking young leaves,

who used to whisper in Your vicinity, untrammeled and confidential,

are completely silent now, completely dead.

Now I am trembling in the shadow of our oak,

fearfully looking at it as it drags its dignified old face along the

ground,

its memories are as lively as mine.

Once, yes, once the memories,

who live so inaudibly,

shall become so weak,

so humanly weak,

that they shall find their dark home

next to our wooden crosses.

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7

I’d Like to Tell You Before Leaving By Walter William Safar

Shadows are floating around me, the well-known charwomen

in death’s lounge,

and death is waiting in the corner,

cloaked in the turquoise attire of the moon.

I have read many a poem

and heard many stories of death,

and I thought I knew what it looks like,

black, dark and impatient,

but now I can safely say I was wrong,

for it is not black and all, and even less dark and impatient.

I have never seen such a beautiful cloak

like the one glittering on it now.

If I could speak, my darling,

I would scream out loud:

“Don’t cry! . . . Death is not that horrible

if you wait for it like a friend,

and if you leave your soul behind . . .

yes, do not cry! . . . There are even sadder people,

who never loved in their lifetime,

like I love you!”

It is quiet, so painfully quiet that I can clearly hear

her pearly tear travel her face,

silvering all the darkness around it.

I am lying on my deathbed, waiting

for the heavenly bell to toll,

because I have long since quit waiting for the church bell.

Everything around me is imprisoned in darkness and silence,

only her tear glitters leaving behind a painful trace

of her oh so sensitive feelings.

Oh, Lord, if I could speak out once more before I go,

yes, Lord, I would tell her what I never did in my life:

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“Don’t cry! . . . My love is so loud

that you will be able to hear it from up high,

and when you hear the song of the freedom birds,

the crickets in blue nights,

and the crow on the old oak’s forefinger,

bidding the souls of lovers farewell into eternity,

know it, yes, you have to know it . . .

that these wonderful heavenly creatures

are carrying my love into your embrace . . .

so do not worry, my dear, I am leaving,

but my life will eternally stay with you. . . .”

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8

My Voice By Walter William Safar

Our voice is but a weak echo

within the turbulent chaos of life.

My voice is completely inaudible,

like a drop of rain at the heart of a stormy night.

My dreams are elusive

like the rainbow after the storm,

but all the same,

I voice myself beyond the sky dome,

like a falling star,

like the wish of many a dream,

because my voice is meant to be heard

to praise life.

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9

The Stationery Boy By Walter William Safar

His little dark street

Is at home in the silky cobweb;

His little dark street

Is only loud in the missionaries’ prayers,

It elicits a gaze in very few people,

It is but an uninvited guest to life.

The stationery boy hands out his beautiful fliers,

Like a messenger of his little dark street.

In his big clear eyes a tear is born,

Not as an accusation,

But as wonderful love,

His heart is young and full of hopes

That someday his big silent tear

Shall drop onto someone’s palm.

A new day is born in his wonderful spirit,

Perhaps somewhat cold and strange,

But a new day, still.

Oh powerful destiny, listen to your unloved son,

Wake up the sleeping star;

Wake up the sleeping sun;

Wake up the sleeping hearts of men,

So that the new day may be a friend to your unloved son.

In the inaudible shadows, he has his faithful listeners,

In death he has a faithful visitor,

His young beautiful eyes are more familiar with death than life.

When so many happy children gather around the city’s Christmas tree,

His dear young heart is loudly beating into the deaf nights,

Like a silver bell,

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So that his small, dark home would be alight with a gaze.

He knows no benevolent faces,

All he knows is the cold face of the day,

The dark face of the night,

All he knows is faceless masks.

When the wonderful northern wind brings

Happy children’s voices from afar,

Like a modest Christmas gift,

The stationery boy is building his little kingdom of happiness

In his vivid imagination,

His days and nights may be cold and dark,

But his imagination is bright and completely wonderful,

It shines in the darkness like an angel.

His silver bell is ringing beyond the heavenly dome.

If you want to show a real angel to your kid,

Hurry towards that little dark street,

And you might be lucky enough to see the stationery boy

Before he gets his silver wings.

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10

Lonely Nights By Walter William Safar

Against the old oak I cling my cheek

to hear a lost voice inside;

The voice of a lost friend,

the voice of my lost father and mother,

the voice of lost love.

And in this lonely night the voices

inside the old oak are quiet and inaudible,

as if dying along with my spirit.

The night has turned its beautiful lonely face to the sky,

and I,

I call out my own name in this lonely night.

which became perfectly strange to me–

with some desperate hope

that I shall hear the echo of my own spirit.

Wise people say that each spirit is made of memories,

and my memories are dead;

dead like those lost voices inside the old oak,

which, like vampire claws,

raises its old, barren branches towards a black crow,

to steel its voice and to call out into this silent, lonely night,

like the voice of many friends of men,

that someone’s tear sometime dies before it’s born.

Inside me, there is still hope

that someone shall hear my name,

and that it won’t sound as strange

as it does to me.

Slowly and ghastly I tread the shadows

like a sinner treads the skulls in hell,

and I call out with a solitary cry

into this lonely night,

to chase away death, if I can’t chase away solitude.

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But what is life worth without voices,

not the ones you can buy,

but voices of conscience,

which are born and eternally live along with human souls.

Against the old oak I cling my cheek,

and I listen in to a thousand souls,

Now I know,

yes, Lord, now I know that someone will call my name as well,

because when you hear the voices of souls

of dear people you’ve lost,

you have the power

to bear memories of yourself in someone else.

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11

All Fall Down By Betsy A. Riley

The dead are piling up in my yard

only shriveled husks of their former glory

they curl in upon themselves

in death as they were at birth.

Some flit about with thoughts of escape

but eventually they all lay down and die.

Look how the cherry tree is blooming above them

does it not see the death that surrounds it?

I cannot walk in my yard without stepping on the dead

I wade gingerly across, each step met with a delicate crunch

or that unexpected slippery skid that threatens

to pitch me face down in the masses of dead.

Would I then die too?

Drawn to this spectacle of shared demise

like the newly dying, that fling themselves

across their fellow dead, as if seeking comfort in numbers.

My yard is sinking, drowning

under the weight of the dead.

I cannot delay the grim task any longer

It is time to rake the leaves!

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12

The Laundry of the Mind By Betsy A. Riley

My spirit has been soiled,

smudged, stained, and begrimed

by years of living.

I’m ready for a sudsy soak,

with gentle agitation to free

the fibers of my being.

And then that tumbling,

free flight in warm fresh-scented air

will leave me tingling.

How lovely to feel weightless,

absurdly fluffy, bright and new, yet

somehow something is missing . . .

That grass stain

from our loving tumble in the park

I wouldn’t mind keeping that.

That smell of baby powder

from witnessing the miracle of birth

I wouldn’t mind keeping that.

That blot from the tears

when I bid farewell at grandma’s wake

I wouldn’t mind keeping that.

Isn’t there some selective detergent

that will let me pick and choose

which memories to keep

and which to wash away?

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13

The Thinker Sleeps By Betsy A. Riley

Silver threads running—mercurial streams

forming the fabric, the stuff of my dreams.

Paths of the mind, how they twist and they weave

forming connections you would not believe.

Silver threads running—they glisten and gleam

pulling together the parts of a theme.

Throughout the brain they flicker and glow

lighting the paths where the memories flow.

Silver threads running—connecting the brain

these hook up sorrow; those hook up pain.

Why are some short, and yet others so long,

and where are the pathways for laughter and song?

Silver threads running—I see them so plain

all softly shining inside of my brain.

Trace the connections, the neuronic roads;

mark down the patterns of synaptic nodes;

Watch for the flashes when thoughts jump the gap;

do all your research while I take a nap.

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14

Fallen By Morning Star

Silence,

the backdrop upon which love rests,

and exists in eternity inside of us,

as all illusion has fallen

and crumbled into sand—that is swept clear from our vision

by the wings of our light, and the solace that brings.

Love,

undying, but surrendered unto itself time and again,

in deeper ways, as layers are lifted

that barred its course from flowing.

But, that is no longer the case.

Delicate,

this stance of love within;

a love that calls us to make THIS

the point of our continued focus.

And with the cup of our heart so filled,

we can allow all else to dissolve—

knowing that the last remnants have indeed fallen.

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15

To Walk This Way By Morning Star

To walk this way, as the remnants of that old life have fallen,

is to find the breath of heaven within you

and to know that upon this you rest.

To walk in this way, is to know the light;

its eternal presence is the cup

from which you are always filled.

You walk before the blue mountain whose peak reflects the ocean’s

depths,

that lie before its feet,

and where the stars reflect off the surface of both.

To know this way

is to walk in the presence of peace,

knowing that everything is held in your hands.

For here, in this place, the light is always shining,

the sunlight and moonlight alike.

Here, your heart is fulfilled,

with each day, as you open to the loving

that illuminates and shines before you

as a mantle, of God Goddess, under which you now rest.

“The Way” is to reach within

to the depths of your heart, where a thousand stars are shining.

And here you touch Creation, and find the eternal, in deeper ways.

Upon this pathway of love, you walk upon the soft delicate snow of

your purity,

of your innocence,

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and you are called home;

there is nothing that can ever change this,

this something, this way,

that you have now found.

This IS the way that you now walk.

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16

In The Eyes of a Child By Olav Bryant Smith

In the eyes of a child

rests the soul of humanity

in the eyes of a child

lives the child in us all

in the eyes of a child

grows wonder and magic

in the eyes of a child

is our need to be . . .

and yet . . . to belong

in the eyes of a child,

if you look deeply enough,

is a mirror

reflecting the you

you could be

for

in the eyes of a child

there is Peace—

and a Blessing . . .

There are Smiles—

and there is Love.

in the eyes of a child,

there is God

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17

Ruling Day

By Eftichia Kapardeli

Colors of the Sun

the fringes, diffuse

Joined hopeful dawn kissing

red lips like cherries

New project is born

tireless new paragraph

the conspiracy of silence

akymantes on surfaces

the water, the leaves

travel

With fingertips bonded

side of heaven

completes the love

Inseparable, endless

indivisible, ruling

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18

She By Eftichia Kapardeli

And when it rains, the mind runs

The mind goes into that

the little heart

which takes the form of the flower

of life, air

sunset in the sun’s warmth

The recollections

brushstrokes of purple

and her painting

the frozen sunbeams

of time

She . . . is like a breath of life . . .

like a new breath . . . .

untamed, beautiful

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19

First Verse By Eftichia Kapardeli

So lack of sleep, the open books

fingers, the pen

verse and hope

for the soul to the body

feelings prey

first line

the winter sun

an old photo

the lamp that illuminates

the butterfly

saved from fire

wandering

a lonely road.

the sparrows in the snow

First Verse

Spring Day, Easter

the only one who knew Resurrection

the flowers of the Lily

Golden thread tied

the silver moon

first row in white

neck girls silk

time in the woods

Whisper of the world

eternity moment

divine tear

light is an inexhaustible source

Circle the notes

the seed of Secrets

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deserts will germinate

First Verse

prayer

when the mind and the body travels

The secret of drunkenness

East of the gold beehive

first verse of the heart

great tour

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20

It’s A Long, Long Goodbye

By H.W. Bryce

It’s a long, long goodbye

When The Thief does take your love away.

One day he slips your guard right by

And things begin to change.

Your daily seas from then get rough

And storms beset your nerve.

How can you fight a thief

Who operates by sleight?

What law of nature grants this thief

his mighty, stealthy ways?

How did you miss his furtive steps

And her strange new little ways?

If we could wind the clock right back,

and erase his filthy steps . . .

If we could have a second chance

To better live that first unnoticed day . . .

Ah! But . . . Until we figure all this out

Know this, Essential You

Is what I love and who I love

And curse this thieving lout!

But for a’ tha’ and for a’ tha’

Throughout these tortured days,

We’ll seek and find some working ways

To work through this and that.

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And every day I will say

I love you, always will,

And a wee g’bye I’ll say

Each and every day, I will . . .

Until our final fare thee well,

This will be our long goodbye.

A hug, a kiss, and bless the time for us,

Enjoy our long, and long goodbye.

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21

Just a Little Girl By H.W. Bryce

I wish I were that young again,

She’d said one day in reminiscing,

And as she watched the children play,

I sensed a change in her that day.

That was many years gone by

And life for her is passing by;

Her oldest memories keep coming back

Until today’s are blurred or blank.

For nostalgia’s happy days are catching

And she tries to do the things she did back then

In her childhood days, her childhood ways,

Each tiff, each cry, each helpful giving way replays.

And now as life goes day by day

And life is hard to be enduring,

Her thoughts and speech in disarray,

She’s even forgotten how to play.

And now she’s just a little girl again,

It’s there her mind is dwelling,

So when she does the things she did back then,

I see the girl she was away back when.

Yes, she is that little girl again,

But she’s gifted me the memories,

And these true treasures do I keep

To dream again upon my sleep.

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Yes, the memories dear will stay with me,

For life with her has been a spree;

And thank you to my love, for everything,

I wouldn’t trade for anything.

I wouldn’t trade the little girl,

Nor trade the lady then,

Nor would I be without our life,

For good or bad, she’s still my wife.

For now I am the richer man

For having shared a life with her.

Now all the love she gave so true—

I gladly share with you.

Latitude on 2nd 45

22

She’s Lost By H.W. Bryce

She’s lost all her verbs, we’ve looked everywhere.

We’ve checked all the books but her verbs aren’t there.

We’ve looked in drawers, we’ve looked on shelves,

We’ve even looked inside ourselves.

She’s lost all her nouns, she’s misplaced them all.

We’ve searched for them too, but can’t find them at all.

So names are all blank and things are hand signs,

But it all proves futile and we end up with sighs.

We ask her what she means and she tries to tell.

She searches her brain, she tries to spell.

She knows it’s all in there, sealed in a box,

But she has no key, her tongue trips when she talks.

She’s lost her directions, she knows not where;

When she should turn left, she stops with a stare.

She looks all around the compass and all,

But she cannot find those directions at all.

And instructions misguide her, when given a task

She’ll bring you a towel when a dish was the ask.

Recipes confuse and it all goes in one pot

And for low on the stove, she’ll turn it to hot.

She’s lost all our faces, they’re not in her purse,

Instead of a memory, things are a curse.

Instead of her mate, she thinks I’m her brother,

In place of herself she’s become someone other.

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She keeps on looking for the pieces she’s lost,

It’s terrible to see such a terrible cost,

To see such a life so terribly tossed.

Alas, it is true, that truly she’s lost!

Latitude on 2nd 47

23

What I Really Wish For

By H.W. Bryce

What I really, really wish for

Is an end to all Dementia

For Alzheimer and his lie

To permanently die.

Gladly I would be assassin

And take the sweet revenge

And those who struggle to survive

Would know that they’re alive.

I gladly would attend his funeral

And heap his grave with weed

I’d make his memory so marginal

It would drift away in smoky pall.

But for all the lives he’s taken

And all the grief he’s left

I’d force him to atone this bane

And make him take away the pain.

I’d make him tell us why such pain

What source had wrought such evil

I’d make sure he never did again

Such acts that are Medieval.

So what I really wish for

Is suffering’s demise

For people not to have to cry

For Alzheimer now to die!

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But most of all I’d ban the one

Alzheimer’s brutal thievery

That would steal a person’s only mind

And save us each from all his kind.

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24

We Are One People By Michael Kwaku Kesse Somuah

I paint a portrait of love

with mixed colors from a rainbow

coated with black and white diamonds.

I paint an emblem,

an image of the glittering sun.

It was there for the world to see

the art of beauty, unity, love and peace.

It was the solar eclipse of oneness

the language of our very essence

chanting and panting,

“Different colors, but one people.”

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25

The Rudiments of Nature By Michael Kwaku Kesse Somuah

The blue moon had risen,

day was drawing nigh-

memories were going to sleep

as the raging oceans sublimed

to the still on shore

Stories untold were catapulting,

into a new sounding dawn.

Smiles were mesmerizing,

after heavy rising waves of day

times had transformed and sparked out a yuletide-

a rhythmic melody of jazzing glories

arraying in stars and miracles,

ushered from the realms unknown.

The scars of every home is melted,

from uncertain dreams to a cadence realities.

Whistles followed . . .

Deep sighs revered . . .

Echoes

trumpeted . . .

Laughs once more . . .

Though,

conditions soothe the dark clot of nightmare,

Poetry will stay for a tomorrow unknown,

and light plays upon the beauty of time.

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26

A New Day Dawns

By Don Ford

It rises on a dark horizon,

Lifting hope and expectation.

Dreams that otherwise might die,

It shines its light on all creation.

Shining bright beyond the veil;

Slowly drawing back the curtain.

All’s not lost - the sun is up;

A new day dawns for certain.

Suddenly the heart it leaps,

Skips and frolics all about.

The tears of yesterday are gone,

All dried up and driven out.

Happy to see the sun come up,

The waking of a brand new day.

New times and places just ahead.

We must move on without delay.

For all the dreams in sleep we saw -

All the hopes we waited for,

The warm rays of a rising sun,

A better day - new open doors.

Latitude on 2nd 52

27

La Fille de ma Mère

By Anne D’Arcy

My mother walked two miles a day

from the time she was more than sixty

until the day she died at eighty-six.

She said the doctor told her

she had the legs of a forty-year old woman.

She liked to tell me that,

over and over.

But I wonder why she walked.

She never said,

and I never asked.

Now I am more than sixty,

and I walk two miles a day

on my forty year old legs.

I tell this to no one.

But I know why I walk:

pour la joie de l’approche:

for the joy of the approach.

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28

L’Étoile

By Anne D’Arcy

Why is it always this way for me:

just when I’m ready to leave,

more than ready,

some shooting star appears

in my little sky?

Why is it, just when I’m signing off,

kissing trees and friends goodbye,

that someone of her brilliance

dances naked across my stage,

stops in front of me to whisper

something fiendishly clever,

a phrase I can’t live without?

There are no accidents in the universe,

they used to say, their cowls hiding prayer beads,

their eyes burning with the heat of passive grace.

And I would suck in my breath and hold it

out of spite, refuse to breathe in God.

Where was she then, this flash of woman

I have recognized before? oh yes, me:

collector of Fool’s Gold, who finally knows

the real thing when she sees it.

I have taken to talking to myself:

why not? I am better company than most,

and besides, I know how to argue both sides.

But I would rather hear

what she has to say.

Latitude on 2nd 54

29

Exits and Entrances By Nina Kossman

He promised immense

shadows on the water,

symbolic diminishings

of sounds, saying:

Your burial places

stink of hell, people.

Your thrills, your acts,

your sparks, your ancestors’

flushed figurines

safe-guarding

death-after-death

exits, entrances,

labyrinthian ruins,

labyrinthian flickerings,

gates of suicide

letting in anyone

if only his sky

is tied firmly

around his back;

and his bared earth—

a bloated grain bin

empty of memory.

Make way!

I now enter

the distances

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that animate your flushed figurines—

let my death be your entrance,

the stink of my hell—your thrill.

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30

Memory is Silence

By Nina Kossman

Awake in me, you sleep

the sleep of knowing—

memory is silence

hungry for music,

self is the world

hungry for a face,

seed is a stone

hungry for living,

and every paradox in the world

ends in death.

Awake in me, you know

the knowledge of sleep—

words are a trap

set by the mouth,

body is memory

disfigured by light,

poems are bird language

calling

—like every paradox in the world—

your name.

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31

You are a Force

By Nina Kossman

You are a force

deep inside me

that doesn’t know my name.

(See me throw it into a fire.)

That, deaf to my entreaties,

wouldn’t rescue me

from a burning house.

(See me throw it into a sea.)

That wouldn’t save me

if I were drowning.

And if I drowned, it would drown too.

(See me throw it into a forest.)

That wouldn’t look for me

if I were lost in a forest.

(If I were lost, it would be lost with me.)

See me throw it back into me:

How you dissolve, how you melt away,

no longer a force,

just a dead man’s soul.

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32

Solitude By Nina Kossman

Faithful to the more or less imperfect sounds,

a silent man becomes a symbol for the voiceless world

that drowns out speech, just as it drowns out fire

of thought, just as it drowns out thought;

while only one form is left, numb and maternal,

a voiceless humble clutter—feelings’ maze:

the need for solitude: the sea of cravings

thrown onto the shore in a silent rage.

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33

Escape Velocity

By Jamie Oliveira

A heightened perspective

or maybe something broader

Someday I’ll be a globe trotter

Before I rot away

Remove myself to ponder

Before I have something to say

Growing fonder of the differences

That make us part of the same

Each an aspect of what makes

Quite an intricate game

I think of my place

In the world as a sphere

And the world as a diamond of truth

Trying to realize every facet

As I creep slowly through my youth

But how do we seep into the minds

Of those won’t listen?

I won’t go on a mission of convincing or conviction

Some don’t understand that logic is a radical diction

Is our world really blue?

Don’t want to set off an emotional cue…

But we must be willing to accept something new

The dynamic of the world is moving and changing

Patterns rearranging

And the ground we live on is tectonic

There goes a sonic wave of truth

- catch it -

Or get locked in a world of dark matter

Of chitter chatter

and petty things that don’t matter

Succumbing to flatter those

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Who will scatter the brain into nothingness

Black holes exist where you and I create them

Latitude on 2nd 61

34

I Am

By J.D. Helfert

It is who I am.

Stronger than the wind that dares to knock me down

It is who I am.

Warmer than the sun, that caresses the land

Is who I am.

Running with the wind, and playing

in the sand, is what I do . . .

Taller than a Mountain, is how I stand,

It is, who I am, It is who I am.

Life at its core

Runs through my veins.

All of its history, in my soul,

Hot and liquid, like the inside of

A volcano - overflowing to make new land

It’s who I am, It is who I am.

Etched in the Valley and the waves, in the sand

Is what I become.

But . . .

It’s not who I am.

Torn at the seams, is what it seems.

But . . .

It is not who I am – It’s not what I am.

A tree in the Forest, reaching for the sun

It’s what I’ve done.

Fallen branches, heart breaks;

It’s what I left behind.

It is not who I am.

“I am” I am.

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Wiser than the Owl, Who knows, when winter

comes that, spring will surely follow.

Patient, as the leopard, sleeps silent in a tree,

Waits for his time to come,

Sly as a fox is what I become.

But . . .

It is not who I am.

Change of seasons,

Paint the canvas of what is on the surface that is me.

It Is what I become.

What I am is everyday.

A gift from God is who I am.

The light and the dark.

The Sun and the Moon.

All of man, is the Sum of . . .

Who I am.

Latitude on 2nd 63

35

Death By Insanity

By Kitsune McCurtain

Seal the doors and bar the windows

Make sure I can’t get out

The fluffy walls break my fall

As the world spins around and around

The prince is coming to save me

With a giggle I fall to my knees

My head is spinning from the medicine

That was supposed to put me at ease

I lie on my back on the floor

My body twitching and convulsing

It becomes harder to breathe

And it feels like my heart is not pulsing

The doctors freak out and try

To move me to my bed

In doing so they realize

I’m already dead

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36

Ansley Dunning By Matthew Harris

this stunning lithe oldest teenage niece of Shari

my younger sister of this wordsmith

epitomizes a tall drink of water

(similar to the mother at same age)

what with her willowy young woman body

brimming with budding potential for breath-taking beauty

enhanced by her quiet mien

expressing itself thru exemplary artistic and literary flair

if asked to draw a character sketch anime or wax poetic

she would demure

modesty restrains her acknowledging creative talents

so i bethought myself to compose this ode in praise

of this quiet natured adolescent teetering on the brink of adulthood

evolving positive qualities via the strength of said sibling

whose ambitious parents embarked to Spain

late summer 2011 found them bound for the Iberian peninsula

(than after once parents contract fulfilled to teach english

for a year), this brother suppresses envy at adventurous

bold risk taking exposing offspring to world wide web of Europe

fostering cultural awareness, represents continuity

forsooth, I remember this youngest sibling

as gently conniving for courage

to act on her je nais sais qua esprit de corps

as like an inner diving rod and faith in self

enabling exemplary example for motherhood constituting

both this and Marleigh (the second of deux whip smart darlings)

with the world at their fingertips as hands on learning

all the while insinuating courage to take life by the horns!

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37

The Deadly Scourge of One

Obsessive/Compulsive Disorder By Matthew Harris

anorexia nervosa absent bulimia nadir of onset sans schizoid behavior

which agonizingly slow suicide via self-starvation

maelstrom within psyche of self as prepubescent lad

(particularly devastating to immediate family members)

as emaciation pitted existential revulsion

from unseen wuthering heights nearly wrung death knell

annihilating fragile entity christened matthew scott

with preemptory imprimatur yielding covalent bond to life

readily obvious to kith and kin

via zorro like signature

per profound perilous depressive psychological state.

now - at about eight + forty years from attaining rank of centenarian

perfect 20/20 hindsight

offers supreme advantage from said current earlier chronological crisis

theorizing numerous educated guesses

within mind of this middle progeny and sole sol

(of boyce and the late harriet harris)

why he willfully hurtled his flesh at light speed

down the abyss toward death.

literal and physical lightness of being

manifested within nooks and crannies

prior to full blown symptoms

to eliminate sustenance

drawing the curtain on brief residence

way before high noon of life.

metamorphosis from boyhood into man

found solace in attempting to keep at bay

natural cycle which transformation grieved me

to pine for nostalgic childhood’s end

(albeit one fraught with romanticism)

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vengefully interpreted attempt

to halt dead in the tracks intervention of mother

whose nursing experience helped fend off passive attempt

to promulgate passive silent plan to fruition.

she whipped various nutritious concoctions in the blender

to ensure minimal essentials to this (i readily admit) famished body

in conjunction with applying vital supplements into

one or the other bony gluteus maximus

thru fuel injection

which submissiveness to acquiesce and bare my buttocks

did absolutely nothing to squelch death wish.

I inexorably overcame this eat disorder to go on a deadly hunger strike

which essentially constitutes a declaration of independent control

despite horrendous craving for food jabbed innards like a pike

bifurcated psychic division to live ousted coeval death wish sans goal

seize yore reminiscent blissful childhood over flooded self-made dike

engendering propensity to catapult over abysmal emotional hole

and way before the invention of facebook, I mentally clicked like

to fight the mailer daemons that part of me healthy development stole.

indelibly etched decades after bout with passive exit from life

crimp psycho/social skills plus stunted physical growth cuts like a knife

affecting mental health with panic attacks and anxiety

altho existence considerably less riddled with debilitating symptoms

(like vertigo, racing heart, profuse sweating, nausea, irritable bowels)

relying on prescription medications prozac and klonipin eased strife!

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38

Double Entendres By Matthew Harris

Just twenty six letters

of the english language to whit

twisted in various & sundry combinations pit

this bull dog of a canonical wordsmith with true grit

to craft bone a fide filigreed grammatical

parts of speech to fit

together against their verbose will

akin to an arranged marriage or prominent zit

upon one smooth complexioned face

best lanced with strong arm and first aid kit

lest said unsightly blemish rent asunder

and erupt like mount vesusius lava

that appeared never to quit

until plugged by a humungous corkerasp

made by one anthropocentric brit

seeking to escape from the madding crowd

and return of native sun within his hermitage

rays of warmth could barely viz it!

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39

A Bend in the River By Matthew Harris

The serpentine and ageless liquid

mercurial possessed snake

eternally swallowed

since the beginning of time

one unquenchable thirst to gorge and slake

slurping up an icy cold mountainous pebbly shake

yet fresh as an irish spring using thy tongue o gaelic spake

then tumbling down into the cavernous abyss

subsequently carving

a deep criss cross patchwork

across the rock hard rugged topography

like the handiwork of some invincible force

commandeering a humungous rake

affixing legendary signature

quasi-indelible grooves

only for the near indomitable

chiseled masterpiece

to be erased, twisted then wrenched

by that natural landscape altering phenomena

identified as an earth quake

creating a fresh tabula rasa to begin anew

inviting waters from on high to carve

from the ebbing and flowing millennial currents

which eventually find a more direct course

beginning as trickling creek

swells from winter rains

and thence in summer while the sun doth bake

when flora blooms and fauna prance

the firmament then abandons

bent elbow oxbow lake

as a former bend in the river.

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40

5 a.m. Blues By Diane Jardel

Sitting here

Clock ticking

Tap dripping

Fridge buzzing

Stomach rumbling

Nose freezing

Ears twitching

When does the peace come blazing in?

Sitting here

Head aching

Phone blinking

Birds tweeting

Heart thumping

Feet freezing

Eyes watering

When does the gladness zoom into my being?

Standing here

Body leaning

Brain ticking

Fingers grasping

Kettle boiling

Tea brewing

Porridge waiting

When does it all make sense?

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41

Some Women Just Like A-Holes By Terah Van Dusen

It’s 1:45 a.m.

I’m sitting inside a 24-hour diner

on the outskirts of Grants Pass, Oregon

There are four silver-haired men

huddled together at a table near to me

They are talking loudly and laughing

They all order coffee

The waitress is a blonde-haired woman

with brunette roots

She’d called me “hon” when I took a seat

I like her

She’s wearing a black sequined top,

a scrunchie in her hair

The only modern thing about her

is a lip piercing

You know what you want?

She asks one of the silver-haired men.

His voice booms back at her:

I always know what I want! What time you get off?

His eyes blatantly scan her crotch

The other men at the table ROAR with laughter

I listen from the next booth over,

Thinking the waitress might kick them out,

I’m ready to defend her

The waitress hesitates for a moment…

Then, to my surprise, she replies:

Seven o’clock

And gives the asshole a wink

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42

The Best Love is Self-Love By Terah Van Dusen

Today’s day

Looks bright and inviting

But it’s not,

Today’s day is unforgiving

Today is a friend’s smile, faked

Everybody needs a day like today

A day like today reminds you

how to cradle yourself

Because sometimes a day like today

Makes you cry and shake to the point

where you have to literally hold yourself together

Self love is the best love

It’s by far the truest love that there is

Everybody needs a day when their friends

refuse answer the phone and never call back,

Though they are alive and well

Everybody needs a day

Where they feel so completely alone

That they have to cradle themselves

To remind themselves

The worth of thy self

I’m turning off my phone

Fuck it

My friends can shrivel up

and die on Facebook for all I care

Where were you when the world ended?

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43

What We Take out of Life By Natalia McDonald

When we are young we are shiny and new,

As we get older the world has made us blue,

When we are younger the world holds not limits for us,

As we get older we are told that our dreams are not for us,

When we are younger we meet someone and we are instantly friends,

As we get older when we meet someone new we have a wall up that

never bends,

When we are younger Life is an adventure that we must follow till the

end,

As we get older all we want out of life is a true friend.

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44

Just Friends By Paige Elizabeth Jackson

He has eyes that shine brighter than the sun

and when I look at them I find myself swimming in the depths.

A smile that makes my knees go weak and my heart beat a little quick-

er.

Held next to him I find a place so safe I feel I must stay there forever.

The brush of his lips against mine sends me flying higher than any

drug.

His voice like silk wraps around me caressing every curve of my body.

Whispers of unknown feelings, just friends or something more, bounce

through my mind.

Feelings deep down telling me he’ll never be mine.

Hope sneaks up and twists its hands with mine telling me to take a

chance.

Words spill from his mouth, insecurities and thoughts of him not being

good enough.

I laugh not at him but at the silliness of this man who cannot see what I

see.

Etched in my thoughts he stays. Wishes for another night spent with

him tickle the edge of my mind. Knowing I want him but worries de-

stroy the possibility of it ever becoming reality.

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45

Melancholia By George Freek

We speak more words than we know,

but enjoy our lives. And the melody

of books piling up on our desks

and our well-kept wives.

The ebb and flow of the moon,

and the drift of serenity

in the corners of a comfortable room.

This is where it’s at!

The apotheosis of the lamp shade.

The sleep which has no meaning,

yet we still respect,

with an entirely non-religious feeling.

Clean in our habits, demanding

with those we love, not just making do

with what we’re given, but rejoicing!

And on the wall a still life is

a muted shout. And at night there is

a star, burning with an intensity

we have learned to do without.

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46

For Leonard By George Freek

In an orange sky, an orange sun

is a pear falling from a tree.

I think death

should come so easily.

Do trees suffer when they die?

Gaping at the sky,

are they alone with one thought—

Was it all for naught?

I think the sun has a message,

but it’s not for me.

It’s for people in cafes,

spouting cheerful philosophies.

I watch December, like a bellows,

blow black clouds

towards an icicle moon.

But what of May or June?

They’re gone far too soon.

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47

The Frozen Hourglass By Alexandra Wilson

Who can charm

he who turns the sands of time...

has no bound.

For the trickle of water

that soon runs dry

will cease and take a winters chill.

In that,

the ones who are the lucky stump,

keeps the aging trail.

As others swept by seasons’ lust-

are but leaves in Harvest air.

You stampede on the thin hair

where others break and hang.

May you savor young and dreaming,

but never grasp the prize

of those who risk at

teachers cost

and pass to take

on what’s after.

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48

On the Go By Aaron Kahle

I walk the roads as an only soul

Just a lonely soul

But it’s only

The homely

That has shown me whole

Well, I tell you, somethin’ disowned me

And until I find out, whatever you loan me

Will only feel phony

See, I get around with my head down

I don’t make much sound

And part of my heart’s underground

My life is just hype and the strife’s abound

I drown

In the bittersweet streets that surround

There’s a hell in which I dwell in town

Now I know I’m bein’ frowned upon

Or maybe I’m just soundin’ wrong

But, dammit, I’m unsure of what I’m founded on

Wonderin’ if it’s insecurity

If it’s a little impurity

I only see people of my past for how they were with me

Lyin’ is really only words to me

And my calm was just a bomb that finally burst in me

Will they hear me talkin’?

Is my voice too low?

Should I not take caution?

Well, I have to know

Cuz this has happened much too often

And my fuse will blow

So, I really doubt that I’ll be stoppin’

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Don’t ask if I’ll stay cuz I’m already on the go!

They’ve been starin’

They’ve been glarin’

Since I was the age of five

I get a bad vibe

When somone pushes me aside

I feel ‘em ostracize

I can see it in their eyes

I see it in the girls, I see in the guys

But adversity gives me pride

Gives me strength to survive

Gives me a reason to be alive

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49

Voice Menus in Place of Human

Contact By John Hurst

It was not the loss of human contact I feared when technology first swept

away the velvet-robed priests from their positions of power.

When science replaced the velvet robed men as the arbitrators of the human

experience.

The weight of other pedestrians who competed for the thin sliver of the

same Brooklyn street demanded I maintain a brisk stride if I wished to

remain upright.

Suggested that the mingling of human breath and sweat remain a constant—

Like the constellations returning every night, responding to a celestial

cue.

Youthful naiveté led me to assume that the rituals of the local deli,

That served as a boundary line between the worlds of Brooklyn and Manhattan,

Would always lessen the impact of modern existence,

Would mitigate the effects of modern toys that allow the mind to flee from

the interpersonal demands of contemporary life but which siphon those

tribal instincts that provide strength and continuity to life,

That once honed our instincts, enabling past warriors to recognize the

scent of a predator or the maternal impulses of a mother to be.

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I took the lazy afternoons, when I strolled along the streets of Manhattan

in quiet contemplation, for granted.

I was content to listen to the sounds of past girlfriends as they hummed

the melodies of musicians like Elton John and Cat Stevens.

I did not notice the absorption of the local delicatessens that served up

hot pastrami marinated in brine.

That for an extra fifty cents sold stories of the neighborhood.

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50

Society’s Image

By Laura Cato

Seven hundred people cluster,

Flustered

By unjust,

Muster.

Wall Street assaults her,

Liberty never wore a suit

All news meant to be mute,

Including diversity and incomes,

The loot

Their bags of lies

Taken with society’s eyes,

We are denied

As we cry,

Throughout the night

Where are our rights?

Flights,

Always checking for a bomb squad,

Prod

Our senses from a shielded pod,

Air Forces nod

As they drop,

Vengeance with the intent of never being caught

Bodies still rot,

They are our true inspiration

Now leading our nation,

Through segregation

What is this creation?

Vibrations,

From Asia full force

No remorse,

As Wall Street chomps away

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Employment left in decay,

American meaning now frayed

Betrayed,

While many continue to pray

On cold floors in basements and

Shelters,

More than twice as many homeless since last

Winter,

Splinters

Of ice needles pry,

Minnesota questions why

People had to suffer,

While politics blunder

Thunder,

Would be under

Government influence and propaganda,

Random

That we are looking at a land of,

The free and home of the brave

When we can’t manage to save,

Ourselves from mental diseases

That will freeze us,

Never again to believe us,

Health care treats us

Into hesitant reasons,

Why we grieve, none

The less it’s dumb;

How we preach equality,

When costs of a consultation appalls me

It’s not really healthy,

Based on quantity

Yet, no one insures it

Doctors only infer that,

Inside this mystery hat

There’s either a feather or a bat,

Minds left to see scrounged up rats.

Endless mats,

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Of isolation

Marked as an abbreviation,

Of a judicial system long dead

But everyone’s main thought has read,

“Where is the bread?”

Only some will be fed,

Instead

Of a whole world and it’s street beds,

Now uprising against

A smeared truth,

But in Tulisia they open election booths,

And Libya remains aloof

Proof,

That there is a strain

Somewhere in our brains,

Proposition 8 stains

And cranes

Our view of life back to earth

New births,

What is it worth?

When we are left to our fatherless search,

When we speak of church

Do we see faith or what’s in our purse?

What worse,

At first

Let’s have that reality check,

To fix what has been wrecked

Maybe even take a second,

Before preaching change

When range,

Is based on social networking and media,

New web page

Latest rage,

New notifications and requests,

Where we portray ourselves at best

Never a moment of rest

To 2011, I feel I have addressed,

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Some of my concerns will there be

Success

Check mate, competition remains

A mess!

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51

I is for Infrared By Martin Willitts Jr.

Sunlight at zenith provides enough light

for night-vision as a security guard passes

through buildings on surveillance. Ambient light

is better than no light. On a cloud-cover night,

much of what he does is by touch.

He can almost sense ultra-violet light.

It feels like a doorknob someone forgot to lock.

He varies his patterns in case someone is monitoring.

He goes in variance, knowing each stone in darkness.

There is comfort in the unfamiliar.

Each item has a distinct heartbeat.

He covers distance without flashlight,

for some things are ingrained.

If something is amiss, he must report it.

He almost wishes he had something to report,

to send out his voice into the night,

over a walkie-talkie, just to stay in touch

with something human, waiting for him

in a guard shack, something probably fighting sleep.

When he returns from his tour-of-duty,

he reports he has nothing to report,

thinking darkness is its own form of report.

Everything gets lost in the details.

Boredom is twenty camera monitors

showing the same numbing lack of activity

where things shut down into silence.

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52

O is for Opaque By Martin Willitts Jr.

He was hard to comprehend.

He was not clear or lucid.

He was obscure as a word no one understood.

No matter what he did, he was impossible as a mumble.

He had a gift for obtrusiveness.

Words were parallelograms.

It was a thankless task to interpret his meaning.

In short, he was transparent as a politician.

He was passed-over for promotions.

He blended easily among wallpaper and dollies.

He was noticeable as an already smothered flame.

His density took up valuable space.

No one spoke his name so long he’d forgotten it.

His birthdays came and went unannounced.

When he died he did not show up for his own funeral.

He was too busy being insignificant to notice.

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53

Our Land By Maria Redfern

Where we live, where we grew up at, the place we call Home

We build our homes on, we raised our children at, we share love and

sorrow at.

Our land, where our ancestors and friends, met and shared their life at.

Let it be peace n love as we are one nation, one people, one land.

my land, your land, our land.

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54

Playground Reverie By Gina Ferrero

Colored containers: navy, neon yellow, violet, nectarine red

Transparent with tangerine or chartreuse lids.

An array of measurements: three by three by four inches, ranges to four

by four by three feet

Miniature boxes house plastic hollow spears – small enough for a tod-

dler to hold. Open the dome; find a merry-go-round that rotates on command

Plastic pieces fit congruously in their respective seats for a joyride.

Before the contestants lunge into the five inch swim, each ephemeral

second seems timeless

A black and white image unveils the race’s supernova! Lights. Camera. Action.

Characters assume the stage for one climactic, grotesque and fatal dis-

play that will expose inner revelry.

Come back from your fantasy, your fleeting Shangri-La.

Come back to the vial and tips,

To the boxes upon boxes of sterile vessels and centrifuge whirlwind. Come back to the current and gel that will elucidate your genotype.

And wonder,

What is the purpose for varied hues and tones?

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55

200 Cigarettes and a Box of Wine By Tamara Woods

When do I become the writer I’m supposed to be?

When my words drip off my tongue like a drop of cum left from the mar-

ried man who came over last night?

Or am I aiming too low

the drippings of my soul should splash on paper

like the grease from mama’s fried chicken

Fill my arteries and choke them with love

so that my eyes will bulge, roll skyward

and . . . pause.

Perhaps the thing to do is to tell the world its coming doom

I should decide whether mankind’s demise will take place in 1 or 1 thou-

sand or 1 million years,

but I can’t see past my dog dying in the spring

and my daddy in the fall.

Are the words meant to put the fear of something

other than one’s imminent death?

but I’m scared of seeing that white light

and what lays in wait for me.

And I do fear the reaper, but I don’t fear the reefer,

but maybe that’s my problem.

Maybe the true peak of my wisdom will come in threes,

Three husbands times three divorces will one day equal

two abandoned children and the time where my

mind almost splinters and falls through the cracks except I still have a

voice and it’s loud on the pages but soft to the world outside my head

and so the cries of “mommy play with me, tie my shoe,

fix me something to eat,

mommy where is daddy, mommy why are you crying?” will be flooded

out by the click, click, clicking of the keys.

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I know I’m supposed to write these words, but I don’t know the order

yet and how they should trip, stumble and fall into someone’s mind.

The message is lost inside a paper bag beside a metaphor stretched too

thin.

My power lies in the words that tremble on the tip of my tongue.

They wash up against me, stinging my eyes, leaving traces of

misplaced

soliloquies;

they have the force of misspent youth, eroded dreams, stories

untold, unfold, pause to breath, sigh slowly and reflect.

The words swell inside me.

They race helter-skelter and I can’t form them in my throat,

articulate,

they crash against my mind’s shores.

They’re immense in their complexities,

elusive in their meaning.

200 cigarettes and a box of wine slow me down.

I am just my word’s mistress and

they taunt me and laughed at me with their fickle tendencies.

So, tonight this is where they’ve brought me.

Three steps outside of reality and a heart beat from my own mortality.

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56

Harsh Emphasis By Ben Nardolili

A hard time we had with a running stream

Among the choirs of singing winds a long time ago,

The great tongue moving, the unreal of what is real,

All this under a sherbet colored sky. Then the camels

Continued and we arrived at evening, clutching

Our mouths like muted Gods, amused and devolved,

With feet kicking the circles in the blue lake,

We stopped the whirlwind and balked at the elements.

All things in the night-fires were quietly going out

And the lack of winter in the handsome skies

Made the vegetation suddenly plain in its savagery:

Our Creator had emptied all his wine-skins.

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57

The Brains Behind By Ben Nardolili

Who pretended to come by?

I heard a voice thrown,

A shadow tossed out there,

Did a door open to deceive?

Some glow upstairs, a show

Put on in a play to abolish

The feeling I was alone,

No, I know no one arrived.

You went through the work

To place a copy by me,

Why not come here instead

And cut out away the strings?

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58

Stimulation By V.L. Stroude

Physical then mental I like the progression.

Physically satisfied you then make me ponder everything from

political satire to man’s invention of religious constraint and

contradiction.

Even your voice, your verbiage and diction.

Lyrically gifted exception to the rule.

Impressed with your perception into why the world is so cruel.

Unconsciously benevolent, your gift is truth. You freely give that

which has been given to you.

Ignorance is bliss . . . Not for you. In knowing you find solace in an

existence represented by marred interpretations of the shared human

condition, left askew on the cutting room floor.

Most run from this realization, you yearn to know more.

You’ve always been different. You thought it was a curse.

Always wished you could ignore what very few others ever see at all.

But your curse is your blessing. You don’t just stimulate my mind; you

motivate the world to look at its true reflection.

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59

Schneider Says Sartre By robert macmahon

I’m told that my sperm donor speaks for me;

that those little hims floating in my arteries

think for me, and

act for me, and

speak for me.

I will admit that

within my blood,

grows my father’s branch—intertwining with my mother’s.

I am a fluttering leaf of their genealogy,

as I am of the ancients in my line, who ate

lice out of each other’s fur.

The missing link is the sap on my trunk,

so far removed that it becomes

nearly invisible, however

its sap and its seed are my core.

But I am not bound to the emotions

or politics of my father or mother, the ape-men,

or those who came somewhere in between.

What shackles me to the root of the family Oak, is one thing:

had they not ejaculated

or ovulated when they did,

I would not have met the stork.

Had one more second passed,

I would still be in the comfortable lobby chairs of Creation INC.,

flipping through magazines that I don’t care about,

waiting to be given access to a birth canal.

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60

Riding a Song By Yuichi Handa

I once heard about a myth–I might be making things up here–that long

ago a herd of wild horses passed through a village, and while some of

the villagers rode off on these horses, others did not. Those who left

lost their voices, never to speak or to sing again. And those who missed

their chance at riding, never regained that chance, and in their grief

wailed in song for the rest of their lives.

I marvel at the parallel of this story to the Heisenberg uncertainty prin-

ciple–the modern-day account that postulates that one can either know

(or shall I say sing?) one’s position, or ascertain (that is, ride upon)

one’s velocity, but not both, concurrently.

As a writer, I sometimes think of myself as defying such myths, for I

am able to sound songs that carry me to seemingly new places. That is,

I appear to be riding on song. But look closer and here is the truth of

things: these alleged new places, always and without fail, turn out only

to be new names for home. That is, I have never left. I have not ridden.

I have just sung my way back to where I have always been.

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61

Carving up an Ox By Yuichi Handa

This room with its myriad objects, each pulling (at me), each offering

its own story when I want only one–it–is not that I mind variety or

richness in and of itself. This is more a matter of acting in the world. If

it were simply a matter of dwelling here, I would make myself at home

– easily–among the ten-thousand beings of this world. But it is different

when I am called upon to write–that is, to act–for action requires

direction.

Have you noticed? It is often the simple-minded who are able to take

swift action. Think of Hamlet. He was as complicated as they come.

I once was shown a fortune that read: “It takes great complexity of

mind to arrive at simplicity.” The one who showed me was a retired

professor–now, a mystic of sorts.

The point then, I do not think, is to rid oneself of things. Best to learn

to live in the thick of it. The trick, as suggested, is to find the spaces in-

between–the mind, working like a blade with space to spare. Soon, a

way emerges. Words pour forth.

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62

A Teacher’s Lament By Yuichi Handa

We were all busy plugging zeroes and ones into equations when a stu-

dent started shoving Parmesan cheese into the x’s and y’s instead. I

said: “That doesn’t quite fit. Can’t you see that they’re spilling and

causing a mess?” But he wasn’t having any of that. He had soon

convinced his group members to start doing the same with their

unknowns, which were now just common placeholders and no longer

variables. Could they not appreciate the difference?

“This way they can’t change on us. It’s our way of keeping things the

way we like by stuffing the crap out of them!”

“But if they can’t change, how will we know what they truly are?” I

asked. “They’re what we make of them. See?”

Soon, no one cared for what was true. It was all about preference, you

see. No key, no method. Just: “Hey, I got my answer!” Any

answer would have sufficed.

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63

Soft, Languorous, Warm By Yuichi Handa

As a child, I was deeply attached to a soft towel whose texture I

required upon my skin so that I could fall asleep. Four years ago, I

learned that I was allergic to just one thing: dust.

As a young adult, I would come down with stomach cramps upon

entering a bookstore, yet I sought more than anything to consume what

was in each of those books.

For the alcoholic, it is said that she is allergic to that which she craves.

There was a book I read once, of a Native American belief: that for

each of us, there is one thing that must not be consumed or come into

contact with for loss of health, sanity, and even life. That one thing

could be an apple (as it was for Adam), a specific meat, or alcohol. It

might even be corn, wheat, or a particular berry. Perhaps dust, a lover,

and certain forms of knowledge also make the list?

As for myself, I do not know what that one thing would be–I am only

glad that it is not the soft, languorous, warm glow around and about a

word, or two–or three–chosen carefully.

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64

B is for By Yuichi Handa

The second letter in the English language is largely irrelevant.

Would you deny this? Surely, one can survive without it. We could still

visit the ocean and lay on sand. Players would just toss around their

spheres of various sizes. Rap stars could start calling their

girlfriends and hoes via names other than “rhymes with witches.” I

mean: hard cheese, soft cheese, and melty cheese works fine with me.

Our skeletal pieces would still get fractured. Novices to haggling could

still enjoy themselves, not thinking that they could exist somewhere

else, or do something more engaging. Some people, though, might have

to alter their names. Existentialists would have to settle for dasein. And

contrarians would likely miss their favorite utterance, as with men and

women who enjoyed the rears of others.

Despite minor protestations perhaps, our world would remain the same

world we know. Nothing outwardly will have changed. In fact, why not

trim a letter a week and see how it works out? In no time, smiles and

touches could very well emerge as the new currency of communication.

We might even regain our capacities at listening to the soft streaming

of air, or to sensing sadness and grief in another’s heart because we

would feel it in our own. It would not turn out as dire as you might

think. I am willing to put a wager on it.

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65

Daughters By Amalia Fish

Lean limbed, tall

the willowed bodies drift

in and out of french doors,

effortlessly elegant;

a promise of the feminine,

not yet realized.

Assured of their beauty

their secrets whispered,

hushed between friends;

an intimate conspiracy

excluding the old.

Universal truths discovered for the first time.

The passions so intense and new.

To love for the first time,

to feel the first stab.

To bleed and bleed some more,

the heart wrenched with exquisite pain.

You are so vulnerable

and so powerful.

You have a hand on the future,

lives and destinies

to open and flower.

Our job to steer them,

not to stand in their way.

To hold them safe

and, as life dictates

to step aside

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and watch their frail and faltering steps

away into the distance.

We will grieve for the loss of them

assured by the tide that beckons them on.

We who were once young and reckless

cry out

‘Yes we too live and love

and bleed and grow old....’

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83

At All Hallows By John Elwyn Kimber

The big, sombre cars are at the door:

One family’s turn come round again.

Face-masks of women, pale shades of men:

They are not dead, they’ve only gone before

To the ancestral church upon the ancient mound:

Where photographs may catch them, in a spectral blur-

Interminable apparitions here recur,

Haunting old haunts, to spite this hallowed ground.

They’re burying the old so-and-so today.

These undead for dear life will not depart

Before upholding high stakes upon his heart.

The patriarch: they never liked him anyway,

Not knowing what the plausible old fiend was worth,

Yet taking him on trust to oil the sky-high-fees

For incorruptible credit and its guarantees.

An unctuous treasure laid up in this solemn earth,

He kept them guessing all the longer to conceal

What ruined legacy he left to shrive and save.

Now pacing the antechambers of a common grave,

Live as a tribe of ghosts, pent in the yet-unreal,

A babel of unbeing in perpetual feud,

And cheated of inheritance where truth unfolds

Into the only-memories the future holds,

They mourn a covenant profoundly unrenewed,

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Shafted in golden light that wraps the universe

Up in a warmth beyond the penuries of grief.

Aggrieved they hear, as from the ghost of unbelief,

That prim, judicious vicar yet-again rehearse

His half-forgotten rumours of a soul set free,

Borne out of time flying ever yet unfled.

Who are the living here, and who the dead?

Adrift toward the open grave, by two, by three

Standing sentinel upon a brink of lawn,

The yet-unmown grass a-tremble in the chill;

While in the antenatal unit down the hill

Another and another ghost is born?