by Tiffany Mackay
blackberry flowers—
a bumble bee sways over
slanting sunlight
a bumble bee sways over
slanting sunlight
Monday, July 11, 2022
Sunday, July 10, 2022
Warehouse
by AE Reiff
Passes for exiles in industry,
exits unguarded above and below,
clapboards large and abandoned,
dream yards of roof covered rows,
shacks and warehouse unsecured,
posters under the stars,
vagrants and migrants, gypsies, tenants,
homeless squatters, blacksmiths, artists.
The house never finished,
catwalks, rickety, dangerous
where pieces crock together and cram,
crowds mill shoulder to shoulder to pass,
name tags missing where we encamp.
Anyone returning will know
this place in the beat that is so,
expatriates advance
slow motion from a camp
where wolves blotch purple eyes
and rumors rife as the numbers swell
to escape before the border is closed.
At Last A Valley
by Lara Dolphin
When you cannot go on
you descend through fog
to the mountain’s base
turn left at the blinking yellow
then cross the bridge
toward the rebuilt barn
along shoulderless roads
where cattle graze above
on terraced slopes
past willows and horses
solar panels, alfalfa
and the sinkhole filled five winters back
hand-drawn signs
point to homes
where lives lay on tables
you mean to look
but small bills fly
to cash register nests
old games, picture frames
fishing rods, a box of jackets, a mug
fill your trunk
and the long, cold night
of your soul
escapes toward the dawn
When you cannot go on
you descend through fog
to the mountain’s base
turn left at the blinking yellow
then cross the bridge
toward the rebuilt barn
along shoulderless roads
where cattle graze above
on terraced slopes
past willows and horses
solar panels, alfalfa
and the sinkhole filled five winters back
hand-drawn signs
point to homes
where lives lay on tables
you mean to look
but small bills fly
to cash register nests
old games, picture frames
fishing rods, a box of jackets, a mug
fill your trunk
and the long, cold night
of your soul
escapes toward the dawn
Friday, July 8, 2022
Wednesday, July 6, 2022
Horseshoe Crabs Fabliau
~ a Cape Cod Ecology
by Royal Rhodes
Knobby carpets formed by Horseshoe crabs
are mounds along the shore in Monomoy.
Banks of sand are held in place by grass
where waves have scoured tesserae of glass
and in the shallows herons hunt for dabs.
Some crabs have flipped and made a tempting meal
for hungry gulls, those gluttons of the beach.
I hang an empty shell upon my wall.
A scent of brine adheres as I recall
the spot I saw a shark and rolling seal.
Red Knots have flocked to taste this bright blue blood
that doctors drain to use to test for toxins.
Each season's transformations are a race
in molting, sliding from their carapace --
many times -- emerging from the mud.
The Darkness
by David Chorlton
Mockingbirds never tire
of singing; their voices sparkle in the small
hours when silence
wears their song as jewelry.
Is anyone awake?
Can anybody hear
the sound tomorrow’s news
makes as it hurries down the city streets
asleep at the wheel? The twenty-four hour
convenience stores are chilled
to the bone, as cold
as the hummingbirds
conserving energy in their state of torpor
until the sky cracks
open and
a light shines through it to reveal
every secret that survived the night,
from the officer’s notes to
the nighthawks
with no language
but their wings to say
how graciously the darkness
embraced them in their flight.
Sunday, July 3, 2022
Watching 17 Seconds of Bus Cam Video
~For my son, Adam Vespoli, who was shot by police on March 12, 2022.
by Susan Vespoli
Two tiny birds screech from a branch,
shoot through air, divebomb like fighter
planes. They’re after a hawk that soars
part killer, part king, spreads wings, tucks
Two tiny birds screech from a branch,
shoot through air, divebomb like fighter
planes. They’re after a hawk that soars
part killer, part king, spreads wings, tucks
talons to chest and I ingest that cop’s face,
his piss caught on bus cam, his dark-ice eyes,
close-cropped black beard, slack lips; then
the slim shape of my son, the cop’s gun
and I turn it off, return in my mind to the hawk,
who hustles off, chased by the mocking-
birds who zip like bullets, like courage
squawk backtalk, defend eggs, protect nest
who hustles off, chased by the mocking-
birds who zip like bullets, like courage
squawk backtalk, defend eggs, protect nest
and I want to channel them, scream and flail,
send hawk who shot my unarmed homeless son to jail.
Author's Note: Police rousted a group of sleeping unsheltered individuals from a tunnel in Phoenix on March 11, 2022, my son among them. My son who questioned the police’s right to cite them for sleeping was thrown to the ground and charged with a felony of resisting arrest. When he was released from a night in jail, he boarded a city bus to stay warm, then ordered off the bus for sleeping by a cop who minutes later shot him. https://susanvespoli.com/
Friday, July 1, 2022
Wednesday, June 29, 2022
ouroboros
by Kulbir Saran
crawl the tunnel
through the belly
chase the beacon
when it eats
at the mouth
can scrape the tongue
for morsels, mountains
thin as sheets
behind the teeth
of purple sky
a star is born
but started burning
somewhere on
the other side
crawl the tunnel
through the belly
chase the beacon
when it eats
at the mouth
can scrape the tongue
for morsels, mountains
thin as sheets
behind the teeth
of purple sky
a star is born
but started burning
somewhere on
the other side
Street Video
by Royal Rhodes
These stories almost escaped
from order into dizzying chaos,
with linear cartoon-like panels
in the rows of tenement floors,
letting us glimpse the dramas
inside, without subtitles to read.
The lens took in the flaking paint,
acid-yellow wall-paper strips,
and a woman gazing out at us,
squinting through a bruised eye.
The action moved along from here
to there, inventing a melodrama
of gunshots and alley dumpsters
But we also had seen in the street
the image from a pin-hole camera
a homeless man had documented
from when he was living rough
a block from the stately capitol
where legislators reiterated claims
that no veterans ever slept on grates.
Sunday, June 26, 2022
One AM
by David Chorlton
The North Star blows smoke
from the tip of a revolver. It’s one AM
and the sky has grown restless.
The desert lies down to sleep
while the heat of the day
soaks in to rocks. Over and beyond
the mountain city lights illuminate
strip mall after strip mall, at one of which
a party ended just
as an owl chose the moment
to sweep darkness and a mouse
aside with its silent wings. It is
a wonderful mystery the way
thirst turns into life
when coyotes thread their way
along night’s stony paths. And asked
what happened, people
told reporters It was like emptying
a bucket of stars into a crowd.
The North Star blows smoke
from the tip of a revolver. It’s one AM
and the sky has grown restless.
The desert lies down to sleep
while the heat of the day
soaks in to rocks. Over and beyond
the mountain city lights illuminate
strip mall after strip mall, at one of which
a party ended just
as an owl chose the moment
to sweep darkness and a mouse
aside with its silent wings. It is
a wonderful mystery the way
thirst turns into life
when coyotes thread their way
along night’s stony paths. And asked
what happened, people
told reporters It was like emptying
a bucket of stars into a crowd.
Wednesday, June 22, 2022
can’t see you can’t see me
by Kulbir Saran
cotton crotchet draped
atop adorned mahogany
figurative passive shield
where crumb and callus dwell
beneath, a misfit jigsaw
plywood plate mosaic, gaped
and taped and glued and
screwed haphazard
from above, only seems
a rumble every now and then
press these splintered lips
raw against the dampened roof
Revelation Will Best Unfold
by M. G. Michael
Near the huge clock, in Piata Romana,
The old man they see him, all of them, day and night.
He sits with episcopal dignity as if on a throne.
Alone. Like a word.
One afternoon he reaches into his sack coat
And pulls out a small evergreen.
With outstretched hands he offers it to a little child
She, alone, notices that from the wrist up,
His arms are covered in thick white down.
They both beam. The old man remembered things
The little child delighted in her imagination.
Revelation will best unfold between the cracks
Like light, which pours through the tight spaces of rocks.
The others in their multitude, all of them, day and night,
Notice. Nothing.
Near the huge clock, in Piata Romana,
The old man they see him, all of them, day and night.
He sits with episcopal dignity as if on a throne.
Alone. Like a word.
One afternoon he reaches into his sack coat
And pulls out a small evergreen.
With outstretched hands he offers it to a little child
She, alone, notices that from the wrist up,
His arms are covered in thick white down.
They both beam. The old man remembered things
The little child delighted in her imagination.
Revelation will best unfold between the cracks
Like light, which pours through the tight spaces of rocks.
The others in their multitude, all of them, day and night,
Notice. Nothing.
Sunday, June 19, 2022
Temporal
by Carrie Albert
Crows loop above, free to steer
their own lines. The hill pulls
evergreens downward; branches descend
in long strands of earth-mother hair.
A leaf-slippery path leads
to a gathering of plastic tents, curtained
with tattered blanket insulation, mini-domes
blend into vines, roped to trees,
root-cling might hold them.
No one is home or everyone hibernates
inside, rich with time, and winter poor.
The closed doors flaps. Signs:
garbage bagged and scattered,
wheelchair-in-waiting, one pink slipper.
A hula hoop hangs on limb,
empty dream catcher.
Crows loop above, free to steer
their own lines. The hill pulls
evergreens downward; branches descend
in long strands of earth-mother hair.
A leaf-slippery path leads
to a gathering of plastic tents, curtained
with tattered blanket insulation, mini-domes
blend into vines, roped to trees,
root-cling might hold them.
No one is home or everyone hibernates
inside, rich with time, and winter poor.
The closed doors flaps. Signs:
garbage bagged and scattered,
wheelchair-in-waiting, one pink slipper.
A hula hoop hangs on limb,
empty dream catcher.
How To Write A Sentence
by Cielo Jones
Choose a subject:
the geese at the curb,
the bucket beaters on the street islands,
the cart pushers, the corner sitters,
or the fancy car driver who just sped by.
Choose a predicate:
cross the streets in single file,
stop traffic with bodacious beats,
holding up placards, one-sentence life stories
break my heart,
honks horn at the car in front,
he stops for the geese, or taken by the drummers.
For more complicated sentences, add clauses:
people should be allowed to hunt the birds,
healthy choice since they’re in the wild,
What wild? This is the city, for crying out loud.
No hunting here!
round up the nuisance, the traffic hazards, find a meadow,
but this is their meadow we occupied
it’s of no use you know - they’ll be back here,
they always are.
gather up the unfortunates, find a shelter, a job, a care
or put them in jail, charge them for disturbing the peace,
the fastest way to save them from freezing
find solid solutions or they’ll be back here, they usually do.
ticket the driver for disturbing the peace
charge him for his impatience, his flamboyance.
Cross your t’s and dot your i’s.
The geese are there in their wild.
So we leave them be, and that should be.
But the drummer, the man on the corner,
their predicaments I can’t fathom.
I can’t meet their eyes, I hold no remedies,
but I should not leave them be, that should not be.
and the fancy car driver?
He’s a bystander, he’ll go another route next time.
Finally, punctuate. End the sentence but don’t kill it.
Question mark for all the queries:
How did they get here?
What is tomorrow for their growing population?
Why did they lose their homes?
Where else can they go?
When did it all begin, when does it end?
Who, if not I, can help?
Exclamation point:
the annoyance for these city poopers,
the warnings to choose another path,
they’ll get run over!
the anger and frustrations,
(because) I want to bring them home
shout it out over the muscle engine.
Period, to close the door.
Complacency or surrender.
No more arguments.
Your sentence ends here.
Choose a subject:
the geese at the curb,
the bucket beaters on the street islands,
the cart pushers, the corner sitters,
or the fancy car driver who just sped by.
Choose a predicate:
cross the streets in single file,
stop traffic with bodacious beats,
holding up placards, one-sentence life stories
break my heart,
honks horn at the car in front,
he stops for the geese, or taken by the drummers.
For more complicated sentences, add clauses:
people should be allowed to hunt the birds,
healthy choice since they’re in the wild,
What wild? This is the city, for crying out loud.
No hunting here!
round up the nuisance, the traffic hazards, find a meadow,
but this is their meadow we occupied
it’s of no use you know - they’ll be back here,
they always are.
gather up the unfortunates, find a shelter, a job, a care
or put them in jail, charge them for disturbing the peace,
the fastest way to save them from freezing
find solid solutions or they’ll be back here, they usually do.
ticket the driver for disturbing the peace
charge him for his impatience, his flamboyance.
Cross your t’s and dot your i’s.
The geese are there in their wild.
So we leave them be, and that should be.
But the drummer, the man on the corner,
their predicaments I can’t fathom.
I can’t meet their eyes, I hold no remedies,
but I should not leave them be, that should not be.
and the fancy car driver?
He’s a bystander, he’ll go another route next time.
Finally, punctuate. End the sentence but don’t kill it.
Question mark for all the queries:
How did they get here?
What is tomorrow for their growing population?
Why did they lose their homes?
Where else can they go?
When did it all begin, when does it end?
Who, if not I, can help?
Exclamation point:
the annoyance for these city poopers,
the warnings to choose another path,
they’ll get run over!
the anger and frustrations,
(because) I want to bring them home
shout it out over the muscle engine.
Period, to close the door.
Complacency or surrender.
No more arguments.
Your sentence ends here.
Wednesday, June 15, 2022
Monday, June 13, 2022
Mimicry
by Jan MacRae
Americans think
this is the best country:
box stores and strip malls.
Garden gnomes posed peeing.
Near the aisle selling
pistols, row after row
of dog toys.
No Eurasian Jays here
in the states, birds
pinkish with brilliant blue
front of the wings.
“Skraak-shraak” is their voice,
along with mimicry,
including vultures. I would
like to be able to imitate
a vulture here in America,
where the living are often faced
with dead around us,
in the faces of that family posing
with their automatic weapons
around the Christmas tree.
The meth freaks begging
for change, for change,
not the coins
someone gives them outside
of the farmer’s market.
Sandyhook didn’t happen,
says the conservative talk show host.
I listen like a vulture
ready to rend flesh.
I am violent too, believing
a thousand words
are worth a picture.
I am definitely
my country’s progeny,
my bright plumage as
necessary as camouflage
as I line up on the other side.
Sunday, June 12, 2022
Saturday, June 11, 2022
Scarcity In the Neighborhood
for Michael
by Ellen Woods
I see you as I walk from my apartment near
Temescal Alley shops that make up
what has become home to you for years
you lie on the sidewalk next to Shoe
Palace gazing up wrapped in a blue sleeping bag
your shoes beside you worn untied
your hands rest on your chest fingers beat out rhythm
as if playing saxophone lost in revery
lined face sunburned by years outside belies your age
do you have family? case manager who gives
you meds? SSI check? bed at a shelter?
board and care you leave to come here?
you crawl out of the sleep sack stand up stretch
lift a grey hoody to your chest struggle to put your arms and
head through openings repeat with sweater
you make eye contact with me as I get in my car
I hold the connection fight the urge to look down
you sway shadow-box demons deride you
mutter about the devil pull out a joint
light inhale pace back and forth
wriggle back in your blue bag bury your head
people pass by leave unsolicited offerings dollar bills
pizza piece of cheesecake blanket pillow
can’t bear your scarcity afraid of our own
weeks in December you were gone neighbors
left coats hats scarfs even shoes in your spot
despairing helpless fearing your fate
you came back New Year’s Day dressed in fitted brown
slacks a pressed shirt shiny brown leather shoes
clean hair cut short sat at outdoor café sipping a drink
I said hello you nodded looked away tapped your fingers
you were compliant medicated functioning
within the week you return barefoot claim your site on the sidewalk
I see you as I walk from my apartment near
Temescal Alley shops that make up
what has become home to you for years
you lie on the sidewalk next to Shoe
Palace gazing up wrapped in a blue sleeping bag
your shoes beside you worn untied
your hands rest on your chest fingers beat out rhythm
as if playing saxophone lost in revery
lined face sunburned by years outside belies your age
do you have family? case manager who gives
you meds? SSI check? bed at a shelter?
board and care you leave to come here?
you crawl out of the sleep sack stand up stretch
lift a grey hoody to your chest struggle to put your arms and
head through openings repeat with sweater
you make eye contact with me as I get in my car
I hold the connection fight the urge to look down
you sway shadow-box demons deride you
mutter about the devil pull out a joint
light inhale pace back and forth
wriggle back in your blue bag bury your head
people pass by leave unsolicited offerings dollar bills
pizza piece of cheesecake blanket pillow
can’t bear your scarcity afraid of our own
weeks in December you were gone neighbors
left coats hats scarfs even shoes in your spot
despairing helpless fearing your fate
you came back New Year’s Day dressed in fitted brown
slacks a pressed shirt shiny brown leather shoes
clean hair cut short sat at outdoor café sipping a drink
I said hello you nodded looked away tapped your fingers
you were compliant medicated functioning
within the week you return barefoot claim your site on the sidewalk
Chicken Sandwich
by Fern G. Z. Carr
Tarragon-seasoned chicken breast
sandwiched
between grilled apple rings,
melted mozzarella and crisp arugula
on lightly toasted focaccia
secured by a long, rounded toothpick
crowned with red foil loops
in an embossed Styrofoam container –
gourmet takeout.
A haggard soul taps the driver's-side window
of a stopped car;
right arm amputated at the elbow,
left hand missing three fingers,
tap, tap, tapping and beg, beg, begging
for spare change
when dulcet words sing from the sidewalk –
"Excuse me, would you like a sandwich?”
Body twitches and spins around,
victim of the street – cruel dominatrix.
Startled eyes inch forward;
he snatches the feast
between his stump and remaining digits
and devours it.
A quavering voice behind a long-lost smile
whispers, "Thank you".
Another quavering voice whispers,
“You’re welcome.”
Tarragon-seasoned chicken breast
sandwiched
between grilled apple rings,
melted mozzarella and crisp arugula
on lightly toasted focaccia
secured by a long, rounded toothpick
crowned with red foil loops
in an embossed Styrofoam container –
gourmet takeout.
A haggard soul taps the driver's-side window
of a stopped car;
right arm amputated at the elbow,
left hand missing three fingers,
tap, tap, tapping and beg, beg, begging
for spare change
when dulcet words sing from the sidewalk –
"Excuse me, would you like a sandwich?”
Body twitches and spins around,
victim of the street – cruel dominatrix.
Startled eyes inch forward;
he snatches the feast
between his stump and remaining digits
and devours it.
A quavering voice behind a long-lost smile
whispers, "Thank you".
Another quavering voice whispers,
“You’re welcome.”
Wednesday, June 8, 2022
Tuesday, June 7, 2022
When the Movement Becomes Corporate
by Chris Butler
Black lives matter,
except to those who pay
Walmart's child slaves
pennies a day
to stitch the same
three letters
on flags, t-shirts, baseball caps
and pandemic masks,
because every traffic stop
that ends in murder
results in a fiery riot,
meaning another thousand units
will be sold for a profit.
Sunday, June 5, 2022
needy wants
by Geoffrey Aitken
a reminder says my case manager
i placed want above need
authority requested i adjust my behaviour
gamely i procure
my ridiculously slim lotto chance
bus ride general impotence
home
to unpack my loneliness
i save arguments from my pension
tuck them away
purchase ammunition
for my handgun
i clean and oil it’s engraved butt
‘i need to be a superhero’
a reminder says my case manager
i placed want above need
authority requested i adjust my behaviour
gamely i procure
my ridiculously slim lotto chance
bus ride general impotence
home
to unpack my loneliness
i save arguments from my pension
tuck them away
purchase ammunition
for my handgun
i clean and oil it’s engraved butt
‘i need to be a superhero’
River and Willow
by Peter Mladinic
I’ve come back to the weeping willow on the river bend,
to what was here before I was born.
I’ve brought no water.
For this river is the source of all water, though its brown.
The willow across the river,
the source of all green, makes me think of its opposite:
a crushed Pepsi can
on a cement stump in a parking lot behind a theater
one early night in March,
an image that stays with me here on the riverbank,
though I’ve long forgotten images on the theater screen
that night.
I took a black and white of the willow.
By the time I saw the crushed can on the cement stump
I’d lost the tree’s image,
which encompassed woods behind it, and river,
the part where the river curved, and back above it.
I’ve come back from a walk along a busy road,
which reminds me of a walk along a runway, uphill,
a runway for small planes,
on the hilltop an adobe house built by a pilot
in whose plane I flew,
years after seeing the crushed can on the cement stump
close to a brick wall that night, years ago.
I’ve come back to the weeping willow on the river bend,
to what was here before I was born.
I’ve brought no water.
For this river is the source of all water, though its brown.
The willow across the river,
the source of all green, makes me think of its opposite:
a crushed Pepsi can
on a cement stump in a parking lot behind a theater
one early night in March,
an image that stays with me here on the riverbank,
though I’ve long forgotten images on the theater screen
that night.
I took a black and white of the willow.
By the time I saw the crushed can on the cement stump
I’d lost the tree’s image,
which encompassed woods behind it, and river,
the part where the river curved, and back above it.
I’ve come back from a walk along a busy road,
which reminds me of a walk along a runway, uphill,
a runway for small planes,
on the hilltop an adobe house built by a pilot
in whose plane I flew,
years after seeing the crushed can on the cement stump
close to a brick wall that night, years ago.
Friday, June 3, 2022
Accents Spoken Here
by David Chorlton
Can you spot an accent flying past?
When a word is spoken
with a jagged edge,
or a sentence takes wing
in the French manner
is it polite
to ask Where are you from?
Changing countries is very much
like undressing in Mexico
and crossing over naked
before covering oneself up
in the language spoken here.
Where does the border run between
curiosity and being rude
when an agent for La Migra listens
from inside every syllable?
The lady at the register
asks Did you find all you vere looking for?
and her life story hangs
on a single consonant, but she’s happy
to say I am Russian, I am Czech, I am
from Poland, and sometimes a smile
rocks back and forth on
her immigrant face. But for others
a sentence is a tunnel
through which to crawl to get away,
to begin underground, part
the soil, climb
up into the light
and continue the journey far,
far away, until
all that remains of a homeland
are the scratches it has made
on every word now spoken.
Wednesday, June 1, 2022
8:50 P.M.
by Jeff Burt
Below a dead cottonwood
snapped in two by lightning
thirty feet up, wind-stirred
preened owl feathers flutter,
lift, loft, drift like ash
from a campfire. Hungry owlets
already own the darkening.
Below a dead cottonwood
snapped in two by lightning
thirty feet up, wind-stirred
preened owl feathers flutter,
lift, loft, drift like ash
from a campfire. Hungry owlets
already own the darkening.
Words
by Ann Chiappetta
The slough
The stew
The rings of the tree
The trinity
Majesty
Taking a knee
Apathy falls into
the tarred fangs
of night.
Monday, May 30, 2022
Sunday, May 29, 2022
3D
by Ian Mullins
They carve two days of fat
from the seven-day sirloin
and say here, they’re yours,
cook them how you like: but why
do they consume the other five?
Are they children I send off
to school so I can keep
the others alive? Monday’s child
is no less beautiful that Sunday’s;
but there she troops, down into
the work-face. I surrender her sisters
to teach them the life-lesson that crowns,
like bullets, are randomly aimed
at random heads, but who demands
I teach them such lessons?
No one but the puppet master
at the heart of the world, telling us
the strings are only there to keep us
tall and straight, so we can look on
with pride as he separates our children
into dreamers, drudges or dregs.
They carve two days of fat
from the seven-day sirloin
and say here, they’re yours,
cook them how you like: but why
do they consume the other five?
Are they children I send off
to school so I can keep
the others alive? Monday’s child
is no less beautiful that Sunday’s;
but there she troops, down into
the work-face. I surrender her sisters
to teach them the life-lesson that crowns,
like bullets, are randomly aimed
at random heads, but who demands
I teach them such lessons?
No one but the puppet master
at the heart of the world, telling us
the strings are only there to keep us
tall and straight, so we can look on
with pride as he separates our children
into dreamers, drudges or dregs.
Thursday, May 26, 2022
A Madman and His Manifesto
by Chris Butler
On full auto,
whether it be
desperation for attention,
a legacy everyone
would rather forget,
mental illness
or just your everyday
monster,
On full auto,
whether it be
desperation for attention,
a legacy everyone
would rather forget,
mental illness
or just your everyday
monster,
types one hundred pages
of grammatical errors,
misspellings and gibberish
and posts warnings all over
sites for freedom of speech,
to prove there is
no right to life
in a classroom
with students hiding
under their desks,
waiting for the monster
and his endless ammunition
to walk down the hall
and open their door.
But there are so many
mass shooters,
no one is going to remember
the last one
because there will always be
a next one.
Wednesday, May 25, 2022
In the last five minutes of a storm
by Ann Chiappetta
The acrid scent of convergence
Of damp pressure
The rush and fullness of rivers
The tingle of charged atoms on skin.
The acrid scent of convergence
Of damp pressure
The rush and fullness of rivers
The tingle of charged atoms on skin.
Monday, May 23, 2022
Jacob's Ladder
by Ian Mullins
‘Own it,’ he says;
but if I own the job
the job owns me, and I’ve
too much to lose
to allow that to happen.
Owned men are too much
in love with their chains to feel
the stallion’s weight on their
donkey backs. They wear
their chains the same way
they wear their beer bellies;
fashioned so proudly they can’t
stand up without them.
And behind them a long chain
of owned men, every link
leading back to the man
who owns the joint,
lashing the long whip
and looking fearfully at
the little man who pulls the chain
locking him to his chair,
his boardroom, his life.
Jacob Marley, CEO;
patiently forging new links.
‘Own it,’ he says;
but if I own the job
the job owns me, and I’ve
too much to lose
to allow that to happen.
Owned men are too much
in love with their chains to feel
the stallion’s weight on their
donkey backs. They wear
their chains the same way
they wear their beer bellies;
fashioned so proudly they can’t
stand up without them.
And behind them a long chain
of owned men, every link
leading back to the man
who owns the joint,
lashing the long whip
and looking fearfully at
the little man who pulls the chain
locking him to his chair,
his boardroom, his life.
Jacob Marley, CEO;
patiently forging new links.
Sunday, May 22, 2022
Saturday, May 21, 2022
Climate Change
by Ceri Marriott
A deserted tree
An empty nest
All the rest
Gone with the weather
Save one lone feather
No birds
To be heard
Just a gaping space
Which was their place
Wednesday, May 18, 2022
Tuesday, May 17, 2022
Chaco Canyon
by Elizabeth Hykes
Drummers pound sound down the ancient palisade
behind the busy market announcing arrival
of persons of stature bearing high quality goods
or perhaps they drum in a time of spirits.
A sun-browned hand raises the beater high
then bangs it down and the feet of all the shoppers,
of all the merchants tap, and their shoulders rise
in unison one with the sound.
Reds and golds, browns and greens of woven blankets
Brighten the breeze as we
turn our heads just enough
for air to move our hair back and kiss our ears.
We shade our eyes with our hands as we look
across the fields along the road to mysterious places
we have only heard about from travelers.
There, way off in the distance is something large, shiny,
fast, followed closely by a huge, roiling cloud.
No animal pulls the odd contraption.
As the shiny thing approaches, Sun seems to grow,
Seems to scar all-that-is with flames.
Overheated, we watch the apparition get too, too close
then slowly disappear as the signal pulse
crescendo echoes down the rocky palisades.
Drummers pound sound down the ancient palisade
behind the busy market announcing arrival
of persons of stature bearing high quality goods
or perhaps they drum in a time of spirits.
A sun-browned hand raises the beater high
then bangs it down and the feet of all the shoppers,
of all the merchants tap, and their shoulders rise
in unison one with the sound.
Reds and golds, browns and greens of woven blankets
Brighten the breeze as we
turn our heads just enough
for air to move our hair back and kiss our ears.
We shade our eyes with our hands as we look
across the fields along the road to mysterious places
we have only heard about from travelers.
There, way off in the distance is something large, shiny,
fast, followed closely by a huge, roiling cloud.
No animal pulls the odd contraption.
As the shiny thing approaches, Sun seems to grow,
Seems to scar all-that-is with flames.
Overheated, we watch the apparition get too, too close
then slowly disappear as the signal pulse
crescendo echoes down the rocky palisades.
Monday, May 16, 2022
Spring Moon
by Deborah A. Bennett
grave stone
over which a white moth passes -
spring moon
the thing that falls away
is myself -
spring moon
over which a white moth passes -
spring moon
the thing that falls away
is myself -
spring moon
forgetting the world
is only a drop of water -
spring moon
picture of the wind
the grief it belongs to -
spring moon
