Parachute eclectic wings spread like prop roots of the banyan tree. each drop refracts memories, and the eye grows light. an inner cave opens into a life-giving parachute. Lost Againviscous dreams hibiscus roots swallow within. voyage? a discovery? lost and found, then again lost! nose spasms. The Turbulence Within |
Wayne J. Keeley is a practicing media attorney, author, professor, producer and director. He has produced, written, and directed award winning documentaries, commercials and educational programs, in addition to screenplays, stage plays, and teleplays. He is a five time Emmy nominee and two-time Emmy winner. He is the author of the legal thriller, Mahogany Row and the audiobook The Titanic Chronicles. Together with his Emmy nominated wife and muse, they have co-authored the novel Going All In and Deadraiser. They also co-produced, wrote and directed several off-off Broadway plays and have a feature film, The History of Everything F/K/A Kissy Cousins Monster Babies on the festival circuit which will soon be distributed nationally. More information on Mr. Keeley's Background can be found on his wikipedia page https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wayne_Keeley or his IMDB page https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0444544/?ref_=pro_nm_visitcons |
BONE YARD
Granite markers chiseled
With bold face lies
Erroneous, encapsulated descriptions
BELOVED SON – TAKEN FROM US TOO SOON
Ha! A junkie and thief was he who
Drove his parents to divorce and despair
BELOVED GRANDFATHER
A notorious panderer, philanderer and adulterer
BELOVED GRANDMOTHER
The bestowed moniker could have been earlier
Were it not for the abortion at sixteen
BELOVED FATHER
Who was a raging, abusive alcoholic to everyone around him
BELOVED AUNT AND UNCLE
An incompatible, loveless, fruitless union, coupled only in inaction and denial
BELOVED DAUGHTER
Consumed and denigrated by the dark demons of anxiety and depression until
She could no longer endure
AND best for last
BELOVED MOTHER
In name only, an egg donor, no patience or love to give, wire hanger strict
Whose remorseless and cold heartedness now reign supreme
In Dante’s most frigid level of Hell
Stone tablets liveried in false facades
That neither signify the end of Sound nor the End of Fury
But rather the idiotic mendacity buried be beneath.
With bold face lies
Erroneous, encapsulated descriptions
BELOVED SON – TAKEN FROM US TOO SOON
Ha! A junkie and thief was he who
Drove his parents to divorce and despair
BELOVED GRANDFATHER
A notorious panderer, philanderer and adulterer
BELOVED GRANDMOTHER
The bestowed moniker could have been earlier
Were it not for the abortion at sixteen
BELOVED FATHER
Who was a raging, abusive alcoholic to everyone around him
BELOVED AUNT AND UNCLE
An incompatible, loveless, fruitless union, coupled only in inaction and denial
BELOVED DAUGHTER
Consumed and denigrated by the dark demons of anxiety and depression until
She could no longer endure
AND best for last
BELOVED MOTHER
In name only, an egg donor, no patience or love to give, wire hanger strict
Whose remorseless and cold heartedness now reign supreme
In Dante’s most frigid level of Hell
Stone tablets liveried in false facades
That neither signify the end of Sound nor the End of Fury
But rather the idiotic mendacity buried be beneath.
THE ACTOR
alone I stood
apron ahead
boards and polished wood
‘neath my tread
tonight I will be more than me
liveried in bold armor with a new persona
for all my friends, enemies and critics to see
I must prepare for the battle ahead
by conquering the myriad and confusing lines
caroming around in my head
and for a brief span of time
I will fight to the death
in synch and in rhyme
after the final volley is over
the last claps of thunder diminish
now laid bare without disguise or cover
my part in the sun will be finished
strength and reserves depleted
I will return to just being me
naked, vulnerable, but not defeated
apron ahead
boards and polished wood
‘neath my tread
tonight I will be more than me
liveried in bold armor with a new persona
for all my friends, enemies and critics to see
I must prepare for the battle ahead
by conquering the myriad and confusing lines
caroming around in my head
and for a brief span of time
I will fight to the death
in synch and in rhyme
after the final volley is over
the last claps of thunder diminish
now laid bare without disguise or cover
my part in the sun will be finished
strength and reserves depleted
I will return to just being me
naked, vulnerable, but not defeated
BLACK DOG
he was sitting there, on his haunches
at the foot of my
bed
his short cropped black fur
was sleek and hoary in the moonlight
that
dared to shine on his countenance
mouth closed, shielding the deadly
daggers
for now
he was patient
oh so patient
waiting to launch
to
devour
to conquer
and so I pretended to sleep
at the foot of my
bed
his short cropped black fur
was sleek and hoary in the moonlight
that
dared to shine on his countenance
mouth closed, shielding the deadly
daggers
for now
he was patient
oh so patient
waiting to launch
to
devour
to conquer
and so I pretended to sleep
Duchenne DAD
Same Hair
Same eyes
Same dimples
Same quirky mannerisms
Same taste in music
But not mirrored reflections
Distanced by years and states of health
And the hovering shadow of Death since birth
Conjoined souls, bonded by blood, DNA and memories
When music’s untimely notes end for one
It ends for both
Same eyes
Same dimples
Same quirky mannerisms
Same taste in music
But not mirrored reflections
Distanced by years and states of health
And the hovering shadow of Death since birth
Conjoined souls, bonded by blood, DNA and memories
When music’s untimely notes end for one
It ends for both
Soft Comes the Dawn
Soft comes the dawn,
Stealing quietly over the earth,
Usurping its predecessor with
All the assurance of a triumphant
Gladiator
And you, like the infant sun,
Usher in a ray of light where
None had existed before;
Dispelling the lonely night with
Your warmth until darkness itself
Is forced to succumb
Soft came you into my life
Slowly, like the dawn as it emerges
Into full brilliance
Did I become aware of you…
Stealing quietly over the earth,
Usurping its predecessor with
All the assurance of a triumphant
Gladiator
And you, like the infant sun,
Usher in a ray of light where
None had existed before;
Dispelling the lonely night with
Your warmth until darkness itself
Is forced to succumb
Soft came you into my life
Slowly, like the dawn as it emerges
Into full brilliance
Did I become aware of you…
WAITING AT THE DMV
Sitting at the DMV waiting to renew my driver’s license, fiftieth in the queue
Thinking of all the wasted moments, all the things I could and would be doing
No Nook, book, Kindle or extant newspapers and magazines to kill time
Constantly refreshing my phone and trying to connect to a non-existent wi-fi
There were worse things in life than waiting in line for forty-five people at the DMV
Going to the dentist was worse of course than being now number forty-three
Drinking that bitter, foul tasting liquid laxative the night before a colonoscopy
Sure, there were worse things than sitting, watching and waiting
Like accidentally sharting and soiling your underwear thirty thousand
Feet in the air on a non-stop flight to the coast was much worse
Feeling your head brush the underside of a toilet rim as you purge
The last three shots you consumed at your buddy’s bachelor party
While vowing on your dead grandmother’s soul you’ll never drink again
Was a hell of a lot worse than being thirty-six in line
Tick tock, tick, tock, tic tock, watching the clock
Suddenly completely understanding Einstein’s
Theory of Relativity that time moves more slowly
In governmental facilities than the outside world
Now twenty-nine in line and still not feeling fine
Why do you never see celebrities at the DMV?
Bradley Cooper and Lady Gaga must drive after all
Almost to the teens when a booming masculine voice
Calls out a greeting to the elderly lady in red in front of me
“Helen!” says he, “long time, no see.”
As big as the real Sasquatch, he sits next to her
His wide girth and buttocks covering two seats
He relays his condolences and apology
For missing her husband’s funeral a year ago
Heart attack followed by massive stroke
I was into the single digits when Bigfoot
Asked about her youngest son
Killed himself. Depression over
His father’s death, a felony conviction
And not being able to get a job
If he had just hung on, his conviction
Was overturned on appeal
He asked about her eldest son
Whom he had coached as a kid
Pancreatic cancer, gone in two months
An incredulous, anguished moan
From the behemoth beside her
She was a few numbers ahead of me
When she said she just
Finished chemotherapy
Breast Cancer
Her number was up
She strode up to the desk
Smiled and chatted to the clerk
She was still smiling as she
Turned and left,
I didn’t care
About waiting
Any
More.
Thinking of all the wasted moments, all the things I could and would be doing
No Nook, book, Kindle or extant newspapers and magazines to kill time
Constantly refreshing my phone and trying to connect to a non-existent wi-fi
There were worse things in life than waiting in line for forty-five people at the DMV
Going to the dentist was worse of course than being now number forty-three
Drinking that bitter, foul tasting liquid laxative the night before a colonoscopy
Sure, there were worse things than sitting, watching and waiting
Like accidentally sharting and soiling your underwear thirty thousand
Feet in the air on a non-stop flight to the coast was much worse
Feeling your head brush the underside of a toilet rim as you purge
The last three shots you consumed at your buddy’s bachelor party
While vowing on your dead grandmother’s soul you’ll never drink again
Was a hell of a lot worse than being thirty-six in line
Tick tock, tick, tock, tic tock, watching the clock
Suddenly completely understanding Einstein’s
Theory of Relativity that time moves more slowly
In governmental facilities than the outside world
Now twenty-nine in line and still not feeling fine
Why do you never see celebrities at the DMV?
Bradley Cooper and Lady Gaga must drive after all
Almost to the teens when a booming masculine voice
Calls out a greeting to the elderly lady in red in front of me
“Helen!” says he, “long time, no see.”
As big as the real Sasquatch, he sits next to her
His wide girth and buttocks covering two seats
He relays his condolences and apology
For missing her husband’s funeral a year ago
Heart attack followed by massive stroke
I was into the single digits when Bigfoot
Asked about her youngest son
Killed himself. Depression over
His father’s death, a felony conviction
And not being able to get a job
If he had just hung on, his conviction
Was overturned on appeal
He asked about her eldest son
Whom he had coached as a kid
Pancreatic cancer, gone in two months
An incredulous, anguished moan
From the behemoth beside her
She was a few numbers ahead of me
When she said she just
Finished chemotherapy
Breast Cancer
Her number was up
She strode up to the desk
Smiled and chatted to the clerk
She was still smiling as she
Turned and left,
I didn’t care
About waiting
Any
More.
Sibanda is the author of Love O’clock, The Dead Must Be Sobbing and Football of Fools. Ndaba Sibanda`s work is featured in The New Shoots Anthology, The Van Gogh Anthology edited by Catfish McDaris and Dr. Marc Pietrzykowski, Eternal Snow, A Worldwide Anthology of One Hundred Poetic Intersections with Himalayan Poet Yuyutsu RD Sharma scheduled for publication in Spring/Summer 2017 by Nirala Press and Seeing Beyond the Surface Volume II. |
Just A Jostling Village
they live in a village far from the city of madness
they have only ever been to the seaside
next to the city twice but their lunacies
and absurdities far outnumber
those of ten crazy cities
one can ever imagine
they say they do not want to live in a city
where police stations are robbed every day--
where marriage counsellors are in the habit
of filing for divorce, where working is not working for many--
where flameproof fire stations have an appetite for burning down--
where purity is as clear as mud, where love is cash, poverty is worthy!
where normalcy is as sweet as seeing pregnant virgins high on the pill!
they have only ever been to the seaside
next to the city twice but their lunacies
and absurdities far outnumber
those of ten crazy cities
one can ever imagine
they say they do not want to live in a city
where police stations are robbed every day--
where marriage counsellors are in the habit
of filing for divorce, where working is not working for many--
where flameproof fire stations have an appetite for burning down--
where purity is as clear as mud, where love is cash, poverty is worthy!
where normalcy is as sweet as seeing pregnant virgins high on the pill!
A Tale Of Abuses And Lies And Ruins
When lying is pathological and pathetic
Redemption is an inaccessible destination
When the sanctity of life is an unsung song
Whilst repression runs hell-ward on the guitar
And women are raped by security personnel
Detect the odor of disorder and damage there!
When citizens are sacrificed and sliced into silence
Alongside with the country and care and the constitution
Know that such impunity is the hand of decay and doom
Higher is Humanity because it cannot shed tears that are fluent
In pampering and patting and sugarcoating wickedness and folly
Deception dines with pride and lies and absurdities as if it has the licence
To fool or ruin forever but such delusions cannot lull loving Justice into silence
For such savagery typifies gross violations of human rights and civilisation itself
Redemption is an inaccessible destination
When the sanctity of life is an unsung song
Whilst repression runs hell-ward on the guitar
And women are raped by security personnel
Detect the odor of disorder and damage there!
When citizens are sacrificed and sliced into silence
Alongside with the country and care and the constitution
Know that such impunity is the hand of decay and doom
Higher is Humanity because it cannot shed tears that are fluent
In pampering and patting and sugarcoating wickedness and folly
Deception dines with pride and lies and absurdities as if it has the licence
To fool or ruin forever but such delusions cannot lull loving Justice into silence
For such savagery typifies gross violations of human rights and civilisation itself
That Too Shall Pass Or Be Tamed
the water rarely flew slowly, softly, sweetly or soothingly
often the stones were rummaged and roughed and rolled on
many a time they were hauled along, and if ever they shrieked
no one heard them, or cared or the voice of the flowing water
did what it did—danced and drowned their pleas and whispers
now and then they were covered in sand, singing in silence
pebbles were like positive people progressing and pleading
in spite of lives ‘staircased’ with slippery dryness and soreness
their bodies subject to disease, decay, decline and even death
but the magnificence and resilience of their hopes roaring on
the stream sang its way across the hills and anthills after a torrent
the shrubs and grasses bustled with life, their smiles merry and exultant
at night the lightning had leered at the village, sending shivers down its spine
the wind had stalked and hissed through yards, driving sheets to gripe and grieve
bullied by deadly droughts before ,the souls were set to thread the path of plenty
often the stones were rummaged and roughed and rolled on
many a time they were hauled along, and if ever they shrieked
no one heard them, or cared or the voice of the flowing water
did what it did—danced and drowned their pleas and whispers
now and then they were covered in sand, singing in silence
pebbles were like positive people progressing and pleading
in spite of lives ‘staircased’ with slippery dryness and soreness
their bodies subject to disease, decay, decline and even death
but the magnificence and resilience of their hopes roaring on
the stream sang its way across the hills and anthills after a torrent
the shrubs and grasses bustled with life, their smiles merry and exultant
at night the lightning had leered at the village, sending shivers down its spine
the wind had stalked and hissed through yards, driving sheets to gripe and grieve
bullied by deadly droughts before ,the souls were set to thread the path of plenty
Let Today Smooth Into A Ruddier Tomorrow
he confided in me and confessed to you
that you added salt and herbs
to his life on this earth
he admitted that you added flavouring
to his thoughts and dreams
and made life spicy and worthy
you once told me it was your wish
to spice up his walk on this earth
and crown him your happy hubby
you ululated when he arrived
your heart had wings that flapped
without fail into your own realm
you did because you turned
his nightmares into reveries
his frowns into oceanic smiles
a king and a queen the two were
there was a streamlet of grace
and a rainfall of glee, go girl !
you were a fantastic twosome
together you cruised & conquered
with your love you climbed scenic peaks
in you I caught the sweet music of a river
its water flowing, crooning, coddling
a tributary , a torrent, a watercourse
when his happiness greeted your heart
I caught sight of your salt and pepper
in action—your oak of love seasoning
that was my take, my reasoning then
till he claimed you turned his dreams
and thoughts---his walk into a horror!
now you tell me he too turned
your therapy into tragedy--
your walk into a wasted war!
now who wants to be in the shoes
of this shrink who is probing this puzzle
till his head is a hairless horror itself?!
part of me says :walk away from war girl
yet another tells me to tell you:
let today mellow into a rosier tomorrow
that you added salt and herbs
to his life on this earth
he admitted that you added flavouring
to his thoughts and dreams
and made life spicy and worthy
you once told me it was your wish
to spice up his walk on this earth
and crown him your happy hubby
you ululated when he arrived
your heart had wings that flapped
without fail into your own realm
you did because you turned
his nightmares into reveries
his frowns into oceanic smiles
a king and a queen the two were
there was a streamlet of grace
and a rainfall of glee, go girl !
you were a fantastic twosome
together you cruised & conquered
with your love you climbed scenic peaks
in you I caught the sweet music of a river
its water flowing, crooning, coddling
a tributary , a torrent, a watercourse
when his happiness greeted your heart
I caught sight of your salt and pepper
in action—your oak of love seasoning
that was my take, my reasoning then
till he claimed you turned his dreams
and thoughts---his walk into a horror!
now you tell me he too turned
your therapy into tragedy--
your walk into a wasted war!
now who wants to be in the shoes
of this shrink who is probing this puzzle
till his head is a hairless horror itself?!
part of me says :walk away from war girl
yet another tells me to tell you:
let today mellow into a rosier tomorrow
Kristen lives in the majestic Rocky Mountains of Colorado. She holds a B.A. in Psychology and received her Master’s Degree in Creative Writing, with an emphasis in Poetry, in March of 2019. With her lyrical and melodic poetry, Kristen aims to help others who are struggling, to feel less alone. Growing up as the only child of a drug- and alcohol-addicted single mother, Kristen can relate to and empathize with those who have faced adversity. She hopes to use her writing to change the world for the better, and help individuals who are hurting to find their voice, as well as the silver-lining and opportunity for growth that exists within every traumatic experience. Follow Kristen on her Penned.It.True Instagram and Facebook pages for more poetry and positivity. Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/penned.it.true/?hl=en Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Kristen.Marie.Flannery/?ref=your_pages |
“Please, Mom”: A Message About Addiction
I have so much to say. I think of you every single day. For your health and well-being, I constantly pray. Are you really okay with never speaking to your only child again, just because I want you to get the help that you need to live? I know your addictions have taken ahold of your head. I know sometimes it feels like you’d be better off dead. I know how this all feels myself. I know it much too well. You see, I know because I too have been through that hell. It feels like your head is being held underwater, floundering in the depths. And the moment right before you drown, you’re let up for a breath. Only to realize that death might have felt better that living the life you live. Please mom, don’t give up your will to live. I still need you even though I’m not a kid. No matter how long you are away or gone, I will never forget our favorite songs. No matter how long it remains this way, I won’t give up hope for a brighter day. Please know that I do not always think of what you’ve done wrong. And no matter how long it has been, I always hope to see you again. I have all along. I just want you to love and respect yourself like you really should. I just want you to be the woman I’ve always known you could. Because you’ve actually instilled so much kindness and good in me, I know that this kindness and good can be found inside of you, too, you see. So please just stop putting yourself and everyone else through this hell. Please mom, please! I’m down on my knees begging you to please, just get well. Even if you need professional help, there is absolutely no shame in that. Many people need help from those who know best, and that is a fact. But the time we are losing … the time you are losing … you cannot get back. So I’m begging you to do what you need in order to change that. Before you are gone. Before it’s too late. Before your addictions have sealed your fate. I love you mom, and I’m begging you over and over again. Please come back. Please don’t let this be the end.
My Name
My name is strong,
my name is sane,
but after you, my name
will never be the same.
You took my innocence,
you took all of my trust,
you left me in such pain,
you made everything change.
You forced yourself on me
while I cried out in vain,
even though I told you to stop,
even though I screamed “no!”
Over and over again, I protested
as my tears poured down like rain,
but you continued to defile me
until at last, you finally came.
My pleas fell on deaf ears, inhumane,
as you ripped off all of my clothes,
as you did whatever you pleased,
as you left me shaking on my knees.
I felt my heart fall to the floor,
I knew then, I was not me anymore.
I knew then, nothing would ever
again be what it had been before.
You can fill me full of disdain
due to your inability to restrain
from your urges, you can’t refrain,
but my heart you will not enchain.
I’ll never let your demons be mine.
I’ll never let you fill me with shame,
and I’ll never let you take my name.
NO! I’ll never let you take my name!
my name is sane,
but after you, my name
will never be the same.
You took my innocence,
you took all of my trust,
you left me in such pain,
you made everything change.
You forced yourself on me
while I cried out in vain,
even though I told you to stop,
even though I screamed “no!”
Over and over again, I protested
as my tears poured down like rain,
but you continued to defile me
until at last, you finally came.
My pleas fell on deaf ears, inhumane,
as you ripped off all of my clothes,
as you did whatever you pleased,
as you left me shaking on my knees.
I felt my heart fall to the floor,
I knew then, I was not me anymore.
I knew then, nothing would ever
again be what it had been before.
You can fill me full of disdain
due to your inability to restrain
from your urges, you can’t refrain,
but my heart you will not enchain.
I’ll never let your demons be mine.
I’ll never let you fill me with shame,
and I’ll never let you take my name.
NO! I’ll never let you take my name!
Lost Childhood
Hello there, little girl,
why do your eyes shine
with all of those tears?
Has your mother left you
here all alone again, while
she’s out drinking beers?
Alone to sit and wonder if
she’ll ever return, or end
up in a county jail cell again?
While you cower on the
corner of your little bed
hoping no one breaks in.
Most days you know she
will eventually return, it’s
just love for you she will lack.
It’s as if you aren’t even there,
as if you were never born,
it feels like she doesn’t care.
Your tiny heart, it breaks as you
cry, pace, and wait, for every time
she stumbles through the front door.
One day you will come to understand,
my sweet girl, that she is this way not
because of a lack of love for you –
But because of the gut wrenching
fact that she herself is about to break
from years of hatred and heartache.
why do your eyes shine
with all of those tears?
Has your mother left you
here all alone again, while
she’s out drinking beers?
Alone to sit and wonder if
she’ll ever return, or end
up in a county jail cell again?
While you cower on the
corner of your little bed
hoping no one breaks in.
Most days you know she
will eventually return, it’s
just love for you she will lack.
It’s as if you aren’t even there,
as if you were never born,
it feels like she doesn’t care.
Your tiny heart, it breaks as you
cry, pace, and wait, for every time
she stumbles through the front door.
One day you will come to understand,
my sweet girl, that she is this way not
because of a lack of love for you –
But because of the gut wrenching
fact that she herself is about to break
from years of hatred and heartache.
Moving In Reverse
I’m moving in reverse
from this wicked curse.
The things you are to me
refuse to let me be free.
I’m lucky that I’m clever,
or I wouldn’t know better
I’d believe the same old
lies that I’ve been told.
But kindly unspoken,
you show your emotion
And silence speaks so
much louder than words.
from this wicked curse.
The things you are to me
refuse to let me be free.
I’m lucky that I’m clever,
or I wouldn’t know better
I’d believe the same old
lies that I’ve been told.
But kindly unspoken,
you show your emotion
And silence speaks so
much louder than words.
The Wild
I come from the wild, from a place
that you could never understand.
I grew up all alone because you
were never there to hold my hand.
The night sky was stark and so black,
bleak days waiting for you to recover
were far too often long and love lacked.
I walked to school and back each day, just
to come home, only to always sit there alone.
Because I come from the wild, I come from
a place that you’ll never know, but somehow
I still found this place to be beautiful, our
beautifully broken home, but you never did
believe that was so, and I decided I had to go.
that you could never understand.
I grew up all alone because you
were never there to hold my hand.
The night sky was stark and so black,
bleak days waiting for you to recover
were far too often long and love lacked.
I walked to school and back each day, just
to come home, only to always sit there alone.
Because I come from the wild, I come from
a place that you’ll never know, but somehow
I still found this place to be beautiful, our
beautifully broken home, but you never did
believe that was so, and I decided I had to go.
Erica Michaels Hollander, Ph.D., J.D., practiced civil trial law and litigation for 33 years. She was a member of the bar in New York, California, Nevada and Colorado and admitted to practice before the U.S. Supreme Court. She holds a Ph.D. in Human Communication Studies from the University of Denver and taught Public Speaking, Argument, Persuasion, Freedom of Speech and other topics at Metropolitan State University. She has also worked in and directed programs in prejudice reduction and leadership for the National Conference on Community and Justice. She trained in Psychodrama, Sociometry and Group Psychotherapy with Associates for Community Interaction in the San Francisco Bay area and is now a nationally certified Trainer Educator Practitioner (T.E.P.) of the American Board of Examiners in Psychodrama, Sociometry and Group Psychotherapy. She has taught at Old College School of Law, University of Nevada, Reno School of Continuing Education, Metropolitan State College in Denver, Red Rocks Community College and the University of Denver. She has published in law reviews and journals, as well as in psychology and poetry. She paints and caters to the World’s Foremost Dog.
WALKING POEM
I put on my blue hiking boots while getting my face well licked, and
We go find the harness for the pooch. It involves careful stepping into
Which must be followed by strapping on the fanny pack full of supplies--
Baggies, water, folding water dish, treats, bear spray, handkerchief,
Glasses---outside the jacket, (evenings add neon green reflective vest,)
With warm hat and gloves this season, and maybe even yak trax.
Wag, wag, wag, wag, wag.
We mosey out into the neighborhood, linked by a wholly irrelevant leash,
Since we would never never part on purpose, and
In the correct order of things, I must lead the way,
Perhaps passing some browsing ungulates on the driveway.
We bark at no one.
A little business is done and our walking resumes,
Wag, wag, wag, wag, wag.
Moving on to the pathway that runs amongst grasses,
Oregon grape, scrub oak, fallen leaves. Crunching. Lots of things to sniff,
Scattered everywhere in patches of snow,
On the curves of small hillsides. Sometimes we cross paths
With others on their constitutionals--
Ken, his hat with earflaps, and his coat-wearing Vizsla,
Sandy with her fisherman’s hat and Bella the friendly lab,
And a slim young woman we know only
As the stout, self-important French bulldog pup’s mom.
Wag, wag, wag, wag, wag,
How happy we are to see them out, too.
If cold wind blows strong I urge that sniffing be shorter,
And I can most often prevent much backtracking,
But sometimes things are in the air that simply demand address.
In most cases, we pee on those to mark our passage
And our ownership. We go up to a point and loop back,
Stopping to practice sitting and staying, punctuated by treats.
More business is accomplished, more marks made.
Wag, wag, wag, wag, wag.
We return home to dispense praise and treats and
Look adoringly at one another, and
Congratulate ourselves on all we have done this morning.
We go find the harness for the pooch. It involves careful stepping into
Which must be followed by strapping on the fanny pack full of supplies--
Baggies, water, folding water dish, treats, bear spray, handkerchief,
Glasses---outside the jacket, (evenings add neon green reflective vest,)
With warm hat and gloves this season, and maybe even yak trax.
Wag, wag, wag, wag, wag.
We mosey out into the neighborhood, linked by a wholly irrelevant leash,
Since we would never never part on purpose, and
In the correct order of things, I must lead the way,
Perhaps passing some browsing ungulates on the driveway.
We bark at no one.
A little business is done and our walking resumes,
Wag, wag, wag, wag, wag.
Moving on to the pathway that runs amongst grasses,
Oregon grape, scrub oak, fallen leaves. Crunching. Lots of things to sniff,
Scattered everywhere in patches of snow,
On the curves of small hillsides. Sometimes we cross paths
With others on their constitutionals--
Ken, his hat with earflaps, and his coat-wearing Vizsla,
Sandy with her fisherman’s hat and Bella the friendly lab,
And a slim young woman we know only
As the stout, self-important French bulldog pup’s mom.
Wag, wag, wag, wag, wag,
How happy we are to see them out, too.
If cold wind blows strong I urge that sniffing be shorter,
And I can most often prevent much backtracking,
But sometimes things are in the air that simply demand address.
In most cases, we pee on those to mark our passage
And our ownership. We go up to a point and loop back,
Stopping to practice sitting and staying, punctuated by treats.
More business is accomplished, more marks made.
Wag, wag, wag, wag, wag.
We return home to dispense praise and treats and
Look adoringly at one another, and
Congratulate ourselves on all we have done this morning.
This is not my country poem
This place looks like home, but It’s not my country.
My old country was far from perfect, but
We tried to do the right thing when we could.
My country was welcoming
And offered safety to the dispossessed.
It used to strive toward toward its own betterment.
It treasured difference and measured human worth
in contribution, not in fame, dollars or deceit.
It honored service and recognized what
Was given and at what cost. Slippery was
Never its aim. It praised courage, honor,
And rewarded dedication. My old
Country had many flaws, but loved variety,
Allowed eccentricities,
Respected effort, needed dissent,
Tried to care for its children, and protect its people,
Treasure its wildernesses, nurture ingenuity.
The melody of that country was hope and aspiration.
The lamp lifted by its golden door
Shone through the fog of harbor
For those who came for refuge.
We did not tear gas people at the border, separate families,
Or write numbers on bare arms of children.
I cannot recognize this country.
My old country was far from perfect, but
We tried to do the right thing when we could.
My country was welcoming
And offered safety to the dispossessed.
It used to strive toward toward its own betterment.
It treasured difference and measured human worth
in contribution, not in fame, dollars or deceit.
It honored service and recognized what
Was given and at what cost. Slippery was
Never its aim. It praised courage, honor,
And rewarded dedication. My old
Country had many flaws, but loved variety,
Allowed eccentricities,
Respected effort, needed dissent,
Tried to care for its children, and protect its people,
Treasure its wildernesses, nurture ingenuity.
The melody of that country was hope and aspiration.
The lamp lifted by its golden door
Shone through the fog of harbor
For those who came for refuge.
We did not tear gas people at the border, separate families,
Or write numbers on bare arms of children.
I cannot recognize this country.
Border poem
My name is Francisco Jesus Cantu.
I walked from Honduras ten years ago.
To make a new life in these Norte States.
And I worked real long and hard to do that.
When I went to work for Border Patrol
Thought I had become real New Mexican,
With papers, driver’s license, apartment.
Somehow I thought I could possibly help,
Took a clinical, hands-on, EMT course.
But mostly what we did at work was to
Shut all the poor brown people out,
Tell them they should turn around
And go home, go back to where they came from.
Sometimes I saw angry agents dump water
Into that unforgiving desert sand.
Men, women, children bullied and threatened
Both by their coyotes and border guards.
Once I drove a bus full of exhausted,
Thirsty, dusty, hungry, sad brown people
With small children to an empty warehouse
Where they would stay behind tall wire fences
Waiting for whatever came—hearings with no
Lawyers, translation, no understanding,
Judges with backlogs and pressing quotas,
Shipment back to their points of origin.
The children were taken from their parents,
Screaming, numbers marked on their naked arms.
The bosses said now to close the border,
Separate the Latino families.
This tactic was to deter people from
El Salvador, Honduras, Guatemala,
Fleeing tides of violence, drugs, gangs,
From seeking asylum in the US.
But how would they know? What choices had they?
I could not do this job any longer.
Seems I am not a real American.
I walked from Honduras ten years ago.
To make a new life in these Norte States.
And I worked real long and hard to do that.
When I went to work for Border Patrol
Thought I had become real New Mexican,
With papers, driver’s license, apartment.
Somehow I thought I could possibly help,
Took a clinical, hands-on, EMT course.
But mostly what we did at work was to
Shut all the poor brown people out,
Tell them they should turn around
And go home, go back to where they came from.
Sometimes I saw angry agents dump water
Into that unforgiving desert sand.
Men, women, children bullied and threatened
Both by their coyotes and border guards.
Once I drove a bus full of exhausted,
Thirsty, dusty, hungry, sad brown people
With small children to an empty warehouse
Where they would stay behind tall wire fences
Waiting for whatever came—hearings with no
Lawyers, translation, no understanding,
Judges with backlogs and pressing quotas,
Shipment back to their points of origin.
The children were taken from their parents,
Screaming, numbers marked on their naked arms.
The bosses said now to close the border,
Separate the Latino families.
This tactic was to deter people from
El Salvador, Honduras, Guatemala,
Fleeing tides of violence, drugs, gangs,
From seeking asylum in the US.
But how would they know? What choices had they?
I could not do this job any longer.
Seems I am not a real American.
Bach poem
Born in 1685, I so very
Sadly died In 1750.
Done in by an English quack eye doctor.
Two surgeries cost me both sight and life.
I can tell you I was very saddened.
I had so much I still wanted to do.
So much music yet left to write just then.
I swear, I had a lot more on my mind.
Not that I had not been busy early.
All my big family were musicians.
They loved to make joyful noises.
I best liked to be in the middle of
The harmony, playing the viola.
I had been a church organist and played,
I led the choirs of four local churches,
I sired twenty children by my two wives.
(My three sons turned out to be composers.)
I was pretty good at it all, so that
When I asked to leave service of Wilhelm
Of Weimar, he preferred I stay on at court.
He threw me into prison for a month.
While there I wrote some studies for organ.
I must also allude to Buxtehude,
Vivaldi, Telemann, and Pachelbel,
And to Italian opera as well--
They taught me how to sing the Lord’s praises.
Most of all I wrote and wrote and wrote:
Toccatas, fugues, the Mass in B Minor,
Suites for many instruments, harmonies,
Counterpoint, lieder, organ works, canons,
Preludes, Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring,
The Well-Tempered Clavier, St. John’s Passion,
Partitas, cantatas, and sonatas,
Concerti, motets, St. Matthew’s Passion,
Songs, arias, oratorios, chorales.
About 1100 hundred you still have.
So you see, I would have liked to keep going.
I wish I had not met that rotten quack.
Sadly died In 1750.
Done in by an English quack eye doctor.
Two surgeries cost me both sight and life.
I can tell you I was very saddened.
I had so much I still wanted to do.
So much music yet left to write just then.
I swear, I had a lot more on my mind.
Not that I had not been busy early.
All my big family were musicians.
They loved to make joyful noises.
I best liked to be in the middle of
The harmony, playing the viola.
I had been a church organist and played,
I led the choirs of four local churches,
I sired twenty children by my two wives.
(My three sons turned out to be composers.)
I was pretty good at it all, so that
When I asked to leave service of Wilhelm
Of Weimar, he preferred I stay on at court.
He threw me into prison for a month.
While there I wrote some studies for organ.
I must also allude to Buxtehude,
Vivaldi, Telemann, and Pachelbel,
And to Italian opera as well--
They taught me how to sing the Lord’s praises.
Most of all I wrote and wrote and wrote:
Toccatas, fugues, the Mass in B Minor,
Suites for many instruments, harmonies,
Counterpoint, lieder, organ works, canons,
Preludes, Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring,
The Well-Tempered Clavier, St. John’s Passion,
Partitas, cantatas, and sonatas,
Concerti, motets, St. Matthew’s Passion,
Songs, arias, oratorios, chorales.
About 1100 hundred you still have.
So you see, I would have liked to keep going.
I wish I had not met that rotten quack.
Abdul Malik Mandani A printer by profession, a poet by passion. He’s been writing poetry since high school. His poems have appeared in The Quest magazine, Bitterroot, an International Poetry Journal, The Kane County Chronicle newspaper and The Prairie Light Review, the liberal arts magazine of College of DuPage, IL. He regularly posts his poems on Allpoetry.com and Poetrysoup.com and participates in their contests. |
Coming undone
Hour by hour in the light of day
and all night long
My bruised mind with
horde of thoughts run riot before my eyes
Shadowy phantoms fill my brain
then break loose and
my imagination go haywire
out of control
erratic
confused
disoriented
until my traumatic brain
weary and faint with pain
grows calm
and rewinds the dreams of my youth again
where the memories of good times contain.
Yet my grieving heart is powerless to quell
the rigors of life in this world that I dwell
pursued by hate for having loved too well,
I don’t know what this journey will foretell.
and all night long
My bruised mind with
horde of thoughts run riot before my eyes
Shadowy phantoms fill my brain
then break loose and
my imagination go haywire
out of control
erratic
confused
disoriented
until my traumatic brain
weary and faint with pain
grows calm
and rewinds the dreams of my youth again
where the memories of good times contain.
Yet my grieving heart is powerless to quell
the rigors of life in this world that I dwell
pursued by hate for having loved too well,
I don’t know what this journey will foretell.
Let it be, my dear
My heart was hearty
I held my hopes high
I was geared to go far,
But hit a pothole instead
and got stuck with a flat –
It could have been worse;
Let it be, my dear
Fight fate no more.
I spread love all around
I smiled and shared my joy
But someone broke my heart,
Slighted me and made me cry –
It could have been worse;
Let it be, my dear
Fight fate no more.
I had my eyes set on spring,
Clear blue sky and balmy breeze,
But it’s fall – chilly, bare and gray,
and the winter’s waiting in the wings –
It could have been worse;
Let it be, my dear
Fight fate no more!
I held my hopes high
I was geared to go far,
But hit a pothole instead
and got stuck with a flat –
It could have been worse;
Let it be, my dear
Fight fate no more.
I spread love all around
I smiled and shared my joy
But someone broke my heart,
Slighted me and made me cry –
It could have been worse;
Let it be, my dear
Fight fate no more.
I had my eyes set on spring,
Clear blue sky and balmy breeze,
But it’s fall – chilly, bare and gray,
and the winter’s waiting in the wings –
It could have been worse;
Let it be, my dear
Fight fate no more!
Let Me Be
Somewhere yonder under a gray sky
Where no one comes to prowl and pry
Under the cover of deep dire shadows
where nary but a fiercest wind blows,
Ah yes, there! Life, just let me be
I’ll lie low alone awhile and see.
Unbeknownst to my dauntless demons
My destiny—oh, it beckons and reasons
Not to wander in this deceptive haze
where the mind weaves an endless maze;
Alas, I have my strayed soul to convoke
So life, let me be—Pray, do not revoke!
Where no one comes to prowl and pry
Under the cover of deep dire shadows
where nary but a fiercest wind blows,
Ah yes, there! Life, just let me be
I’ll lie low alone awhile and see.
Unbeknownst to my dauntless demons
My destiny—oh, it beckons and reasons
Not to wander in this deceptive haze
where the mind weaves an endless maze;
Alas, I have my strayed soul to convoke
So life, let me be—Pray, do not revoke!
Life in Solitude
Every so often
Just as a snake sheds its skin,
I yearn to discard
this garb of social propriety,
To strip away all
the concerns of the world
and roam free in the wilderness.
Then to sit all alone
underneath a tree like Buddha,
devoid of all thoughts
devoid of all feelings,
And be one with nature --
To feel what birds feel,
To think what trees think
To grow roots in the soil
and sway with the winds,
To glisten with the morning dew
on every blade of grass
in a lush meadow,
To shower with the rains
on a parched field
and playfully wash the shores
with the waves of the sea!
Just as a snake sheds its skin,
I yearn to discard
this garb of social propriety,
To strip away all
the concerns of the world
and roam free in the wilderness.
Then to sit all alone
underneath a tree like Buddha,
devoid of all thoughts
devoid of all feelings,
And be one with nature --
To feel what birds feel,
To think what trees think
To grow roots in the soil
and sway with the winds,
To glisten with the morning dew
on every blade of grass
in a lush meadow,
To shower with the rains
on a parched field
and playfully wash the shores
with the waves of the sea!
My final fling
She’s dressed in floral like the spring
that put the spirit of youth in everything
like April showers and sunshine bring
and in starry nights the nightingales sing.
Whiffs of scent the breeze thus bring
to hear the brook’s gentle murmuring,
In my wildest ecstasy I dance and swing
as if stung too soon by bee’s sharp sting,
While this poet’s feet are tired wandering
after wearisome years of pain and suffering
not knowing what fate in later seasons bring
vainly trying to fly like a kite on the string.
At your bidding, My Lady, comes spring
let me delightfully indulge in a final fling
lest my soul fly away like a bird on wing
unfulfilled at heart as dead desires bring.
that put the spirit of youth in everything
like April showers and sunshine bring
and in starry nights the nightingales sing.
Whiffs of scent the breeze thus bring
to hear the brook’s gentle murmuring,
In my wildest ecstasy I dance and swing
as if stung too soon by bee’s sharp sting,
While this poet’s feet are tired wandering
after wearisome years of pain and suffering
not knowing what fate in later seasons bring
vainly trying to fly like a kite on the string.
At your bidding, My Lady, comes spring
let me delightfully indulge in a final fling
lest my soul fly away like a bird on wing
unfulfilled at heart as dead desires bring.
Colin Stein is a Los Angeles native. Currently a junior in high school, he plays guitar, skates on an ice hockey team, and skis. Born with autism and little verbal ability, Colin learned to express himself via typing three years ago, and has since authored several poems and stories, with more on the way. Like any teen, his favorite food is pizza. |
THE PRESSING NEED
23
My hands tremble in anticipation. A video of the cubic contraption plays in my head. Then I see it. The gargantuan metal door.
22
Resplendent maw opening and closing. Two circles await with which to choose my destiny. Rise to the heavens? Descend to Earth's core?
21
DING. I hear the crowd, smell their cake, perfume. I enter, caress onerous steel sides. I should fear. But I fantasize.
20
I turn around to see a blockade of circles. Each a fate. Apply pressure and life changes before your eyes.
19
I pushed, but I do not lead. I float, I transport. The device dictates the destination, I merely follow.
18
The mouth shuts, beast grunting from strain. I move with haste, explore a new place, after its swallow.
17
Stillness is anathema, atrophy to my brain, heart, and soul. Motion equals learning, evolving, a better me.
16
Limbs flow like water, part of the instrument. Weightless euphoria, forgiving hand of God, you see?
15
My body betrays me, undercuts my psyche. Everyday movement is torture, but you couldn't know.
14
The outside world pounces, wolf on a lamb. Flight, fight? Freeze. I can't go.
13
My mind acts without consent, unreliable partner, physique a stranger in the night.
12
The machine bestows me liberty. Most take for granted this “inalienable” right.
11
The kind where intellect and flesh work as one, if fleeting.
10
My spirit ascends as we decelerate, musical chime signaling greeting.
9
Jaws creak, then release. Light illuminates where I’m standing.
8
An unknown planet emerges. Curiosity, wonder, joy. Landing.
7
Step foot across the threshold, reality’s line.
6
Beyond gratitude, humbled, honor all mine.
5
Feelings of sadness, inner tension.
4
Leaving the benevolent invention.
3
Its teeth seal.
2
They appeal:
1
DING.
My hands tremble in anticipation. A video of the cubic contraption plays in my head. Then I see it. The gargantuan metal door.
22
Resplendent maw opening and closing. Two circles await with which to choose my destiny. Rise to the heavens? Descend to Earth's core?
21
DING. I hear the crowd, smell their cake, perfume. I enter, caress onerous steel sides. I should fear. But I fantasize.
20
I turn around to see a blockade of circles. Each a fate. Apply pressure and life changes before your eyes.
19
I pushed, but I do not lead. I float, I transport. The device dictates the destination, I merely follow.
18
The mouth shuts, beast grunting from strain. I move with haste, explore a new place, after its swallow.
17
Stillness is anathema, atrophy to my brain, heart, and soul. Motion equals learning, evolving, a better me.
16
Limbs flow like water, part of the instrument. Weightless euphoria, forgiving hand of God, you see?
15
My body betrays me, undercuts my psyche. Everyday movement is torture, but you couldn't know.
14
The outside world pounces, wolf on a lamb. Flight, fight? Freeze. I can't go.
13
My mind acts without consent, unreliable partner, physique a stranger in the night.
12
The machine bestows me liberty. Most take for granted this “inalienable” right.
11
The kind where intellect and flesh work as one, if fleeting.
10
My spirit ascends as we decelerate, musical chime signaling greeting.
9
Jaws creak, then release. Light illuminates where I’m standing.
8
An unknown planet emerges. Curiosity, wonder, joy. Landing.
7
Step foot across the threshold, reality’s line.
6
Beyond gratitude, humbled, honor all mine.
5
Feelings of sadness, inner tension.
4
Leaving the benevolent invention.
3
Its teeth seal.
2
They appeal:
1
DING.
Jeffrey Penn May has won several short fiction awards, including one from Writer’s Digest. His work was nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and his novel Where the River Splits received an excellent review in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. Jeff has published numerous short stories, poems, and articles; he wrote and performed a short story for Washington University Radio and was a consultant to a St. Louis theatre company. He has been a waiter, hotel security officer, principal, credit manager, deck hand, technical data engineer, and fly fishing instructor, and he currently teaches English composition and creative writing. Please visit Jeff’s website www.askwritefish.com.
Advice to the Abnormal
If I were a younger man
I would join a group,
non-existent then,
I wouldn’t be alone
bleeding from my forehead
Nor would I have chosen
a path, up the middle.
No, I’d dive right in –
the pool of the inevitable
because I’ve gotten there anyway.
Insanity arrives no matter
what and now I’ve no money
nor glory nor book on a shelf
nothing but normalcy
staring back at my other self.
I would join a group,
non-existent then,
I wouldn’t be alone
bleeding from my forehead
Nor would I have chosen
a path, up the middle.
No, I’d dive right in –
the pool of the inevitable
because I’ve gotten there anyway.
Insanity arrives no matter
what and now I’ve no money
nor glory nor book on a shelf
nothing but normalcy
staring back at my other self.
Alone Is
Alone is
now and always will be,
as we
turn to dust
the window
now and always will be,
as we
turn to dust
the window
At What Age
At what age do you prefer sleep
to wakefulness, prefer the dream--
climbing the clouds
atop a faraway mountain--
To the step-by-step slog
legs too heavy to move
air too thin to breathe
the dream a painful reality.
At what age does the body
prefer the mind asleep?
to wakefulness, prefer the dream--
climbing the clouds
atop a faraway mountain--
To the step-by-step slog
legs too heavy to move
air too thin to breathe
the dream a painful reality.
At what age does the body
prefer the mind asleep?
Middle Class Mortality
Young man full of it,
at night
After a few,
that was me.
Did I drink...
too much?
Could I see...
what was coming?
I cycle the highway,
Salvation Army clothes
Tattering in the wind,
bent wheels clacking
Loose spokes, rusted fender,
what happened to my Lycra shorts?
I work at Wal-Mart
my Phd in Philosophy
I shoeshine on Wall Street
loose teeth still crooked,
my middle class smile.
“Hey,” I say, to the pinstriped
billionaire,
“Your diamond is bigger
than my tumor!”
He shifts in his seat.
(Not my shoe-stand anyway.)
Next time, I bring ropes,
tie ‘em in.
Poor bastards with their slick suits and glitzy cars
can’t see what I see.
I calculate equations!
Simple math that I do not understand.
Oh, I wish I were a financier!
I clatter to my tent
pitched at the bottom
of the embankment
beneath the broken sign:
Citizen’s Bank.
Young man full of it,
at night
After a few,
that was me.
Did I drink...
too much?
Could I see...
what was coming?
I cycle the highway,
Salvation Army clothes
Tattering in the wind,
bent wheels clacking
Loose spokes, rusted fender,
what happened to my Lycra shorts?
I work at Wal-Mart
my Phd in Philosophy
I shoeshine on Wall Street
loose teeth still crooked,
my middle class smile.
“Hey,” I say, to the pinstriped
billionaire,
“Your diamond is bigger
than my tumor!”
He shifts in his seat.
(Not my shoe-stand anyway.)
Next time, I bring ropes,
tie ‘em in.
Poor bastards with their slick suits and glitzy cars
can’t see what I see.
I calculate equations!
Simple math that I do not understand.
Oh, I wish I were a financier!
I clatter to my tent
pitched at the bottom
of the embankment
beneath the broken sign:
Citizen’s Bank.
Eat
Eat until eating time
Drink until drinking time
Cook your favorite dish
And never forget to dine
Speak strawberries and rhyme
But never admit your gluttonous crime
Drink until drinking time
Cook your favorite dish
And never forget to dine
Speak strawberries and rhyme
But never admit your gluttonous crime
Categories
All
ABDUL MALIK MANDANI
ABIGAIL GEORGE
CARL SCHARWATH
COLIN STEIN
DAVID MCLINTOCK
EG TED DAVIS
ELIZABETH FLETCHER
ERICA MICHAELS HOLLANDER
GEORGE CASSIDY PAYNE
HIMANSHU RANJAN
HOLLY DAY
HUSAIN ABDULHAY
IAN SINGLETON
JACOB M. APPEL
JEFFREY PENN MAY
JORDAN CORLEY
KEITH BURKHOLDER
KRISTEN FLANNERY
KYLE BRANDON LEE
LOIS GREENE STONE
MARCUS SEVERNS
MARK F. LINDSEY
NDABA SIBANDA
SAHAJ SABHARWAL
STACEY Z LAWRENCE
UZOMAH UGWU
WAYNE J. KEELEY
WILLIAM RULEMAN