Homemade Cookies and Gin

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
She's always been a caution,
Aunt Matilda has,
what with her passion

for the young man
she lured home with
homemade cookies

and gin to mow
her spacious lawn
this summer afternoon

in the oven of 3 p.m.
She watches Jack
through the curtain

of her picture window
as his sweat drips
in rivulets

like Uncle Tim's.
Tim's been dead
twenty years now

but Aunt Matilda
sees him mowing
through the curtain

as she sips warm gin.
She keeps his martini
in his jelly glass.

She needs ice,
a pat on her fanny,
a grin from Uncle Tim.


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Whispers

Contributor: Jason Sturner

- -
I am a whisper.
Of storms through your skin,
the desire-rain
across your inner thigh.

You are a whisper.
Of buttons slightly untamed,
the lightning-window
inside a metal frame.

This pinprick in our shadow
reveals a minor flow,
like hearts caught in a spiral
where the wind ascends.

And if dust settled
on the swan’s bones,
a quilt-sky could rise
from this field of poppies.

Until then, I am a whisper.
Of night tangled in vines,
the dream-pathos
exhausting your sleep.

Until then, you are a whisper.
Of thoughts shutting my eyes,
the curtain-stage
hiding these theatricals.

You say:
I cannot go beyond words for you—
We both know why.

And I reply:
When my heart falls to the floor,
poetry will do.


- - -
Jason Sturner was born in Harvey, Illinois, and raised in the western suburbs of Chicago. He has published three books of poetry: Kairos, 10 Love Poems, and Selected Poems 2004-2007 (all available as free downloads; see website). He resides in Wheaton, Illinois and works as a botanist at the Morton Arboretum in Lisle. Website: www.jasonsturner.blogspot.com

A Two-Fingered Goodbye

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
Fighting back all of her tears
she rushes out into the rain.
Stumbles down the last step
picks herself up once again.
“Don’t Go!” she cries insanely
as the car slips up the road.
Slender hopes vanish in seconds
as her heart regains its load.
Choking upon the heartache
she collapses onto her knees.
She looks up to the heavens
repeating over and over “Please!”
But she is only answered by
more falling rain from the sky.
So to the now distant ex-lover
she waves a two-fingered goodbye.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Complimentary Goodbye

Contributor: Chelsea L. Gipson

- -
You left me stranded in an emotional distress
when you ran over my heart as you sped off into the distance.
The fog was thick and the air was cold
I couldn’t see you leave but I felt the freeze you left behind.
You abandoned me when you promised you wouldn’t
and I feel the sting of betrayal in every step I take.
You could have made better of this situation
but you chose to run from your fear rather than face it.
Now I’m haunted by your fears as you planted them in my mind
and what do I do?
I only wish you’d had the courage to face your problems
rather than running from these issues and leaving them with me.
I only wish I’d gotten a complimentary goodbye
instead of no word beside the silence of you leaving.


- - -

STAGE OF GRIEF

Contributor: Ron Yazinski

- -
Other than her psychiatrist,
Nobody wants to see her,

With her hysterical laughter,
Irritating everyone else at the grave site,

Whispering how the pall bearers should wear matching t-shirts
Like a bowling team as they place the body on the straps above the grave;

Asking, as the priest sprinkles holy water,
If the dead man learned to tie his noose by practicing tourniquets;

Telling the old uncle who is crying and trembling with Parkinson’s,
That it’s hardly worth his effort to leave the cemetery.

When one of the mourners whispers for her to be more respectful,
She asks if she should whine like the others, as if life were a continuous 911 call?

This is how her psychiatrist said God made her,
And they’ll just have to accept the way she mourns.


- - -
Ron Yazinski is a retired English teacher, who with his wife Jeanne, divides his time between Pennsylvania and Winter Garden, Fl. His work has appeared in many journals. His one collection is SOUTH OF SCRANTON.

Siren of the Streets

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Whenever she comes by
it's always the same thing.
I make her comfortable
and then she leaves.

I tell her she's a harlot
hooking up all night
with God knows who
but in her case God

looks the other way.
Curious neighbors
ask if I know her.
I ask them do I look

like that kind of man?
Peter denied Christ thrice
but I make Peter a piker
when it comes to denying

this siren of the streets.
Once in a while a neighbor,
smitten as I am, takes her in
because she's attractive

and it's peaceful until
some morning very early
she's on my deck again
heartbroken, forlorn,

willing to do anything
for a nosh and a drink.
Since no one is up
at that hour to see me

I sit on the deck
and she leaps on my lap
and I stroke her until
she's a Lamborghini

purring at a red light.
Then she drives off,
leaving me on the deck
heartbroken, forlorn.

She must have been spayed.
Never had any kittens.
What might Pope Francis
think about this?

Her kittens, after all,
would have been beautiful,
just as she is,
harlot or not.


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Touch and Tumult

Contributor: Ron Koppelberger

- -

Receiving the bitter desires of aching want and
Impassioned need, a rare exceptional arousal
In scarlet beaded tears of invocation and
Obsessions sure layer and engaged arrival,
The troth of one and the love of near
Wordless chase,
A passionate seduction in gasping
Groans of touch and tumult.

- - -
I am aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. I have written 93 books of poetry over the past several years and 16 novels. I hope you enjoy my work.

Biologically "Female"

Contributor: Emily Ramser

- -
Hairs hang from their chin,
gripping the skin with tiny fingers.

On their ends lay Es-tro-gen and
Test-os-ter-one,

Cause they’re only
a person
With a vagina

that lays awake at night,
quivering
like a dog chasing rabbits in the night
and dreaming,
of the day that it’ll
be a lightsaber
in the embrace
of the lips of a woman.


- - -
Emily Ramser lives in Winston-Salem, NC, though you're more likely to find her online at chickadeesweetie.wordpress.com.

Louisiana Summer Haiku

Contributor: James Pollard

- -
sunrise
caught by the Spanish moss
of cypress trees


a white egret
cleaning its feathers
in brown water


twilight
a boat's wake fading
on Lake Pontchartrain


tonight's rain
carries hints of cut grass
and barbeque


a brown pelican
unmoving as the sun sets
in marsh grass


blood
spurts from my hand
croaking catfish


locusts
their mating song
a lullaby


picking pecans
a squirrel chatters
at me


mullets
running and leaping
splashing sunlight


three raccoons
crossing at midnight
speedbumps


sputtering motor
breaking the darkness
across the swamp


burning sugarcane
flowing into the Milky Way
obscuring the moon


- - -
Originally from Louisiana, James has lived in several Asian countries for over 16 years. He is currently teaching primary school in Hong Kong. Besides fishing, composing Haiku is his favorite hobby.

Energy Wanted and Needed and Hunted

Contributor: Chelsea L. Gipson

- -
Hazel eyes are prowling.
Searching.
Yearning.
Desperately needing.
To be feeding.
Not meaning.
To be leading.
Only wanting for,
what they're hunting for.
Always striving.
Never thriving.
Simply seeing.
Another being.
An opportunity so potentially freeing.


As devouring a life-force could be.


- - -

A Shadow of Comfort

Contributor: A.J. Huffman

- -
Calling backwards from some displaced
internal echo. I am
the grey light shining through the splinter-
ing[ly false?] dawn. Answer:
the fielding of myriad groans. Walls
wailing. Watering weeds (you name them
flowers) in the sidewalked crawlspace
you believe is a coherent mind. Do you
wish for winter among the hills of this desert?
I do [not] understand the desire to freeze.
Solid is just another form of condensation.
Evaporate is the true trail. Follow [my voice and]
its silver silken exhaust[ion]. Deeper
is the true color of calm.


- - -
A.J. Huffman’s poetry, fiction, and haiku have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation.

To You

Contributor: Jason Sturner

- -
You laugh, and the world unfolds.
Light falls like rain, stains the dark.
I’m helpless, without speech;
your soul becomes the blue of my eyes.

Forgive me if I stray—
To you.

You smile, and no wars ever were.
You hold time in place, erase the hands.
I’m overcome, filled with adoration;
my soul becomes the brown of your eyes.

Forgive me if I write these words—
To you.

You speak, and the otter shakes a whisker.
You enchant me, a sea horse ballet.
And I swim, deep where tears shed;
now my poetry breathes under oceans.

Forgive me if I expose my heart—
To you.


- - -
Jason Sturner was born in Harvey, Illinois, and raised in the western suburbs of Chicago. He has published three books of poetry: Kairos, 10 Love Poems, and Selected Poems 2004-2007 (all available as free downloads; see website). He resides in Wheaton, Illinois and works as a botanist at the Morton Arboretum in Lisle. Website: www.jasonsturner.blogspot.com

Blur

Contributor: Glenda Grande

- -
Remember the time you loved me? I loved you.
The touch of your hand caressing my face,
All those sweet moments in between kisses
Are slowly fading into a blur, but not forgotten.

Reminiscent of the days that have passed by,
Again, I am thinking of you and our memories.
I thought I let you go, but your presence lingers;
A silvery shadow dancing at the door of my heart.

The memory of your smile, it’s fading away,
The sound of your laughter, it’s fading away;
The love we we shared, it’s no longer there,
The sound of your whispers, no longer there.

Flashback to the memories, fast-forward to now.
Soon, what I remember of you will be just a blur,
The memory of your lips against mine replaced
With another, overriding the essence of you.


- - -
Emotions written from the heart, this young woman writes a collection of literature by telling the tales of life with artful words. Her aim is to make people remember that being emotion-filled is only human. You can find more of her literary works on her website www.angellusion.com

Coy Rapture

Contributor: Ron Koppelberger

- -

Styles in bashful mention, a harmony brought to light
In wayfare myths of passion and coy rapture,
Beguiling in hearts ablaze and rosy alters of worship,
By the blushing tincture of shy approach and
Tender coquette, the out and bound smile told in degrees
Of romantic reverence, the heedful ambiance in sweet sums
Of bliss, by willowy rush and forward wills of gentle
Arrival, in curtsey to the throne of wild affections and
Flowing measures in eventual betrothal.

- - -
I am aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. I have written 93 books of poetry over the past several years and 16 novels. I hope you enjoy my work.

Rusty Butterfly

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
I saw this butterfly the other day; it was a thing of such
beauty that I just had to stop and watch it until it flittered
out of view.
It was a kind of powdery white, only not a thin fragile kind
it was a thick healthy kind, but it had rust coloured wings.
I’m serious, I’ve never seen anything quite like it, it was
perfectly white (Almost too perfect) until halfway along the
wings (Yeah, that’s right, about by there, yeah!) and then it was
a beautiful orange, rusty colour, it was indeed magnificent.
I have never thought that rust was beautiful before, but the
next time that I see some, I’m gonna stop and venture a look
and damn it but I might discover something special and all
because of that little butterfly which flittered along the
grassy verge of a busy city street, while everyone refused to
acknowledge its existence but me.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

I Don't Want to Be Afraid

Contributor: Kharis Lund

- -
I was walking home alone the other night in my tank top,
Found myself clutching my little pink pepper-spray in one hand and my key, sharp edge out, in the other.
I was afraid. I am afraid.
With pain in my heart
or head
or wherever pain is,
I realized my brothers would never be in this situation,
having to rush home looking over their shoulders.
They walk around like the world is theirs,
because, as of now, it is.

Me though?

I walk home afraid, because I’m a woman.
Because I’ve been taught that I am weak.
Because, right now, I am weak.
Weak from words that make me feel like I’m not enough.
Weak, because I’ve been taught my whole life that my body is a commodity to be taken advantage of - that it’s MY job to protect myself from that.

Thinking about all this makes me scared and sad,
but more than that, it makes me ANGRY,
because, it shouldn’t be this way.
I shouldn’t have to walk home like this and be afraid for my life,
the shadows turning into menacing figures at every step.

I should have been told that I was enough,
that I was beautiful,
that I was smart,
that I was important.
I should have been told that I was strong.
Because, I want this engrained gender discrimination to stop.
Because, I want to walk home and not have to worry about a single damn thing.
Because, I want to believe again the truth that I am strong.


- - -
I'm a college student living in Seattle who would rather eat sushi than do almost anything else. I like good liars and good storytellers, and sometimes, I think they're the same thing.

The Key to a Woman’s Heart is Within the Man

Contributor: Jason Sturner

- -
Soundless, he crashed along her walls.
Fell like a bruised rock, died shivering in the clover.
She stirred, asleep: an oblivious, silent orchestra.
Autumn leaves and music entered his death—
inner seasons began to change.

The stars shined like a million candles held by darkness.
His cadaver eyes were illuminated, lit by the crescent moon.
His body twitched: the soul threw the Reaper in chains.
By morning he was breathing, somehow stronger—
built less of stone, more of dream.

He opened his arms, embraced the air’s eternal form,
took the earth’s colors and drank them like forgotten wine.
He realized he’d had to die at her feet
before he could be alive in her arms.

I adore you! I adore you, my love!

She awoke with colors exploding over her;
his caring words were sailing down.
Two bluebirds built a nest nearby. She put out two cups of tea.
The morning lifted off the ground and turned her eyes on.
She sighed. She blew a kiss over the garden wall…

His chest cracked, crumbled, blew away.
A fresh, wet heart emerged and stretched its wings.
It beat new, beat with a selfless purpose:
to pump love through all his veins;
to take her hand and lead her towards forever…

So he spread his arms, soared into her beautiful waiting.
Inhaled her sweet stare and found a soft place to land.
And when he dropped glass shadows on boulders, destroying his fears,
a gold key fell from the sky and splashed in her cup of tea.

I love you! he proclaimed, wiping tears from his eyes.
I know, she said, kissing him. I’ve always known.


- - -
Jason Sturner was born in Harvey, Illinois, and raised in the western suburbs of Chicago. He has published three books of poetry: Kairos, 10 Love Poems, and Selected Poems 2004-2007 (all available as free downloads; see website). He resides in Wheaton, Illinois and works as a botanist at the Morton Arboretum in Lisle. Website: www.jasonsturner.blogspot.com

Fruit Cocktail

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
I met a man with many wives
when I was selling pots and pans
door-to-door out West.

He owned a ranch
and wore patched overalls
with red suspenders plus

a cowboy hat above
a bushy black mustache.
We got to talking

at the General Store
and I asked him why
one wife wasn't enough.

He said, "You like fruit?"
"All but grapefruit."
"Understood," the fellow said,

"but every now and then
I bet you'd like a peach
instead of a banana or

an apple instead of an orange."
"Understood," I said.
"It's like pots and pans.

One pot's great for oatmeal
but you'll need a different one
for a fine ragout."


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Choking

Contributor: Chelsea L. Gipson

- -
Lodged in my throat
are words left unspoken
ne'er to see the light of day.

Lodged in my throat
are truths left like tokens
ne'er to see the light of day.

Lodged in my throat
are jokes left un-cracked
ne'er to see the light of day.

Lodged in my throat
are admissions of guilt leaving me wracked
ne'er to see the light of day.

I cannot breathe 'fore I am
choking on words left unspoken.


- - -

Breathing

Contributor: Alex Adamek

- -
Today.
The memories.
The good and the bad.
Fade away like morning fog.
Clearing my mind.
I am able to see clearly once again.
I can breathe.

Your face.
I can no longer piece it together.
When I picture you, it's not really you.
Only a blurred, Shape of a face.
No expression.
No feelings.
The memories, They are fading.
I can finally breathe.


- - -
I express my feelings and experiences through poetry.
My writing is effected on how I react to subjects.
I'm quite influenced by my family and friends.

Walk Between Class

Contributor: Stephen Walter

- -
A soft breeze tickles me, amidst rustling autumn leaves,
it aches for me to shed my load and float away,
I do so love the breeze, unprejudiced, relieving my strain. . . .I allow it to overtake me, and fling me about the grass.

The midday sun throws its hammer; westbound rays ripple atop crests of the flood-tide as I sit looking (not seeing) with rigid body, like bamboo,
I feel like child – so firm to the ground, but vast as the sky –

A squirrel darts before my throne, from which everything is beautiful, and looks to me with eyes of loneliness, I invite him to stay . . .

The river, moat of the great city– flowing eternally – chuckles, mocking my position,
knowing it is the subject of my envy . . . . it knows I must return to class soon,
I am accosted by the gong of a distant spire; the sound assaults my ears, and threatens repose,
the ring is sharp, cutting my stay short,
It is hard for me to rise, each arm of grass reaching around, pulling closer their gentle lover,
wanting me to stay, I must break your heart.

I begin my journey back . . .

Children are playing in the park, a young boy and girl are playing on the swings,
the boy has fallen off his set, and is attended to by his female companion
. . . . I love her compassion,

A young woman appears in the natural spotlight ahead, the sunlight streaking,
racing around her concaved hips,
I wish to be adjoined to them, to drape them, I envy each and every sunbeam,
that falls upon her,
I stare into the eyes of this perfect stranger. . . . does she realize her beauty?
Does she know she struts atop my pedestal?
Can she feel the newly woven carpet my dreams have laid before her?
I utter a greeting but hear no reply,
my words are lost to the wind. . . .

I have returned to campus, passed unseen boundaries, where suddenly the atmosphere is heavy,
the asphalt is marshland, my limbs are dense. . . . each step tapping into fading reserve,
right brain yields to left,

Buildings seem my shadow – surrounding me – closing like doors the dreamland I had strolled . . .


- - -
I am a civil engineering student at the Stevens Institute of Technology. I play pickup basketball, lift weights, eat fruit, and write poems.

Refining the Line

Contributor: A.J. Huffman

- -
I love the shape of the moon as transcribed
by a dolphin’s eye. It lies

outside the edges of finite structure.
Three plus three equals a quarter
past noon (on a good day). The waves
laugh at the cycle superimposed
over our sighs. It understands
the true pull of gravity, and finds no compassion
for the grace we call tact. I choose to listen
to the song of sand’s disintegration.
Beauty is corrosion

and a complete disdain for hard-edged forms.


- - -
A.J. Huffman’s poetry, fiction, and haiku have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation.

Fireworks

Contributor: Jonpaul Taylor

- -
The Fireworks read,
“Use under adult supervision.”
But, who’s going to supervise the supervisors?

The klutzes, high school dropouts, and fathers,
For a couple hundred dollars,
Can buy military grade explosives.

Great!
Time to play
With some matches.

They turn backyards into war zones.
Technicolor light shows
That kiss the skies.

Boom goes the heavens.
Boom goes the neighbors.
Boom goes the fingers on a hand

From a firecracker
Held
Too long.

Great!
Time for a trip
To the Emergency Room.


- - -
Jonpaul Taylor is a student at Wayne State University, majoring in English. His work has been published in Kalkion and Beorh Quarterly.

Sentimental Blue

Contributor: Jason Sturner

- -
It’s a forget-me-not flower.
It’s a surprise letter by mail.
It’s the love song’s artistic hue.
It’s the color of my words to you.

It’s the waves crashing in.
It’s the ocean beyond the shore.
It’s a warm sky filtering through.
It’s my eyes when I look at you.

It’s a crayon in a child’s hand.
It’s a hug from their small arms.
It’s a glass heart speaking true.
It’s my tears because I miss you.

Sentimental Blue


- - -
Jason Sturner was born in Harvey, Illinois, and raised in the western suburbs of Chicago. He has published three books of poetry: Kairos, 10 Love Poems, and Selected Poems 2004-2007 (all available as free downloads; see website). He resides in Wheaton, Illinois and works as a botanist at the Morton Arboretum in Lisle. Website: www.jasonsturner.blogspot.com

Firstborn

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Born at the foot
of the mountain
what will you do?

You have time to decide
but some die young.
Others live but remain

at the foot of the mountain
where wind like snow
blows them around.

So what will you do?
Go 'round the mountain?
Fly over the mountain?

Or climb the mountain,
hand over hand,
with fingers and toes

tucked in clefts,
stopping only for water,
then going on.

Millions are now
on the side
of the mountain

halfway up
with grappling hooks
and the finest gear.

So what will you do?
Parents can pray but
God only knows.


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

A Wearying Journey and Long (Notes on Depression at 3 a.m.)

Contributor: C.V. Ellis

- -
Minutes are hours,
Days are millennia,
Fatigue is an anchor
Chained to my libido

Energy drains like water
Through the proverbial sieve,
All labors are Herculean
While rest is mere fiction

Joy has left the building,
Sleep defies my authority,
Humor is lost and wandering
Like the man in the crowd

Little pills and therapy
Give something like relief,
Yet grief and sadness linger
To hinder full release

Still, the sun rises
For muster and roll call,
So I stumble into a new day
To renew the journey home

It's a wearying journey and long
This slow motion trip,
Trudging through each day
Just to do it all over


- - -
Family is most important; all else pales in comparison.

Maiden Aunt Advises Niece Tiffany

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
A new coiffure would help.
Your hair should flounce
when you walk.

Spiff up your wardrobe.
Try cashmere sweaters
and fitted skirts.

Great shoes are a must.
Heels high enough to click
"Welcome" on the sidewalk.

You're a lady, Tiffany.
That's important but
bait sets the hook.

Add frippery to folderol
and stroll down Fifth Avenue
on a brilliant summer day.

Wear a new frock
and don't just sashay.
Put some oomph into it.

Smile for no reason at all.
And before summer's over,
you'll be wearing a big ring.


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Beneath the Waves

Contributor: Jason Sturner

- -
He floats on green sea, sky softens eyes twilight blue.
Fish set course for curious, jump like finned rainbows.
The heart ventured at daybreak, went searching with sail;
anchored soul waits for resurrection, swirls with dreams.

Apart since sunrise, he’s been at opposite ends of her hour.
Life sleeps on shore, sunset bends towards fiction.
Love has splashed her, soaked the heart with promises;
angelic soul lifts, maiden albatross flies.

He waits, she will come—
and they will swim down together.


- - -
Jason Sturner was born in Harvey, Illinois, and raised in the western suburbs of Chicago. He has published three books of poetry: Kairos, 10 Love Poems, and Selected Poems 2004-2007 (all available as free downloads; see website). He resides in Wheaton, Illinois and works as a botanist at the Morton Arboretum in Lisle. Website: www.jasonsturner.blogspot.com

When You Get Old (V2)

Contributor: Michael Lee Johnson

- -
When you get old
you leave everything behind−
present tense past tense,
hangers on refusing to turn loose,
high school letter sweaters, varsity
woolen jackets, yearbooks 1965,
covers that quickly open, slam shut−
high school romances only faces
where they were then−
ice cubes frozen in time.

No more teary eyes,
striking flames,
moist match heads
igniting bedroom sheets
and teenage bedside rumors.

You leave wife, or wives
behind toss out your youthful affairs.

All single events were just encounters,
cardiac dry ice, ladies with crimson clover eyes.

No more strings tightened, broken bows,
heart dreams slit vows, melancholy violin romances.

You continue leaving reading glasses, key chain, ATM card,
senior discount cards, footnotes are your history,
artificial sweeteners, doctor appointments daily,
keep touching those piano notes, phone numbers in sequence
in tattered address books, names attached to memories
hidden behind.

Everything rhymes with plural thoughts and foggy memories.

Youth was a bullyboy club-
the older I get the less I'm battered−
trust me I got witnesses in between−
saviors of wings, fantasies,
tense has no grammatical corrector,
it always dances around the rim of red wine.

Life now fills with silver teaspoons
of empty senior moments−
blank shells of present, past tense,
and yank me back recalls.

Do you remember those 1st 25 years?
Shrinking brain space remembers
dances of sporadic nighttime boogies,
sports, senior prom, Thomas's Drive-In,
Spin-It-Record Shop, Dick Biondi,
WLS Chicago top 100.

Remember the next 25 years?
high school reunions grow dimmer−
priest of the voodoo dolls punch in numbers
of once living and now dead−
undresses all.

Rise forward from your medieval pews.
Wherever you now live,
do you remember these things−
prayer, ghosts deep in the
pockets of our former youth.

Old age waits patiently in the face
of a full moon−a new generation.

When you get old
you leave everything behind.

-2013-


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About the Poet:
MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois, who has been published in more than 750 small press magazines in twenty-five countries, he edits seven poetry sites. Michael has released The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom (136 page book), several chapbooks Of his poetry, including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems. He also has over 66 poetry videos on YouTube.
Links: http://poetryman.mysite.com/

Secret for the Queen

Contributor: Jim Naylor

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If I could I would slow the stars
and bring to an unhurried pace
to gaze as the light reflects
then bring to an unworried space
the words that I’ve said times before
but right now I cannot so for this
the words I share times therefore

light the skies with the stars
make the nights never dark
pouring light every where far
make the lights in the heart
I rise from a slumber shared
make the nights never dark
and rise from slumber shared


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