Markets and Hawking |
 | James Tyler has been published in such journals as Chiron Review, Doubly Mad, and Poetry Quarterly. He earned a BA in English at Austin Peay State University. |
Broken and On the Mend
Is the most important line the first
or is it the last?
Just as the first breath is most important
because we can’t begin without,
but the last breath most profound
because that’s how we’re remembered,
words broken forever for others to mend.
One of my first memories is knocking
my grandmother’s grandmother’s
vase off the little table while playing GI Joe.
It shattered into 601 pieces, rose and white,
the last day we saw that vase in one piece,
last time I looked at a vase the same way
because the tears breaking from eyes.
The first time I heard the Grateful Dead broke my ears--
no acid, but psychedelics to the brain
through drumbeat, lyric, and guitar solos.
Grandma said, “shut that shit off,”
the first time I ever heard her say shit.
So I went to the basement and turned it loud
so even the demons could hear and dance.
The first time I ever kissed a girl was in the bushes
amongst the broken branches and brown leaves.
Our tongues touched, shock of slippery delight.
God, my ears buzzed, but I heard grandma calling
“Jamie, where are you?” Can you get AIDS from the
spit of a girl in the fourth grade?
I was neither here nor there, grandma.
Now let’s talk about a middle time, not late in life,
but there. How about when my father was dying
on a bed in grandma’s house, biting pill after pill
to go insane with a chill so close to death it was soft
and hard like steel or iron, coursing in veins through the brain,
smell of rose and petunia in a constant hallucination,
grandma last to touch your hand that night, that last night.
On the mend with all the dandruff and pimples a boy
can hold. Wanting to kiss all the girls, slippery--
call me four-eyes and get over it. I can’t shoot a ball,
but I can kill a butterfly and mount it with a pin,
monarchs always in the middle. Death is real and beautiful
like learning to ride a bicycle for the first time
or like a broken coke bottle in the shine of a campfire.
Were you there when they nailed him to the cross?
Is there a sight of blood that remains thus unseen?
Tell me the sorrows and the glories you’ve witnessed.
The song of nail to the wood, sun broken sound,
reach high, two arms upon the sky and lord bow down
a small song of glory touches all around,
and touch me now sweet Jesus for I am found.
The last time I saw my grandmother a machine made
her breathe because her soul was breaking away.
Grandpa kissed her on the forehead, once alive and once dead.
I never heard her last words, but I could make up a lie.
I said, “Where are you grandma?” and touched her hand.
Her eyes opened one final time, smile biting tubes
like a she-wolf and middle finger high, high as a kite.
Is the most important line the first
or is it the last?
Just as the first breath is most important
because we can’t begin without,
but the last breath most profound
because that’s how we’re remembered,
words broken forever for others to mend.
One of my first memories is knocking
my grandmother’s grandmother’s
vase off the little table while playing GI Joe.
It shattered into 601 pieces, rose and white,
the last day we saw that vase in one piece,
last time I looked at a vase the same way
because the tears breaking from eyes.
The first time I heard the Grateful Dead broke my ears--
no acid, but psychedelics to the brain
through drumbeat, lyric, and guitar solos.
Grandma said, “shut that shit off,”
the first time I ever heard her say shit.
So I went to the basement and turned it loud
so even the demons could hear and dance.
The first time I ever kissed a girl was in the bushes
amongst the broken branches and brown leaves.
Our tongues touched, shock of slippery delight.
God, my ears buzzed, but I heard grandma calling
“Jamie, where are you?” Can you get AIDS from the
spit of a girl in the fourth grade?
I was neither here nor there, grandma.
Now let’s talk about a middle time, not late in life,
but there. How about when my father was dying
on a bed in grandma’s house, biting pill after pill
to go insane with a chill so close to death it was soft
and hard like steel or iron, coursing in veins through the brain,
smell of rose and petunia in a constant hallucination,
grandma last to touch your hand that night, that last night.
On the mend with all the dandruff and pimples a boy
can hold. Wanting to kiss all the girls, slippery--
call me four-eyes and get over it. I can’t shoot a ball,
but I can kill a butterfly and mount it with a pin,
monarchs always in the middle. Death is real and beautiful
like learning to ride a bicycle for the first time
or like a broken coke bottle in the shine of a campfire.
Were you there when they nailed him to the cross?
Is there a sight of blood that remains thus unseen?
Tell me the sorrows and the glories you’ve witnessed.
The song of nail to the wood, sun broken sound,
reach high, two arms upon the sky and lord bow down
a small song of glory touches all around,
and touch me now sweet Jesus for I am found.
The last time I saw my grandmother a machine made
her breathe because her soul was breaking away.
Grandpa kissed her on the forehead, once alive and once dead.
I never heard her last words, but I could make up a lie.
I said, “Where are you grandma?” and touched her hand.
Her eyes opened one final time, smile biting tubes
like a she-wolf and middle finger high, high as a kite.
A Meeting, By Chance
I met her somewhere near Coeur d’Alene or Pocatello
on my way to somewhere like Helena or Bozeman.
You don’t forget women like her, just the towns.
Her hair was as yellow as the sunshine and her lips red like cherries.
You gotta describe her in clichés. It’s the only way to justify her.
But her brown eyes had something sinister in them that I liked.
So I bought her a beer with my last five dollar bill.
She had no idea the sacrifice. I couldn’t even buy a sandwich,
though my hunger was assuaged when she put the longneck to her lips.
We talked of the good times and bad times, actually shared some memories.
Her eyes changed from sinister to soft, even a little bit heavenly,
but guys like me aren’t bound for heaven. It’s the lower levels where we dwell.
I know you may be expecting a conquest of sorts, a star crossed connection.
But I hate to be the barer of bad news. That night she danced with a dude
with a mullet instead of me. Nothing wrong with a mullet. Just the wrong guy.
I think of her when I eat pine nuts. That’s what they had at the bar.
I don’t think she was wearing perfume. At least I don’t remember a scent
except for the dirty rag the bartender wiped the bar top with.
Please don’t think I’m writing a sad song. I don’t like sad songs anyways.
Think of this as a chance meeting, nothing set at the beginning of the universe,
but I’d like to think that it was a passing thought of God, just real quick.
And something else about it. You know how true love might exist?
Well, I love her still today. It’s just a bug in the back of my brain.
Tomorrow I might think about her, but tonight I’ll stop.
on my way to somewhere like Helena or Bozeman.
You don’t forget women like her, just the towns.
Her hair was as yellow as the sunshine and her lips red like cherries.
You gotta describe her in clichés. It’s the only way to justify her.
But her brown eyes had something sinister in them that I liked.
So I bought her a beer with my last five dollar bill.
She had no idea the sacrifice. I couldn’t even buy a sandwich,
though my hunger was assuaged when she put the longneck to her lips.
We talked of the good times and bad times, actually shared some memories.
Her eyes changed from sinister to soft, even a little bit heavenly,
but guys like me aren’t bound for heaven. It’s the lower levels where we dwell.
I know you may be expecting a conquest of sorts, a star crossed connection.
But I hate to be the barer of bad news. That night she danced with a dude
with a mullet instead of me. Nothing wrong with a mullet. Just the wrong guy.
I think of her when I eat pine nuts. That’s what they had at the bar.
I don’t think she was wearing perfume. At least I don’t remember a scent
except for the dirty rag the bartender wiped the bar top with.
Please don’t think I’m writing a sad song. I don’t like sad songs anyways.
Think of this as a chance meeting, nothing set at the beginning of the universe,
but I’d like to think that it was a passing thought of God, just real quick.
And something else about it. You know how true love might exist?
Well, I love her still today. It’s just a bug in the back of my brain.
Tomorrow I might think about her, but tonight I’ll stop.
I Am a Legend
I am sick of making legends.
Give me a cure in a bottle
and I will only tell true tales.
Lies are a sweet Valentine rose.
Put your nose in the petals
until it’s sour, red turned to black.
I have two true arms to hold lies
that are heavy as a body in a bag,
that are heavy as bubbles in a bath.
One legend says love never dies,
but what is this stink?
Kisses that decompose in the nose.
Is the poet more important than the poem--
a poet whose breath smells of beer and onions,
whose poems can break butter diamonds in two?
Legends make the eyes water, the breath go quick.
Legends taste like strawberries or salt.
Legends look like a waterfall or a drop of rain.
Marlowe leans in to tell me a secret.
What a great name for a cat. Or writer.
I introduce myself as none other than Shakespeare.
And for a moment I am a legend.
My quill races across the page, a cheetah
chasing his prey after days of starvation.
But I find my place in history to be precarious.
Certainly my legend will be forgotten
and placed upon the heap of broken pencils.
Give me a cure in a bottle
and I will only tell true tales.
Lies are a sweet Valentine rose.
Put your nose in the petals
until it’s sour, red turned to black.
I have two true arms to hold lies
that are heavy as a body in a bag,
that are heavy as bubbles in a bath.
One legend says love never dies,
but what is this stink?
Kisses that decompose in the nose.
Is the poet more important than the poem--
a poet whose breath smells of beer and onions,
whose poems can break butter diamonds in two?
Legends make the eyes water, the breath go quick.
Legends taste like strawberries or salt.
Legends look like a waterfall or a drop of rain.
Marlowe leans in to tell me a secret.
What a great name for a cat. Or writer.
I introduce myself as none other than Shakespeare.
And for a moment I am a legend.
My quill races across the page, a cheetah
chasing his prey after days of starvation.
But I find my place in history to be precarious.
Certainly my legend will be forgotten
and placed upon the heap of broken pencils.
Thanksgiving, 1951
I wasn’t there, not until 1979--
an unborn child inside a child.
My mother was four years old
sitting at a long dining room table,
upon which my grandmother was born
and meals were fed to boarders in upstairs rooms,
where bold lies and gentle prayers carried
up to the chandelier or spilled out and down
the hall, where shadows hid for decades.
The talk was probably about Truman
or the Korean War. Maybe football.
All I know for sure about that day was
my mother didn’t want turkey. Pouting face.
She let it be known to the whole family,
the women who’d prepared the meal for days.
She recalls the smile on her grandfather’s face
when she announced she’d like a peanut butter
and jelly sandwich, a story told over and over
since that Thanksgiving Day. He laughed
amid gasps and a couple “I declares.”
“Yes, ma’am,” was all he said, standing
without hesitation, on his way to the kitchen,
solidifying his place as my mother’s hero.
He looks like a proud man in one old photo.
I hope this story never dies, is never buried
under countless calendars, burned by sunny days
or ruined by rain, bringing a smile at least once a year.
an unborn child inside a child.
My mother was four years old
sitting at a long dining room table,
upon which my grandmother was born
and meals were fed to boarders in upstairs rooms,
where bold lies and gentle prayers carried
up to the chandelier or spilled out and down
the hall, where shadows hid for decades.
The talk was probably about Truman
or the Korean War. Maybe football.
All I know for sure about that day was
my mother didn’t want turkey. Pouting face.
She let it be known to the whole family,
the women who’d prepared the meal for days.
She recalls the smile on her grandfather’s face
when she announced she’d like a peanut butter
and jelly sandwich, a story told over and over
since that Thanksgiving Day. He laughed
amid gasps and a couple “I declares.”
“Yes, ma’am,” was all he said, standing
without hesitation, on his way to the kitchen,
solidifying his place as my mother’s hero.
He looks like a proud man in one old photo.
I hope this story never dies, is never buried
under countless calendars, burned by sunny days
or ruined by rain, bringing a smile at least once a year.
Our Dirty Mason Jars
I keep my days in a dirty Mason jar
floating in formaldehyde mixed with backaches,
stomachaches, headaches, and heartbreaks.
I’ve wonder about the man holding his jar out
and the first time he asks a stranger for change.
He keeps his jar half full of pennies, half of regrets.
That man and I have spilled our pride out in the street
and on the sidewalks for the unassuming to slip upon.
There should be a warning sign painted with our blood.
I’ll open my jar to accept your frown or an ancient smile
you have long forgotten. Sing some of your happy birthdays--
especially the lonely ones where you ate all the cake.
My jar doesn’t make a jingle. The days I’ve collected inside
are soft marshmallows, once afraid of the rain
and what would happen next, but now content to dream.
I’ll save up a penny to put in that man’s jar. Maybe two.
His dreams smell of iron and cigarettes, cheap beer
and his ex-wife’s perfume. His pockets are heavy, too,
with hands always searching for broken promises
and keys that have no home. Both of us need a compass
to give direction. I’ll head north one of these days
and he’ll go south, perhaps all the way to Miami,
with our jars as companions. The worst thing
would be to drop the jar. Past, present, future broken.
floating in formaldehyde mixed with backaches,
stomachaches, headaches, and heartbreaks.
I’ve wonder about the man holding his jar out
and the first time he asks a stranger for change.
He keeps his jar half full of pennies, half of regrets.
That man and I have spilled our pride out in the street
and on the sidewalks for the unassuming to slip upon.
There should be a warning sign painted with our blood.
I’ll open my jar to accept your frown or an ancient smile
you have long forgotten. Sing some of your happy birthdays--
especially the lonely ones where you ate all the cake.
My jar doesn’t make a jingle. The days I’ve collected inside
are soft marshmallows, once afraid of the rain
and what would happen next, but now content to dream.
I’ll save up a penny to put in that man’s jar. Maybe two.
His dreams smell of iron and cigarettes, cheap beer
and his ex-wife’s perfume. His pockets are heavy, too,
with hands always searching for broken promises
and keys that have no home. Both of us need a compass
to give direction. I’ll head north one of these days
and he’ll go south, perhaps all the way to Miami,
with our jars as companions. The worst thing
would be to drop the jar. Past, present, future broken.
 | Jillian Smith is a writer and teacher living in Marietta, GA. She is currently pursuing her PhD in Poetry at Georgia State University. Originally from outside Philadelphia, Jill cherishes her slight "Philly" accent and loves embracing all the Philadelphia stereotypes she pretty much ignored while growing up, although she can't quite muster up the grit of their sports fans. She is a devoted teacher, a quirky writer, a loving and loved wife, a certifiable cat lady, an occasional artist, an aspiring chef, an exercise fanatic, a 90s rock and 2000s emo music lover, and a soon-to-be first-time mom. |
The Mystery
In science class, my mother stole an eye,
a sheep’s eye, when her teacher looked away.
The whole walk home she felt the greased orb weigh
inside her cupped palms like a stolen sigh.
At home she poked the eye to see it cry,
but nothing left its sac of jellied gray,
a depthless pool that looked and looked away,
a death that gleamed some sliver of alive.
When dinnertime came round, she heard the shriek
of Nonna at the fridge, her voice irate:
a napkin soaked in juice held in its folds
the former eye, a shriveled whitish bead.
She scrubbed the shelf until it showed her face
and Nonna’s eyes, those dark, unseeing clouds.
a sheep’s eye, when her teacher looked away.
The whole walk home she felt the greased orb weigh
inside her cupped palms like a stolen sigh.
At home she poked the eye to see it cry,
but nothing left its sac of jellied gray,
a depthless pool that looked and looked away,
a death that gleamed some sliver of alive.
When dinnertime came round, she heard the shriek
of Nonna at the fridge, her voice irate:
a napkin soaked in juice held in its folds
the former eye, a shriveled whitish bead.
She scrubbed the shelf until it showed her face
and Nonna’s eyes, those dark, unseeing clouds.
Myth of the Present
Gardenias blow stars into our mouths.
I paint a picture of the past,
sky-thin, one cloud knocks,
knocks from its single pane.
I paint a picture of the past.
I am the blanket that wraps our cat,
knocks from its single pane,
its blue edges keeping something in.
I am the blanket that wraps our cat,
like the darkness that knits itself,
its blue edges keeping something in.
My love grazes distances,
like the darkness that knits itself
while autumn paints our bones.
My love grazes distances.
I say the wrong thing again,
while autumn squeezes our bones.
Marrow of emptiness, wanting something in return.
I say the wrong thing again,
but rain is coming, its broken
marrow of emptiness, wanting something in return.
We clasp the future’s depthless hand,
but rain is coming, its broken
faces appear in the blank light.
We clasp the future’s depthless hand,
my chest stuffed to bursting.
Faces appear in the blank light,
tiny droplets unstirring my heart.
My chest stuffed to bursting,
sky-thin, one cloud knocks,
tiny droplets unstirring my heart.
Gardenias blow stars into our mouths.
I paint a picture of the past,
sky-thin, one cloud knocks,
knocks from its single pane.
I paint a picture of the past.
I am the blanket that wraps our cat,
knocks from its single pane,
its blue edges keeping something in.
I am the blanket that wraps our cat,
like the darkness that knits itself,
its blue edges keeping something in.
My love grazes distances,
like the darkness that knits itself
while autumn paints our bones.
My love grazes distances.
I say the wrong thing again,
while autumn squeezes our bones.
Marrow of emptiness, wanting something in return.
I say the wrong thing again,
but rain is coming, its broken
marrow of emptiness, wanting something in return.
We clasp the future’s depthless hand,
but rain is coming, its broken
faces appear in the blank light.
We clasp the future’s depthless hand,
my chest stuffed to bursting.
Faces appear in the blank light,
tiny droplets unstirring my heart.
My chest stuffed to bursting,
sky-thin, one cloud knocks,
tiny droplets unstirring my heart.
Gardenias blow stars into our mouths.
On a Sunday
We vacuumed this morning: stamped around the house, dragging the heavy body of the machine, you with the lighter Dyson, getting the steps. Tortilla chips crinkle and snap on the rug, a rug you began to dislike just after we purchased it. Our next grill will be gas, you say. Though we just got the charcoal. Black coals turn white in the chimney starter, spilling out in a bundle of heat. Like our lives, spilled out the back end of some funnel, a hot, dark emptying. Each time we have people over—rarer now—my body throttles, wanting to steady the curve of hours, to lock the pace of here, now. Your feet kick under the heavy blanket—the one that itches my skin—and I write to slow time: the way a heartbeat spreads out, illuminating each minute, how it reverberates against the muggy press of fabric--how the mind bleeds, asking everything of color. Seconds flow over me conspicuously, as if guilty for borrowing life to make memory--memory, that broken tail, where joys are stowed like pennies in a jar, the currency of former days.
Lullaby
Dry your eyes, dear sister, please.
Nothing happens but in dreams.
Monsters, goblins, wicked things
Creeping up like hungry vines,
Just a product of the mind.
Take this forest, ill-defined,
Darkness stealing day’s detail.
Everything is yet to scale.
Soon the moon will find our trail
Dotted white with scraps of bread.
Home will welcome us instead,
Sunlight shred these clouds of dread.
Lay your head upon me, now.
Think of something sweet, a house
Built of cake, a brimming mouth.
Nothing happens but in dreams.
Monsters, goblins, wicked things
Creeping up like hungry vines,
Just a product of the mind.
Take this forest, ill-defined,
Darkness stealing day’s detail.
Everything is yet to scale.
Soon the moon will find our trail
Dotted white with scraps of bread.
Home will welcome us instead,
Sunlight shred these clouds of dread.
Lay your head upon me, now.
Think of something sweet, a house
Built of cake, a brimming mouth.
Portrait of My Mother as Her Wedding Gown
Its sheer sleeves stuffed with paper keep their shape,
fan out in welcome of what once filled them.
Although displaying subtle signs of age--
gray beads swivel the skirt, tarnished silver—
there is a story hiding in the lace,
its fine lines proving handiwork, rigor.
A streak of pale blue floats across the waist,
bearing tradition, its bow a blithe flicker
above the satin panel that cascades
down in a train, dragging its long shimmer
like years gone by. Around the neck, a trail
of milky pearls: their tiny eggs trickle
into a teardrop shape, clasp in embrace
across the heart. We feared it might wither
inside its box; instead, the dress’s grace
grows manifold. The rare, homemade riddle
of its design a glimpse of how it takes
a piece of everything it loves, chisels
them to a whole, then gives: leftover lace
saved for repairs, a strip of blue ribbon
were sewn into my bridal purse. In haste
that day I left it in the church; stricken
in noticing the lack, I found her face,
a buoy in the sea, purse in her fingers.
fan out in welcome of what once filled them.
Although displaying subtle signs of age--
gray beads swivel the skirt, tarnished silver—
there is a story hiding in the lace,
its fine lines proving handiwork, rigor.
A streak of pale blue floats across the waist,
bearing tradition, its bow a blithe flicker
above the satin panel that cascades
down in a train, dragging its long shimmer
like years gone by. Around the neck, a trail
of milky pearls: their tiny eggs trickle
into a teardrop shape, clasp in embrace
across the heart. We feared it might wither
inside its box; instead, the dress’s grace
grows manifold. The rare, homemade riddle
of its design a glimpse of how it takes
a piece of everything it loves, chisels
them to a whole, then gives: leftover lace
saved for repairs, a strip of blue ribbon
were sewn into my bridal purse. In haste
that day I left it in the church; stricken
in noticing the lack, I found her face,
a buoy in the sea, purse in her fingers.
***
apricot light
over the horizon
dark comes soon
over the horizon
dark comes soon
 | Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haiku as well as long poems. Paweł has published his poetries in many magazines. He writes in English and German. |
Confession of
the poetical firefly to
muse-butterfly of poesy
You must excuse me. You dear dreamer!
I have overly felt my dreamery about Golden Fleece.
I built my small paradise without any other ontological beings.
I based the dreamiest sempiternity on tenderness of my wings.
Thus. I painted my wings in color of an ambrosia.
Withal: I liked dew of dawns for the sake of elves.
I loved too much the wizardry of mayhap meek Erlkings.
I had to read many fairy tales of the Winter Queen.
I have enchanted your night rainbow.
I have become a magician of dawn.
I loved the Morning Starlet – the propitious Venus.
I collected all shooting stars after a dreamier night.
Excuse me. My dear butterfly
fulfilled in same afterglow
and bewitched by lights of moonlit and
starlit nights!
Let us dream over night!
Unto an epiphany of first
angels of red sky in
the morning.
I have overly felt my dreamery about Golden Fleece.
I built my small paradise without any other ontological beings.
I based the dreamiest sempiternity on tenderness of my wings.
Thus. I painted my wings in color of an ambrosia.
Withal: I liked dew of dawns for the sake of elves.
I loved too much the wizardry of mayhap meek Erlkings.
I had to read many fairy tales of the Winter Queen.
I have enchanted your night rainbow.
I have become a magician of dawn.
I loved the Morning Starlet – the propitious Venus.
I collected all shooting stars after a dreamier night.
Excuse me. My dear butterfly
fulfilled in same afterglow
and bewitched by lights of moonlit and
starlit nights!
Let us dream over night!
Unto an epiphany of first
angels of red sky in
the morning.
 | Alex Andy Phuong earned his Bachelor of Arts in English from California State University—Los Angeles in 2015. He was a former Statement Magazine editor who writes passionately and daily. Emma Stone inspired Alex to submit writing actively to publications after hearing the Oscar-nominated song, “Audition (The Fools Who Dream)” from the “Best Picture” nominee La La Land (2016). He now writes hoping to inspire the ones who dare to pursue their dreams. |
Galaxy
Space adventure
Venture into
A vortex
Swirling like a
Tornado
Or
Tsunami
Tidal wave
Wave hands and
Extend
But cautiously
To help everything
Within the galaxy
Venture into
A vortex
Swirling like a
Tornado
Or
Tsunami
Tidal wave
Wave hands and
Extend
But cautiously
To help everything
Within the galaxy
Get Through It
Inevitable
Unavoidable
Positivity Coexists
With Negativity
Binary Opposition
Nevertheless,
Getting through it
Takes courage
Idealistic beliefs
Might be unrealistic
But Acceptance
Of Reality
Is Perhaps
The Greatest Action
A Person Can Do
In Real Life
Travel Through
The Ocean of Time
Unavoidable
Positivity Coexists
With Negativity
Binary Opposition
Nevertheless,
Getting through it
Takes courage
Idealistic beliefs
Might be unrealistic
But Acceptance
Of Reality
Is Perhaps
The Greatest Action
A Person Can Do
In Real Life
Travel Through
The Ocean of Time
I Set Myself Free
Prisoner of the past no more
Love truly is an open door
Loving myself, but not done in vain
I do not have to feel restrained
It is impossible to change the past
But this very moment is not the last
I do what I do because I do
I do not have to worry about you
I apologize if that sounded rude
But please do not intrude
And invade my mind with impure thoughts
Just because I think and you do not
I do not get paid to think
But at least I use my brain
Choose to help the ones who cannot
Have the ability to help themselves
Because some people deserve love
And the wicked truly is atrocious
Working hard is not being pretentious
Because I choose to assist
And I willingly resist
Hurtful comments intended to shoot me down
I am circling the sun because I soar
And I love goodness forevermore
If you will not help me
Then I shall set myself free
And do away with agony
Because there really is nothing wrong with me!
Victorious
All hail Queen Victoria!
Long live the queen!
The longest reigning monarch
Art and culture made during this time
Stands the test of time
History and literature blending to
Create a bygone era
Victorian lit is full of wit!
Long live the queen!
The longest reigning monarch
Art and culture made during this time
Stands the test of time
History and literature blending to
Create a bygone era
Victorian lit is full of wit!
Wavelength
Oceanic sea
More powerful than thee
Human mortality
Yet even as waves
Ebb and flow
Scientific scientists know
About how wavelengths
Travel literally and figuratively
Much like the deep blue ocean
So that all and all upon the Earth
Can move by and by
All beneath the same blue sky
More powerful than thee
Human mortality
Yet even as waves
Ebb and flow
Scientific scientists know
About how wavelengths
Travel literally and figuratively
Much like the deep blue ocean
So that all and all upon the Earth
Can move by and by
All beneath the same blue sky
 | Christopher Brooks has been a professional violinist his entire adult life, grew up in Brooklyn; lived in Spain and the Netherlands, and currently lives with his wife, Lynn, in Lancaster, PA. His father was a free-lance historian; he grew up in a house filled with books. The author of The Creative Violinist, Brooks’ new collection of poems, Bemused, is available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, etc. |
Tequila
I like a glass tequila
when I sit to write
a poem
at night.
The quiet in my room
is a delight,
quite
still.
The glass is thin
its rim is fine
the taste is sharp--
piquant.
when I sit to write
a poem
at night.
The quiet in my room
is a delight,
quite
still.
The glass is thin
its rim is fine
the taste is sharp--
piquant.
Physics
I tripped.
And suddenly I was hurtling towards the concrete
accelerating at 9.8 meters per second squared.
At that moment (as it does at every moment
according to one interpretation of quantum mechanics),
the universe split.
In one universe, I broke both wrists.
In another, I hit my head and died.
In yet another, I hadn’t tripped.
In this universe, I tucked and rolled,
escaping with no more than a few scrapes and bruises
and a bemused sense of having gotten away with something.
Where did I learn to fall so skillfully?
And suddenly I was hurtling towards the concrete
accelerating at 9.8 meters per second squared.
At that moment (as it does at every moment
according to one interpretation of quantum mechanics),
the universe split.
In one universe, I broke both wrists.
In another, I hit my head and died.
In yet another, I hadn’t tripped.
In this universe, I tucked and rolled,
escaping with no more than a few scrapes and bruises
and a bemused sense of having gotten away with something.
Where did I learn to fall so skillfully?
I’ve been to San Francisco twice. My game is always to see the Golden Gate Bridge--not always so easy to find.
The Golden Gate Bridge
Oh magnificent spanner of the Bay!
The Golden Gate and I play hide and seek.
From out behind the cityscape, you peek,
or shroud yourself in morning fog each day.
I climb the many verdant hills of grey
voluptuous San Francisco to spy
despite your many efforts to disguise
yourself beyond the tangled web of trees.
Moisture-laden clouds above in motion:
the Marin Headlands, across from Baker’s Beach,
where you in full are finally revealed--
Oh gateway to the vast Pacific Ocean!
The Golden Gate and I play hide and seek.
From out behind the cityscape, you peek,
or shroud yourself in morning fog each day.
I climb the many verdant hills of grey
voluptuous San Francisco to spy
despite your many efforts to disguise
yourself beyond the tangled web of trees.
Moisture-laden clouds above in motion:
the Marin Headlands, across from Baker’s Beach,
where you in full are finally revealed--
Oh gateway to the vast Pacific Ocean!
 | MYDAVOLU VENKATA SESHA SATHYANARAYANA who writes with the penname 'mahathi' is a postgraduate in law and once a practising lawyer in Nellore and later an officer in Central Industries ministry. He retired from Government service in 2014 'Mahathi' is considered as one of the finest Indian English poets of modern times, whose poetry is replete with high imagery, clear diction, humour, pun and satire. He is adept with both formal and free verse though most of his later works were composed in formal verse. So far his poetry was published as 6 collections and 3 epic long poems. His poems were published in a number of print journals and magazines like POETS INTERNATIONAL, METVERSE MUSE, ROCK PEBBLES, WESTWARD QUARTERLY MAGAZINE(Illinois) Society of Classical posts (New York), Bhakti Nivedana (US) and won many prizes. His SUNDARA KANDA was serialized in SAPTAGIRI English MAGAZINE (TTD Publications) and many other articles and poems were published in the said magazine. His poems are published regularly in the New York based journal Socieof Classical Poets and WestWard Qiarterly magazine from Illinois. |
THE FLOOD
In India modern dams are constructed without arranging alternate habitat to the displaced people, who are mostly tribals living on the forest resources. The dams on other hand are causing great environmental danger by razing down forests, historical monuments and other natural resources.)
The lightenings are mellifluous, I thought!
Some like curled silver twigs, some like hot copse
of burning summer woods and some like drought
made cracks on earth with fresh monsoon raindrops.
On path familiar and weather too
not new, I quickened pace; my soles like blades
of hoeing plows and legs like chugging new
engines, towards my home in foliar shades.
My home in fact a humble hut, amid
the bamboo trees along with other huts,
such small below the thickset sylvan lid;
with fruit and meat enough to fill our guts.
The God had never forsook us, nor Ma
Godavari, the river pious and kind.
As sons of nature, heed to every law
she etched on woody reeves, with wind-pen signed.
The raising concrete walls, of river dam
well nigh to our dense jungle paradise
are like lifeless zombies ready to damn
our lives and raze down, this God-given prize.
Our woods don't swallow us, the rains don't pare,
the gales don't scare and river never seeps
into our blood. We're safe! The nature bare
is fair to us than well-dressed urban creeps.
Near dusk, the sun is dangling gracefully
in river's blissful lap as nascent moon
is growing high besieging the yonder lea.
It's four miles now...I reach my heaven soon.
Suddenly stopped my walk. I heard something,
not that familiar like the thudding moans
of falling trees, nor lightenings singing
the thunder songs, in husky baritones.
I stopped with a start and looked around. Oh my,
from dam, the dribbling down, strong water stream,
through cracks that widened like an evil eye
that started lunging down, with vengeful screams.
The dam is crumbling like a burn'g Phoenix
with water soaring up slashing at sky
as one giant tide, that looked like a raising Strix
with flapping wings ready to jump on pry.
I stood agape, spellbound, with sprinting chill
along my spine, as tides in gushing spree
devoured from grass meadows to verdant hills;
from little herbs to tallest banyan trees.
I slowly veered my eyes towards my dear
village. There's nothing mine, except a sheet
of water, leaving me alone with drear
heart beats thudding aloud the urbane deceit.
The lightenings are mellifluous, I thought!
Some like curled silver twigs, some like hot copse
of burning summer woods and some like drought
made cracks on earth with fresh monsoon raindrops.
On path familiar and weather too
not new, I quickened pace; my soles like blades
of hoeing plows and legs like chugging new
engines, towards my home in foliar shades.
My home in fact a humble hut, amid
the bamboo trees along with other huts,
such small below the thickset sylvan lid;
with fruit and meat enough to fill our guts.
The God had never forsook us, nor Ma
Godavari, the river pious and kind.
As sons of nature, heed to every law
she etched on woody reeves, with wind-pen signed.
The raising concrete walls, of river dam
well nigh to our dense jungle paradise
are like lifeless zombies ready to damn
our lives and raze down, this God-given prize.
Our woods don't swallow us, the rains don't pare,
the gales don't scare and river never seeps
into our blood. We're safe! The nature bare
is fair to us than well-dressed urban creeps.
Near dusk, the sun is dangling gracefully
in river's blissful lap as nascent moon
is growing high besieging the yonder lea.
It's four miles now...I reach my heaven soon.
Suddenly stopped my walk. I heard something,
not that familiar like the thudding moans
of falling trees, nor lightenings singing
the thunder songs, in husky baritones.
I stopped with a start and looked around. Oh my,
from dam, the dribbling down, strong water stream,
through cracks that widened like an evil eye
that started lunging down, with vengeful screams.
The dam is crumbling like a burn'g Phoenix
with water soaring up slashing at sky
as one giant tide, that looked like a raising Strix
with flapping wings ready to jump on pry.
I stood agape, spellbound, with sprinting chill
along my spine, as tides in gushing spree
devoured from grass meadows to verdant hills;
from little herbs to tallest banyan trees.
I slowly veered my eyes towards my dear
village. There's nothing mine, except a sheet
of water, leaving me alone with drear
heart beats thudding aloud the urbane deceit.
BROTHEL GIRL
What do you expect Punditji from me,
a brothel girl? I have the same from where
you came; that same crevice...oh don't you see?!
I wonder is that such a visual fare?!
You hanged the sacred thread on Bilwa bough
and slinked into my hut. That thread remains
sacred and body too you cleanse! But how
you think can scrub your soul off carnal stains?
You stepped into this vile threshold of vice
expecting something new from me...the taste
of flesh in folds of skin for joys of trice.
Same zest here, savor you, with stealthy haste.
I'm not well read O' priest! Forgive my lay
queries! I heard this worldly life came out
of Sacred Women's womb!? For you I lay
the same from which as well some life did sprout.
In spite of all penance you did, you're still
a human with wild rush of blood and yen
for quirky joys. But I'm a stoic by will,
a working flesh for coins in this dark den.
Like you I too have feelings none. No fresh
inklings for thrills. Mine just a business
and yours a whipping urge. My banal flesh
is moribund and numb by male grossness!
A born ascetic you're and me a trained
harlot. Your birth couldn't change your worldly needs
and my foul life couldn't mar my faith ingrained!
Let's churn this paradox to cream new meads.
Tell me something of other world's grandeur
and I teach you this world's veiled ugliness.
Discard your qualms O' desperate amor,
Let's bare ourselves with utter shamelessness!
(Bilwa: Indian bael or : Aegle marmelos. Considered as a sacred tree, so dear to Lord Shiva)
(Sacred thread: Yagnopaveetham: a thread wore by Hindus especially, Brahmin, Kshatriya and Vyshya castes at the time of initiation into Vedic Practices, just like baptism in christianity. The Initiation ceremony is known as Upanayanam (Upa: extra or additional; nayana: eye)
a brothel girl? I have the same from where
you came; that same crevice...oh don't you see?!
I wonder is that such a visual fare?!
You hanged the sacred thread on Bilwa bough
and slinked into my hut. That thread remains
sacred and body too you cleanse! But how
you think can scrub your soul off carnal stains?
You stepped into this vile threshold of vice
expecting something new from me...the taste
of flesh in folds of skin for joys of trice.
Same zest here, savor you, with stealthy haste.
I'm not well read O' priest! Forgive my lay
queries! I heard this worldly life came out
of Sacred Women's womb!? For you I lay
the same from which as well some life did sprout.
In spite of all penance you did, you're still
a human with wild rush of blood and yen
for quirky joys. But I'm a stoic by will,
a working flesh for coins in this dark den.
Like you I too have feelings none. No fresh
inklings for thrills. Mine just a business
and yours a whipping urge. My banal flesh
is moribund and numb by male grossness!
A born ascetic you're and me a trained
harlot. Your birth couldn't change your worldly needs
and my foul life couldn't mar my faith ingrained!
Let's churn this paradox to cream new meads.
Tell me something of other world's grandeur
and I teach you this world's veiled ugliness.
Discard your qualms O' desperate amor,
Let's bare ourselves with utter shamelessness!
(Bilwa: Indian bael or : Aegle marmelos. Considered as a sacred tree, so dear to Lord Shiva)
(Sacred thread: Yagnopaveetham: a thread wore by Hindus especially, Brahmin, Kshatriya and Vyshya castes at the time of initiation into Vedic Practices, just like baptism in christianity. The Initiation ceremony is known as Upanayanam (Upa: extra or additional; nayana: eye)
THE LEATHER JACKET
He's not looking sideways, that little boy
In long leather jacket. May be some eight
or nine in age with no traces of coy
Demeanor, puerile smiles and jerky gait.
Sans turning head he watched the people spere
Through streets, talking, laughing and nudging each
Other. He never saw women so near
sans veils in camp, that's far from civil reach.
All women he behold wear long izars;
But vague pictures of one...with gentle glee
And loving smiles on battered face with scars
So often flashes in his mind...Ammee!
Yes, Ammee died and he with them, amidst
The broken buildings, sometimes in bunkers
And often running through the nauseous mist
Of blowing bombs, hoping for life in blur.
The bruises still raw on chest, elbows
And knees aren't troubling him. He's used to pain
And learned to swallow screams. Those sharp cane blows
On back innured his skin and every vein.
He mused over jennat and seventy two
virgins always. "Whre're they?" The sky he scanned.
"What's meant by virgin?" Quietly wading through
The crowded streets he thought and reached the end.
He thought. "May be those virgins never wear
Izars. With brightened face exclaimed "Ammee!"
Yes one of them must be Ammee!" With care
He slid his hand inside and pressed the key!
In long leather jacket. May be some eight
or nine in age with no traces of coy
Demeanor, puerile smiles and jerky gait.
Sans turning head he watched the people spere
Through streets, talking, laughing and nudging each
Other. He never saw women so near
sans veils in camp, that's far from civil reach.
All women he behold wear long izars;
But vague pictures of one...with gentle glee
And loving smiles on battered face with scars
So often flashes in his mind...Ammee!
Yes, Ammee died and he with them, amidst
The broken buildings, sometimes in bunkers
And often running through the nauseous mist
Of blowing bombs, hoping for life in blur.
The bruises still raw on chest, elbows
And knees aren't troubling him. He's used to pain
And learned to swallow screams. Those sharp cane blows
On back innured his skin and every vein.
He mused over jennat and seventy two
virgins always. "Whre're they?" The sky he scanned.
"What's meant by virgin?" Quietly wading through
The crowded streets he thought and reached the end.
He thought. "May be those virgins never wear
Izars. With brightened face exclaimed "Ammee!"
Yes one of them must be Ammee!" With care
He slid his hand inside and pressed the key!
 | Ave Jeanne Ventresca (aka: ave jeanne) is the author of nine chapbooks of poetry that reflect social and environmental concerns. Her most recent collection, Noticing The Colors of Ordinary, was released in the summer of 2019. She edited the acclaimed literary magazine Black Bear Review, and served as publisher of Black Bear Publications for twenty years. Her award winning poetry (contemporary and Asian) has been widely published internationally within commercial and literary magazines, in print and online. Ave Jeanne was nominated for the Pushcart Prize for 2019. |
Envying The Ability of Mittens
woolen scarves and mittens sleep on the third shelf
of this old metal rack. they sit methodical, arranged
by size or perhaps by frequency of use. December air
floats through a crack in the window and just now
discarded letters creep across these cold floors.
resisting urges to climb back under sheets,
warm and friendly, i follow curiosity
and listen to voice mail that has been neglected.
strangers, friends, perhaps faded voices of lovers.
i attempt to avoid losing my smile, breathe in
the mirror’s reflection
and prepare for an arduous day that weighs
in front of me like the sound of hearts that beat
while at dance. now i awaken the scarf,
beckon the door to let me pass
and head towards Victoria Station to begin my walk.
under a heavy sun, through crowded streets, i avoid
all eyes of strangers as my boots carry me onto
the eager train. an American offers me a seat,
and my nod offers gratitude,
honest and humble. back and forth voices bounce,
each with a different accent that touches
my ears with interest. as another shiver arrives,
i wrap my coat around my achy legs,
open this weathered book
and read chapter nine, as not to waste time. yet my
thoughts jump back to the old metal rack
at home, with the scarves and mittens on the third shelf,
and i envy their ability to sleep warm and quiet
on this cold winter morning.
of this old metal rack. they sit methodical, arranged
by size or perhaps by frequency of use. December air
floats through a crack in the window and just now
discarded letters creep across these cold floors.
resisting urges to climb back under sheets,
warm and friendly, i follow curiosity
and listen to voice mail that has been neglected.
strangers, friends, perhaps faded voices of lovers.
i attempt to avoid losing my smile, breathe in
the mirror’s reflection
and prepare for an arduous day that weighs
in front of me like the sound of hearts that beat
while at dance. now i awaken the scarf,
beckon the door to let me pass
and head towards Victoria Station to begin my walk.
under a heavy sun, through crowded streets, i avoid
all eyes of strangers as my boots carry me onto
the eager train. an American offers me a seat,
and my nod offers gratitude,
honest and humble. back and forth voices bounce,
each with a different accent that touches
my ears with interest. as another shiver arrives,
i wrap my coat around my achy legs,
open this weathered book
and read chapter nine, as not to waste time. yet my
thoughts jump back to the old metal rack
at home, with the scarves and mittens on the third shelf,
and i envy their ability to sleep warm and quiet
on this cold winter morning.
OBSERVING HOPE / Portrait of a Refugee
his wife was not one to complain.
an ordinary person
who had crossed a border. only
a few dirty clothes in her bag, and a
picture in this frame, of a now
tattered childhood. but no complaining
did she exhale through her mouth. was it
because she didn’t understand the
new language
or because everything was
held deep below her skin, like an etching,
never to surface
from swollen clouds
of this new environment. the eyes
of numerous children she holds in her pink
cotton pockets. keeping
them safe and warm
until she needs to see them once again.
she knows all birds are free here,
they are not displaced
and that thought gives her
a few minute of courage.
it makes her one
who need not complain.
an ordinary person
who had crossed a border. only
a few dirty clothes in her bag, and a
picture in this frame, of a now
tattered childhood. but no complaining
did she exhale through her mouth. was it
because she didn’t understand the
new language
or because everything was
held deep below her skin, like an etching,
never to surface
from swollen clouds
of this new environment. the eyes
of numerous children she holds in her pink
cotton pockets. keeping
them safe and warm
until she needs to see them once again.
she knows all birds are free here,
they are not displaced
and that thought gives her
a few minute of courage.
it makes her one
who need not complain.
COLLAGE OF MANY COLORS / the occupation of death
death is an insatiable hero
whose occupation takes him
to far away places, nearby dreams
and twinkle lit towns
where these elderly bodies wait in shadow
with long tales of their childhood and
mismatched socks of red and brown. he rearranges
the way things look, mindful of
responsibility and passing seasons. removes
weeds from lush lawns, observes
dandelion and lily orange, to make it
his choice where new growth will appear.
he dashes through hospital wards,
selecting this or that in his path, designs
room for new arrivals. here, he is planting
disease and virus at will.
there is the constant
claim in silent forests, tall oak and willow
under silver moon notice his small silent changes
of design.
methodical maneuvers touch three act plays
where footsteps of soldiers come and go,
at fade and dissolution from some certain moment.
he will come for you and
me, like a paper wrapped package in the mail
to be opened with care
or returned with sender unknown.
whose occupation takes him
to far away places, nearby dreams
and twinkle lit towns
where these elderly bodies wait in shadow
with long tales of their childhood and
mismatched socks of red and brown. he rearranges
the way things look, mindful of
responsibility and passing seasons. removes
weeds from lush lawns, observes
dandelion and lily orange, to make it
his choice where new growth will appear.
he dashes through hospital wards,
selecting this or that in his path, designs
room for new arrivals. here, he is planting
disease and virus at will.
there is the constant
claim in silent forests, tall oak and willow
under silver moon notice his small silent changes
of design.
methodical maneuvers touch three act plays
where footsteps of soldiers come and go,
at fade and dissolution from some certain moment.
he will come for you and
me, like a paper wrapped package in the mail
to be opened with care
or returned with sender unknown.
SUMMER SNAPSHOT/ random events
chance is a moldable clay
that we can form into geometrical
shapes, relevant or undesirable. it can
conform to a class system, rigid and taunt
or politician’s thoughts, flammable and raw.
it could attempt some resemblance to
long ago dreams
of past warriors and turn self into a child’s toy
friendly and soft of color. we can
take chances or leave them to
sleep quietly in a wooden drawer. we
rely on hope, that
we aren’t struck by lightning during
an unscheduled storm. we can toss icy
dice its way, and gamble out our decades,
one by one. toss relationships in an email,
strain to predict
the winning numbers of the lottery, but still this
screen saver remains the same, predetermined
by some now sleeping designer.
that we can form into geometrical
shapes, relevant or undesirable. it can
conform to a class system, rigid and taunt
or politician’s thoughts, flammable and raw.
it could attempt some resemblance to
long ago dreams
of past warriors and turn self into a child’s toy
friendly and soft of color. we can
take chances or leave them to
sleep quietly in a wooden drawer. we
rely on hope, that
we aren’t struck by lightning during
an unscheduled storm. we can toss icy
dice its way, and gamble out our decades,
one by one. toss relationships in an email,
strain to predict
the winning numbers of the lottery, but still this
screen saver remains the same, predetermined
by some now sleeping designer.
Her Recipe For Chiffon Cake From 1942
right before each contented
sunrise, is the only hour of day
she will leave this humble cottage.
her apron carries assorted things.
she spies and gathers them
gingerly during her walk,
but the weight doesn't slow
her optimistic steps. she has
strategies for doing it the
right way, ideas about
familiar gardens,
recipes to create a little happiness
and the lightest chiffon cakes.
ten days before the baking
she stashes whites of her eggs,
places them into a traditional bowl.
covers the vessel methodically
with anticipation. suddenly the air
carries faint smells of gas
from the nearby sleeping city. it
replaces aromas of grass, earth
and her footsteps, animals that she
welcomed, all without sweeping any
away from her sight. but
bombs don't discriminate. their
killings and swift destruction
cannot categorize
homes, eggs, fields of corn, or the
last uttered phrases from faces. so in this
moment all is gone. she does not
return to her cottage warm, to
add her tenth egg and her newfound
berries to the kitchen, to sit
by a fire and listen to clear voices
of her memory. today,
i follow the steps from mom’s recipes
at need for her chiffon cake with the many
egg whites. and as licks of this batter
reach my lips, only sad is to taste
sunrise, is the only hour of day
she will leave this humble cottage.
her apron carries assorted things.
she spies and gathers them
gingerly during her walk,
but the weight doesn't slow
her optimistic steps. she has
strategies for doing it the
right way, ideas about
familiar gardens,
recipes to create a little happiness
and the lightest chiffon cakes.
ten days before the baking
she stashes whites of her eggs,
places them into a traditional bowl.
covers the vessel methodically
with anticipation. suddenly the air
carries faint smells of gas
from the nearby sleeping city. it
replaces aromas of grass, earth
and her footsteps, animals that she
welcomed, all without sweeping any
away from her sight. but
bombs don't discriminate. their
killings and swift destruction
cannot categorize
homes, eggs, fields of corn, or the
last uttered phrases from faces. so in this
moment all is gone. she does not
return to her cottage warm, to
add her tenth egg and her newfound
berries to the kitchen, to sit
by a fire and listen to clear voices
of her memory. today,
i follow the steps from mom’s recipes
at need for her chiffon cake with the many
egg whites. and as licks of this batter
reach my lips, only sad is to taste
 | Francis Fernandes grew up in the US and Canada. He studied in Montréal and has a degree in Mathematics. Since spring 2020, his writing has appeared in over twenty literary journals, including Amethyst Review, Indolent Books, Third Wednesday, Montréal Writes, Underwood, Little Death Lit, Pace Magazine, Modern Poetry Quarterly Review, Defenestration Magazine, Saint Katherine Review, Front Porch Journal, and several others. He lives in Frankfurt, Germany, where he writes and teaches. |
Blinded
The sun is still summer hot
– sort of – although her slant
tells you all there is to know.
I like to dwell on the good stuff,
our history isn't that old.
Not everyone agrees, but that's
how it is. I wish I could look
the other way, like I used to
from the concern of my father's
frown. He was never sure
I would make it in this world:
me who always missed cinch
fly balls and forgot to tag up
with less than two outs.
These days you can't see the hills
for all the smoke. One mustn't
mistake the heat of the fire
for the early dawn's mist,
it isn't quite appropriate.
Speaking of which,
if you have to ask whether
a system can be racist, then
apparently you're not getting
the point. Now, like me, you may
not be a person of colour,
nor exactly white, maybe just
a bunch of anxious atoms
jostling in between, but times
they're out of joint and some
lines they're hard to see,
drawn by the spite in people's
hearts, real people with bright
coloured spoons and stocks
stuck up their derrières.
Or maybe not. Maybe they're just
out of a job and fed up that
the colour of void inside their
wallets is getting short shrift,
and a girl from Stockholm hailed
as the Second Coming while
someone's brother's being
stoned for defending his job.
I can't see how the year
will close: it's like, everything
is up for grabs and despoiling,
and nothing worth toiling for
anymore. As for us, what can I say?
Still foolish enough to hang around
September, watching the sun roam
across the sky like a lazy pop up –
smooth, sweet, and just left of center.
– sort of – although her slant
tells you all there is to know.
I like to dwell on the good stuff,
our history isn't that old.
Not everyone agrees, but that's
how it is. I wish I could look
the other way, like I used to
from the concern of my father's
frown. He was never sure
I would make it in this world:
me who always missed cinch
fly balls and forgot to tag up
with less than two outs.
These days you can't see the hills
for all the smoke. One mustn't
mistake the heat of the fire
for the early dawn's mist,
it isn't quite appropriate.
Speaking of which,
if you have to ask whether
a system can be racist, then
apparently you're not getting
the point. Now, like me, you may
not be a person of colour,
nor exactly white, maybe just
a bunch of anxious atoms
jostling in between, but times
they're out of joint and some
lines they're hard to see,
drawn by the spite in people's
hearts, real people with bright
coloured spoons and stocks
stuck up their derrières.
Or maybe not. Maybe they're just
out of a job and fed up that
the colour of void inside their
wallets is getting short shrift,
and a girl from Stockholm hailed
as the Second Coming while
someone's brother's being
stoned for defending his job.
I can't see how the year
will close: it's like, everything
is up for grabs and despoiling,
and nothing worth toiling for
anymore. As for us, what can I say?
Still foolish enough to hang around
September, watching the sun roam
across the sky like a lazy pop up –
smooth, sweet, and just left of center.
Chris Durand's work has appeared in Literary Yard and California Quarterly. He works as a paralegal in Chattanooga, Tennessee.
Sanity
Age erases madness’ traces;
Having lived it all before,
There’s no need to live it more –
Learned like tying your shoelaces.
Agony makes maturity,
Crystalizing empathy,
Binding growing humanity
In bonds of rationality.
Having lived it all before,
There’s no need to live it more –
Learned like tying your shoelaces.
Agony makes maturity,
Crystalizing empathy,
Binding growing humanity
In bonds of rationality.
Trod
Holy is the going.
There is grace in it.
Dark we think is showing,
But a flame is lit.
Holy fire streaming
To the heart of God
Where His love is teaming
Are we once life is trod.
There is grace in it.
Dark we think is showing,
But a flame is lit.
Holy fire streaming
To the heart of God
Where His love is teaming
Are we once life is trod.
Sleep
Night’s alighted from far off,
Bidding me to bed.
Patient are my pillows soft,
Soon to hold my head.
I release the cares of day.
Sleep will rule the night.
Safe in dreams till dawn I’ll stay,
Waking to daylight.
Bidding me to bed.
Patient are my pillows soft,
Soon to hold my head.
I release the cares of day.
Sleep will rule the night.
Safe in dreams till dawn I’ll stay,
Waking to daylight.
Christ
Shine blindingly,
Winding worlds about You.
What is life without You?
You are like the sun.
Done.
Gone is dark forever.
Holding hands together,
All the wars are won.
God,
Everywhere about us,
Never is without us.
With Him we are one.
Winding worlds about You.
What is life without You?
You are like the sun.
Done.
Gone is dark forever.
Holding hands together,
All the wars are won.
God,
Everywhere about us,
Never is without us.
With Him we are one.
The Best Comes
Racing, facing wonders chasing
Us as evidence the Light
Blazes into this creation
Into form from brilliant white,
We can see the glories pacing
Sprinter-like to whisk the night
Off till daylight fills the nation,
Gifting us a future bright.
Us as evidence the Light
Blazes into this creation
Into form from brilliant white,
We can see the glories pacing
Sprinter-like to whisk the night
Off till daylight fills the nation,
Gifting us a future bright.
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