When I Touch Your Cheek
By John Ogden
Your eyes, to me,
are like the shining mirrors of heavensent angels,
They call me, pull me in, devour me.
Your lips slide across mine with a wet touch,
Erotic, unstoppable, stirring
Until my whole being is electric fire,
Until I am alive,
With you, above you, within you
And when I touch your cheek,
Fall into your arms, your being,
I see the colors of fate and need,
I see the shapes of the mind,
The elegant curves
Of life in your belly
Of things yet to come.
- - -
John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
8/30/10
An Agony of Love
By Ron Koppelberger
- - -
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.
By Ron Koppelberger
Tender love and interposed depths
Of ageless pleasure,
The pause in passionate loves descried by the
Promised assurance of Eden and velvet
Sashay, a renegade kiss,
An agony of love in cascades of rain.
Of ageless pleasure,
The pause in passionate loves descried by the
Promised assurance of Eden and velvet
Sashay, a renegade kiss,
An agony of love in cascades of rain.
- - -
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.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
8/29/10
Writing a Love Poem
By Charlie Malone
I.
There is a boy in my math class with whom I am deeply and totally in love, based solely on superficial physical attraction, though I have naturally convinced myself that we share a deep connection and that his personality, or what I know if it, is one I would, should I ever actually speak to him--unlikely in and of itself--mesh with excellently. I probably wouldn't.
This, of course, isn't poetic, nor is it a poem. Also it's not a very good story.
II.
There is a boy
in my math class
with whom
I am
deeply
and totally
in love,
based solely
on superficial physical attraction,
though I have
naturally
convinced myself
that we share
a deep connection
and that his
personality, or
what I know of it,
is one I would,
should I ever
actually speak
to him--
unlikely in
and of
itself--
mesh with
excellently.
I probably wouldn't.
Now it looks like a poem. But that superficial attraction bit does me no good. And math class sounds too adolescent. I shall make it dramatic now.
III.
There is a boy
I love,
and I know,
I'll take my
love
to the grave,
but if one day
I find a voice,
I know
we'll share something
beautiful.
Too dramatic now. Sounds too teary. I must get a grip.
IV.
There was a boy
I knew
and tried to
love,
but slipped
right from
my arms.
And now I sound like an idiot.
V.
Love sucks.
- - -
Charlie Malone is a high school student with a love for art, music, literature, and theater. She's been writing since she learned how, and first started writing poetry when she was thirteen and realized it didn't take as long as a story did.
By Charlie Malone
I.
There is a boy in my math class with whom I am deeply and totally in love, based solely on superficial physical attraction, though I have naturally convinced myself that we share a deep connection and that his personality, or what I know if it, is one I would, should I ever actually speak to him--unlikely in and of itself--mesh with excellently. I probably wouldn't.
This, of course, isn't poetic, nor is it a poem. Also it's not a very good story.
II.
There is a boy
in my math class
with whom
I am
deeply
and totally
in love,
based solely
on superficial physical attraction,
though I have
naturally
convinced myself
that we share
a deep connection
and that his
personality, or
what I know of it,
is one I would,
should I ever
actually speak
to him--
unlikely in
and of
itself--
mesh with
excellently.
I probably wouldn't.
Now it looks like a poem. But that superficial attraction bit does me no good. And math class sounds too adolescent. I shall make it dramatic now.
III.
There is a boy
I love,
and I know,
I'll take my
love
to the grave,
but if one day
I find a voice,
I know
we'll share something
beautiful.
Too dramatic now. Sounds too teary. I must get a grip.
IV.
There was a boy
I knew
and tried to
love,
but slipped
right from
my arms.
And now I sound like an idiot.
V.
Love sucks.
- - -
Charlie Malone is a high school student with a love for art, music, literature, and theater. She's been writing since she learned how, and first started writing poetry when she was thirteen and realized it didn't take as long as a story did.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
8/28/10
Undone
By Felicia Aguilar
Mona stared at the shattered pieces of glass on the floor and then turned on James.
“You’re not even going to clean it up, are you?”
He gave her an uncaring glare. “Pick up your own damn mess.”
“You did this, you know,” she said. “You ruined everything.”
"Yeah, well you keep sticking around, don't you?"
"For better or worse, James. I guess I'm the only one that values our vows."
James turned and walked out of the room then, muttering something about her being a crazy bitch. At that moment, Mona felt crazy. She had thrown the bell and aimed right for his head. It hit the wall behind him instead. She'd seen the strange numbers and text messages on his phone again. Four affairs in five years of marriage. Mona didn’t know why she’d put up with it for so long. He was never going to change.
She bent down and began picking up the shards of glass one by one. She had collected glass bells all her life, but her favorite was the one given to her by James on their wedding day. It was pure white with an emerald hummingbird on top and their wedding date engraved on the bottom. Now the hummingbird lay scattered in several different places on the floor, the bell broken and chipped. It wasn’t beyond repair but it would take a massive effort to return it to its former state.
Mona cradled the pieces in her hands wondering how she would get them back together. She could glue it all but what would that accomplish? In a few years, the glue would come undone. The shards would splinter apart again and the cracks in the bell would be plainly visible for everyone to see.
Mona thought better of it, and swept it all into the trash instead.
- - -
Felicia Aguilar has been writing stories all of her life. Her work has been published in The NW Drizzle, Postcard Shorts, Daily Love, and the Flash Fiction Offensive. She lives in Dallas, Texas and is the mother to two wild toddler children, and wife to a wonderful husband who supports all of her creative endeavors. More of her work can be seen at http://www.editred.com/whyshewrote.
By Felicia Aguilar
Mona stared at the shattered pieces of glass on the floor and then turned on James.
“You’re not even going to clean it up, are you?”
He gave her an uncaring glare. “Pick up your own damn mess.”
“You did this, you know,” she said. “You ruined everything.”
"Yeah, well you keep sticking around, don't you?"
"For better or worse, James. I guess I'm the only one that values our vows."
James turned and walked out of the room then, muttering something about her being a crazy bitch. At that moment, Mona felt crazy. She had thrown the bell and aimed right for his head. It hit the wall behind him instead. She'd seen the strange numbers and text messages on his phone again. Four affairs in five years of marriage. Mona didn’t know why she’d put up with it for so long. He was never going to change.
She bent down and began picking up the shards of glass one by one. She had collected glass bells all her life, but her favorite was the one given to her by James on their wedding day. It was pure white with an emerald hummingbird on top and their wedding date engraved on the bottom. Now the hummingbird lay scattered in several different places on the floor, the bell broken and chipped. It wasn’t beyond repair but it would take a massive effort to return it to its former state.
Mona cradled the pieces in her hands wondering how she would get them back together. She could glue it all but what would that accomplish? In a few years, the glue would come undone. The shards would splinter apart again and the cracks in the bell would be plainly visible for everyone to see.
Mona thought better of it, and swept it all into the trash instead.
- - -
Felicia Aguilar has been writing stories all of her life. Her work has been published in The NW Drizzle, Postcard Shorts, Daily Love, and the Flash Fiction Offensive. She lives in Dallas, Texas and is the mother to two wild toddler children, and wife to a wonderful husband who supports all of her creative endeavors. More of her work can be seen at http://www.editred.com/whyshewrote.
Friday, August 27, 2010
8/27/10
Acquaintance
By Kortnee Tilson
I met you at a dinner party, she was my best friend and she loved you; she wanted me to meet you. I thought you were pretentious and I didn’t like you or the way you talked about the world. I would never confess this though, my opinion mattered so much to her and she was unusually happy with you; I didn’t want to ruin it.
I ran into you at the supermarket once, we exchanged awkward hello’s and you looked into my cart with your Bettie Davis eyes. Canned Soup, dry roasted peanuts, lilac hand lotion. I could tell you were thinking: unremarkable, normal. I looked at your food basket, organic fruit, recycled toilet paper, and fair trade coffee. Even by means of stocking refrigerators, you were more attractive.
You liked wine, and more specifically, you liked to discuss wine. You were happy, complacent…I couldn’t compare, I wouldn’t try.
Once, you were drunk at her place and you fell asleep on the sofa. I sat next to you, uncomfortable, because I could no longer be on my feet (we had been dancing the night before, my limbs always ached for miles). I could smell your New Zealand Pino Noir breath in the air, practically see the zzz’s drifting from your open mouth. You slept as normal people sleep and this surprised me. Then I noticed, from where I was sitting, that your nose was slightly crooked and your eyebrows were uneven.
When you awoke, I shut my eyes and let you think I had been asleep too. Though I still didn’t like you, I didn’t want you to feel embarrassed. You could have been snoring, there could have been drool dripping from your mouth. I wondered if you were studying my face just then. If you were looking at my flaws and my features. As the weight on the couch shifted and you stood up, I heard you mutter,
“Pale…”
The other night I had a dream, I was invisible. I was drifting around the world, watching private scenes unfold and I was blissfully, happily content. I went to places I would never be seen in, I observed the world with no fear. I stood on a terrace in the evening and overlooked the city below me, the low lights fading in the distance. There were people of different nationalities, different ages, genders, and religions all around me- unaware I stood there just as predominant as ever but unseen, unacknowledged.
I turned around and you were there. Only you could see me
- - -
I'm a high school student who has been writing experimentally for a couple of years. I enjoy reading flash fiction romance and I thought I'd give it a try. In Acquaintance, romance and love is held in the undertones, I hope you all feel it even though it's vague.
By Kortnee Tilson
I met you at a dinner party, she was my best friend and she loved you; she wanted me to meet you. I thought you were pretentious and I didn’t like you or the way you talked about the world. I would never confess this though, my opinion mattered so much to her and she was unusually happy with you; I didn’t want to ruin it.
I ran into you at the supermarket once, we exchanged awkward hello’s and you looked into my cart with your Bettie Davis eyes. Canned Soup, dry roasted peanuts, lilac hand lotion. I could tell you were thinking: unremarkable, normal. I looked at your food basket, organic fruit, recycled toilet paper, and fair trade coffee. Even by means of stocking refrigerators, you were more attractive.
You liked wine, and more specifically, you liked to discuss wine. You were happy, complacent…I couldn’t compare, I wouldn’t try.
Once, you were drunk at her place and you fell asleep on the sofa. I sat next to you, uncomfortable, because I could no longer be on my feet (we had been dancing the night before, my limbs always ached for miles). I could smell your New Zealand Pino Noir breath in the air, practically see the zzz’s drifting from your open mouth. You slept as normal people sleep and this surprised me. Then I noticed, from where I was sitting, that your nose was slightly crooked and your eyebrows were uneven.
When you awoke, I shut my eyes and let you think I had been asleep too. Though I still didn’t like you, I didn’t want you to feel embarrassed. You could have been snoring, there could have been drool dripping from your mouth. I wondered if you were studying my face just then. If you were looking at my flaws and my features. As the weight on the couch shifted and you stood up, I heard you mutter,
“Pale…”
The other night I had a dream, I was invisible. I was drifting around the world, watching private scenes unfold and I was blissfully, happily content. I went to places I would never be seen in, I observed the world with no fear. I stood on a terrace in the evening and overlooked the city below me, the low lights fading in the distance. There were people of different nationalities, different ages, genders, and religions all around me- unaware I stood there just as predominant as ever but unseen, unacknowledged.
I turned around and you were there. Only you could see me
- - -
I'm a high school student who has been writing experimentally for a couple of years. I enjoy reading flash fiction romance and I thought I'd give it a try. In Acquaintance, romance and love is held in the undertones, I hope you all feel it even though it's vague.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
8/26/10
Silent Touch
By Ron Koppelberger
- - -
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.
By Ron Koppelberger
Hyacinth perfections in azure prayers of romance,
In mischief and wild coquette,
The passion of teardrop honey in amber
Asylums of beauty, existing for the love of silent
Touch and swathed assurances of devotion,
Wandering by the precious flame of
Yearning hearts.
In mischief and wild coquette,
The passion of teardrop honey in amber
Asylums of beauty, existing for the love of silent
Touch and swathed assurances of devotion,
Wandering by the precious flame of
Yearning hearts.
- - -
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.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
8/24/10
Desperate Affection
By Ron Koppelberger
- - -
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.
By Ron Koppelberger
The blessings of sunrise attentions
And indigo fray in tentative
Excursions of dawn, a vagabond flame
In magic charms of affected desire,
The yearning want of mysterious
Romance and enchanted allure, a beloved
Balance between the need of trifles and desperate
Affection.
And indigo fray in tentative
Excursions of dawn, a vagabond flame
In magic charms of affected desire,
The yearning want of mysterious
Romance and enchanted allure, a beloved
Balance between the need of trifles and desperate
Affection.
- - -
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.
Monday, August 23, 2010
8/23/10
Love Is Moments, Not Necessarily Ours
By John Grey
Suddenly,
I spy the most beautiful girl in town -
I can’t help staring -
Joanna is jealous -
she wants to cut out the heart of all loveliness -
She believes love
should be able to walk
back and forth
in front of Grundy’s hardware store
a thousand times without once
allowing the wind that blows
up from the alleys,
out of the forest,
to get into her sails -
She believes love
should be heavy enough
to keep things here -
I will marry Joanna
because she is composed of years not seconds -
but the most beautiful girl in town -
she blows by in a Red Corvette,
blue eyes, a slither of yellow hair -
she drives off into
the deepest part of my heart
and is never seen again -
- - -
Australian born poet, US resident since late seventies. Works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Connecticut Review, Alimentum and Writer’s Bloc with work upcoming in Pennsylvania English, Prism International and the Great American Poetry Show.
By John Grey
Suddenly,
I spy the most beautiful girl in town -
I can’t help staring -
Joanna is jealous -
she wants to cut out the heart of all loveliness -
She believes love
should be able to walk
back and forth
in front of Grundy’s hardware store
a thousand times without once
allowing the wind that blows
up from the alleys,
out of the forest,
to get into her sails -
She believes love
should be heavy enough
to keep things here -
I will marry Joanna
because she is composed of years not seconds -
but the most beautiful girl in town -
she blows by in a Red Corvette,
blue eyes, a slither of yellow hair -
she drives off into
the deepest part of my heart
and is never seen again -
- - -
Australian born poet, US resident since late seventies. Works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Connecticut Review, Alimentum and Writer’s Bloc with work upcoming in Pennsylvania English, Prism International and the Great American Poetry Show.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
8/22/10
Touch and Tumult
By Ron Koppelberger
- - -
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.
By 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.
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.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
8/21/10
Coy Rapture
By Ron Koppelberger
- - -
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.
By 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.
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.
Friday, August 20, 2010
8/20/10
About That Kiss
By John Grey
Let me tell you
a little about these eyes.
It’s seeing
that I’m paying them for.
Maybe on their break
they can look sultry,
flutter, all the stuff
that says I’m interested.
But their chief duty
is to look out at
what I’m interested in.
Then they report
to the brain they work for.
As for the brain.
It earns a good salary
to think.
It works long hours
but yes, it does get time off
now and again.
Then, the mind clocks out.
The lips punch in.
- - -
Australian born poet, US resident since late seventies. Works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Connecticut Review, Alimentum and Writer’s Bloc with work upcoming in Pennsylvania English, Prism International and the Great American Poetry Show.
By John Grey
Let me tell you
a little about these eyes.
It’s seeing
that I’m paying them for.
Maybe on their break
they can look sultry,
flutter, all the stuff
that says I’m interested.
But their chief duty
is to look out at
what I’m interested in.
Then they report
to the brain they work for.
As for the brain.
It earns a good salary
to think.
It works long hours
but yes, it does get time off
now and again.
Then, the mind clocks out.
The lips punch in.
- - -
Australian born poet, US resident since late seventies. Works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Connecticut Review, Alimentum and Writer’s Bloc with work upcoming in Pennsylvania English, Prism International and the Great American Poetry Show.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
8/19/10
On The Net
By Santana Burton
You instantly fell in love with me the first time we met on the net
By Santana Burton
You instantly fell in love with me the first time we met on the net
I didn’t realize at the time but I do now
We spent hours on end talking on the net
Getting to know each other better
Until you said the words which I never knew meant
I love you...
I was speechless but couldn’t say it back
He understood but continued to say it anyway
Despite the fact that I hadn’t said it back
Remember, we haven’t yet met, just only on the net.
Months had passed and I finally learned what that special word meant
I love you too I proclaimed it, loudly and happily
Not caring who heard at all
We decided to meet and boy, that was the best moment of my life
We instantly hit it off and we had chemistry
We both felt it and sparks flew when we kissed, our tongues dancing in tune
At that moment in time, nothing mattered
I was yours and you were mine
We are now together
Even though we have had our rough patches
We have said our goodbyes our sorrys and our forgivemess
But despite that
We still love each other unconditionally and we always will
I found my true soul mate
And after everything that we’ve been through
I have no regrets
Because he was the one for me
The guy I met on the net
- - -
My name is Santana Burton and i'm currently a student, 17 years old. I write short little stories in my spare time. This particular one was written last year. I love this short piece alot. It's about loving someone and how they can affect your whole life yet still be in it to this day even though your not together. I'm aspiring to either be a journalist or a Psychiatrist. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
8/18/10
The Wholly Visible Man
By William C. Burns, Jr.
There was this kid
Who was born in the last century
And he was wholly visible
I mean you couldn't see his internal organs
or anything like that
But you could see his thoughts and passions
They were literally written all over his face
His mother noticed it first
When she breast fed him
she saw rivers of satisfaction coursing his face
She saw tornados of anger encircle his arms
Saw oceans of flight churn his running legs
Saw needles of hate slide down his fingers
toward his sister
His mother took him to a doctor
Before his dad might notice
And he referred her to a specialist
Who referred her to another specialist
Who told her
"That's the damndest thing I've ever seen."
"What can we do?"
"I have no idea."
Rumor has it that they removed vestidule wings from his shoulder
But there is no supporting evidence
His mother home schooled him
She made excuses
She tried makeup
Tried etiquette classes
Tried hypnosis and fortune tellers
His mother later ran off with the circus
To live with gypsies
We will not go into the difficulty
His condition presented when he tried to date
Think about it
His every whim and fancy in full view
What self respecting girl would want to see all that
He completed a college degree in interactive art
With an minor in microprocessor interfacing design
They built an entire new wing
On the proceeds of his patents of the sensu-sound theatre systems
He changed his name
And retired into seclusion
disappearing from the public eye
The Chameleon Effect
The young girl said
"How do you do that?"
He said
"You can't see me."
She said
"Yeah you're right there
and there and
you are very hard to see
I agree
But there you are."
And she laughed
He turned and tried to walk away
But she caught his arm
"I just want to know
How you do that.
Can you teach me?"
"I doubt it."
"It's a neat trick."
"Don't you need to be some other place?"
"Nope."
And there they stood
for the better part of an hour
"Does your mother know you talk to strangers?"
"Nope. Besides you aren't a stranger.
I see you here almost every day.
What's your name?"
"What?"
"Your name
What's your name?"
And for perhaps the first time
He looked into the eyes of another
And found humanity
"Finton
Finton Silverwryn."
"That's a nice name
My name is Natisha and I'm seven years old
Everybody says I look more like I'm nine
but I'm seven."
"Natisha
How do you see me?"
"I can't see you straight on
But if I look at the edges you are knida blurry
You come here to this bench almost every day
And you look around
I remember when the fat lady almost sat on you."
"Natisha most people never see me
And the ones that do don't like it."
"Oh
I like it OK
Besides I'm just a girl
And no one sees me either.
Ut-Oh I hear mom calling,
Bye."
"Bye Natisha."
And for the first time in forty three years
Finton felt something akin to . . .
Well he didn't have words for it
He only knew that he would miss Natisha
And he did
As the days passed Natisha
Traded kindness for indifference
Traded gentleness for coolness
Finton never stood a chance
He showed her that he could become invisible
By becoming one with the world around him
He would let the sunlight flow through my heart
He would let the wind course his hair
He would open himself to the setting sun
And at night
If he focused really hard
He could become the tiny points of light
A Whisp of a Girl
It took a whisp of a girl
to teach me love
Me
a man
Twice her age
And millions of years older
in Spirit
In Truth
And yet . . .
And yet
this child
She has touched
my inner heart
Beneath all the scars
Within the scream
within the silence
between the stars
How could a hand
so pale and thin
How could fingers so
long and delicate
How could eyes
so fragile and brown
Dig through this filth and
Find the man
who owns my soul
Telling him
a tonal poem
Singing him
into existence
Bringing him to light
Many are the mysteries of this world
From the pyramids
to the fetus
And many are the things
I do not understand
But I will take up this moment
this strange glittering moment
Found here in this desert
by her gentle hand
And with it
I will fill my chest
with breath
then song
And if the Day passes
into Night
And the sky
goes limitless with stars
Then tomorrow's sun
will find me singing
To a whisp of a girl
who taught me love
A girl with hands so pale and thin
Fingers so long and delicate
Eyes so fragile and brown
Singing . . .
Singing me back
into existence
Tsunami
Before the Tsunami
There comes a terrifying stillness
Before the wave comes a time when the Sea
is drawn back
Like the blanket of your parent's bed
Revealing many strange . . . things
Things wriggling in the sand
Before the Tsunami
There comes an out-rush of the air
Before the wave the wind leaves the land
like exhaled breath
Whistling through tattered palm fronds
Singing a hissy whispered song of . . .
Death
And then comes the sound
Like the end of the World
And if your stupid enough to run down the beach
where the waters have ebbed
You will see the Sun in the heart of the Wave
It will of course
be the last thing you see
You see
Even little girls have to grow up sometime
Life in the Twenty First Century
There are many mansions
in the Land of Electronic Ghosts
There are many ways to get there
and many ways to leave
But there is always room
for you
There are shape-shifters
in the Land of Sport Utility Vehicles
Men and Women at all stations
all dimensions
And you never really know
Careless
She was more than a little . . .
casual
Had a way of leaving her smile
in strange parts of the room
And you'd find it there
and think
How'd this get here
Was it her plan
to let the ghost of her perfume
Become entangled
with time
in this room
Or was she just a little too . . .
careless
Listen
No
Listen
Do you hear that
Echoes of her whispers
In the torrent of noise
we call Life
Lingering here
like footprints
leading into the desert
Voyeurs
It was one of those really
uncomfortable moments
At the end of the play
When all the actors
came from behind the scenery
And lined up
along the lip of the stage
facing us
They just stood there
Staring . . .
Now up to that moment
We had been nameless gods
hovering in the quiet darkness
Untouchables
looking for . . .
Well we were looking for
A little entertainment
a moment's diversion
An amusement
Perhaps
And that was fine
As long as they remained
up there
inside the invisible walls
playing their parts by the rules
But now the house lights were on
And here they were
real people in make up
lined up along the barrier
Staring
at us
And we
the voyeurs
now revealed
Making uncomfortable eye contact
with the same people
We had been watching
The Moral Lesson
of The Curious Girl and the Beautiful Bird
A curious girl
Saw a bird
And caught it
But when she put it
In her beautiful cage
It thrashed madly about
She said
Just give it time
And it will calm down
But the beautiful bird
Grew evermore frantic
Breaking both wings
And bleeding from the mouth
She lifted its twitching body
Withdrew it from the cage
And threw it up in the air
Hoping it would fly
But it plummeted to the sidewalk
Twitched and screeched something
Perhaps a prayer for its own soul to God
In broken bird song
She refused to cry
And she goes about her days
Pretending everything was OK
Because the Truth
Is always just too painful to embrace,
which is kind of a shame
because if she would face the truth
there would be a purpose to all the suffering.
And the bird . . .
The ants and worms
Ate the remains
Finton's Lament
Finton sits at a table
An empty table in an empty room
the color of a pewter sky
Finton holds a wineglass
that might have been filled at some ancient time
But now cups cobwebs
Finton says
"The true nature of Love
is something I don't want to talk about
Which means that its probably important"
He says
"Its just a bunch of chemicals . . .
I mean its just a chemical reaction
When you react
to that . . . well to anything really"
Says
"There never was any real Magic
Just an evolution of revolutionary
neurotransmitters
Those brainless neurons might as well be
peeing on each other"
Finton sits at a table
Silent in a silent house
somewhere on the west side of town
Finton examines his wineglass
Sticks his finger into the glass
to dig out the cobwebs
Finton says
"The real question in any tragedy is this . . .
Did either of them have any real choice?"
Finton stands
Upends the table
Leaves by a door
The wineglass doesn't survive
Lonán
Lonán is one of those old testament kinda girls
Who can quote the Law
back and fore
But never really understand the Heart of it
Just not enough justice in all that 'forgive and be forgiven' for her
You know all those really rotten people getting off Scott free
just didn't work for her
Lonán wants the World to end
Because that is just the way it should be
Look at all the Chaos and Crime
That Cathulu thing
That's the way its gonna be
you just watch
Better you were never born
When Finton Met Lonán
They were two people with holes in them
And in the man the hole was the shape
of the super model genius that he would never meet
And in the woman the hole was the shape
of a fairy tale father
(or was it an abusive father, you can never really tell)
Finton could change his shape
by changing his mood
Lonán found this amusing
and even changed herself on occasion
Through the creative application of makeup
Thoughts On Facade
Sometimes I'm not nice
I've got to ask
Is there anything behind that mask?
I mean the facial expressions are first rate
But they never quite seem to sync up
Always a second late
or a moment early
I don't know if it's true
That women feel
they must change themselves
When they take that huge step
And while some seem to start out further from the brink
There are often cracks in the facades
It's not just about the facial expressions
It's about the natural language of your movements around the room
The way you always try to hide your hands
When you're doing anything real
It's not just about your natural language
It's about the Facade
The way you try to pretend when we're having an ordinary domestic quarrel
And that you are incapable of defending yourself
Lonán Departs
You know this was fun
Fun for a while
But now
its so . . . so . .
Troubled Dreams
The ivory Madonna
dressed in black
Fine pale pages
trimmed in jet
I have no dreams
But to open her
read her
Know her in every sense
The nubile
snow-flake princess
Vapor seed
from another place
I have no hands
But to touch her
melt her
Mixing her with my tears
Rescue Me
"Natisha
What's going on?
Do you realize that its 4:37 in the morning?"
"Rescue me."
"What?
Yes . .
What?"
"I want to see what are you feeling."
she offered
He knew better
"I-85 won't take you there."
he answered
"In fact I don't think
you can get there from here."
She looked down
scuffing the dirt
"I am not a tourist," she chided
"Look,
Take exit 32,
Hang a left.
You can figger it out from there."
"Rescue me."
She said
"I'll be there in a half hour."
Finton and Natisha
at the Bob Evan's Restaurant
She was a small,
broken angel in my hand
I wanted to take her
into the sky
to see the World
as a marble
a ball
and all your troubles,
are down there
and from here
they look so small
if you really get bored
you can zoom in
for a quick peek
to satisfy your curiosity
but up here
they can never
touch you
Natisha's Lament
Finton
I should not have told you the things I did
You were asking me about your worth
And I just couldn't believe it
I mean is it possible that you don't know
You should know
I shouldn't have to tell you
Its just what I said
I'm sorry it made you mad
Ancient history, right?
I'm not sure I agree with myself
Still thinking
Stripped
Careful
We are so careful
Careful to unravel all the daily threads
Of our tattered sleeve
So that we may cut through the flesh
And speak to each other
The bones of our soul
With a clear sincerity
You cut me
With your keen desire
Making a cavern
A hidden haven of love and affection
I mold you
your flesh
To match the whim and whirl
Of my adolescent yearnings
Frightened
Artful beings
Certain in the inner truth of us
at last
For we have seen ourselves
Stripped of the flesh
One cradled in the other
to Take It Up Again
The illness passes
The tolling bell in my head
is silent
And all that has passed
Amounts to nothing
None of this is real
Is this my strength
That my weakness passes
And I am too stupid
To learn
That I repeat my nonsense
finis
As the days passed Natisha
Traded kindness for indifference
Traded gentleness for coolness
Finton never stood a chance
- - -
To date I have been published in over one hundred hard copy small press magazines including Star*Line, The New Press Literary Quarterly based in Flushing NY, South Ash Press, and Slug Fest Ltd.
I also have close to one hundred on-line publication credits, including The Morpo Review, Quantum Muse, Disquieting Muses, Fashion Finds Fashion Magazine, Gravity: A Journal of Online Writing, and Terrain: A Journal of the Built & Natural Environments.
By William C. Burns, Jr.
There was this kid
Who was born in the last century
And he was wholly visible
I mean you couldn't see his internal organs
or anything like that
But you could see his thoughts and passions
They were literally written all over his face
His mother noticed it first
When she breast fed him
she saw rivers of satisfaction coursing his face
She saw tornados of anger encircle his arms
Saw oceans of flight churn his running legs
Saw needles of hate slide down his fingers
toward his sister
His mother took him to a doctor
Before his dad might notice
And he referred her to a specialist
Who referred her to another specialist
Who told her
"That's the damndest thing I've ever seen."
"What can we do?"
"I have no idea."
Rumor has it that they removed vestidule wings from his shoulder
But there is no supporting evidence
His mother home schooled him
She made excuses
She tried makeup
Tried etiquette classes
Tried hypnosis and fortune tellers
His mother later ran off with the circus
To live with gypsies
We will not go into the difficulty
His condition presented when he tried to date
Think about it
His every whim and fancy in full view
What self respecting girl would want to see all that
He completed a college degree in interactive art
With an minor in microprocessor interfacing design
They built an entire new wing
On the proceeds of his patents of the sensu-sound theatre systems
He changed his name
And retired into seclusion
disappearing from the public eye
The Chameleon Effect
The young girl said
"How do you do that?"
He said
"You can't see me."
She said
"Yeah you're right there
and there and
you are very hard to see
I agree
But there you are."
And she laughed
He turned and tried to walk away
But she caught his arm
"I just want to know
How you do that.
Can you teach me?"
"I doubt it."
"It's a neat trick."
"Don't you need to be some other place?"
"Nope."
And there they stood
for the better part of an hour
"Does your mother know you talk to strangers?"
"Nope. Besides you aren't a stranger.
I see you here almost every day.
What's your name?"
"What?"
"Your name
What's your name?"
And for perhaps the first time
He looked into the eyes of another
And found humanity
"Finton
Finton Silverwryn."
"That's a nice name
My name is Natisha and I'm seven years old
Everybody says I look more like I'm nine
but I'm seven."
"Natisha
How do you see me?"
"I can't see you straight on
But if I look at the edges you are knida blurry
You come here to this bench almost every day
And you look around
I remember when the fat lady almost sat on you."
"Natisha most people never see me
And the ones that do don't like it."
"Oh
I like it OK
Besides I'm just a girl
And no one sees me either.
Ut-Oh I hear mom calling,
Bye."
"Bye Natisha."
And for the first time in forty three years
Finton felt something akin to . . .
Well he didn't have words for it
He only knew that he would miss Natisha
And he did
As the days passed Natisha
Traded kindness for indifference
Traded gentleness for coolness
Finton never stood a chance
He showed her that he could become invisible
By becoming one with the world around him
He would let the sunlight flow through my heart
He would let the wind course his hair
He would open himself to the setting sun
And at night
If he focused really hard
He could become the tiny points of light
A Whisp of a Girl
It took a whisp of a girl
to teach me love
Me
a man
Twice her age
And millions of years older
in Spirit
In Truth
And yet . . .
And yet
this child
She has touched
my inner heart
Beneath all the scars
Within the scream
within the silence
between the stars
How could a hand
so pale and thin
How could fingers so
long and delicate
How could eyes
so fragile and brown
Dig through this filth and
Find the man
who owns my soul
Telling him
a tonal poem
Singing him
into existence
Bringing him to light
Many are the mysteries of this world
From the pyramids
to the fetus
And many are the things
I do not understand
But I will take up this moment
this strange glittering moment
Found here in this desert
by her gentle hand
And with it
I will fill my chest
with breath
then song
And if the Day passes
into Night
And the sky
goes limitless with stars
Then tomorrow's sun
will find me singing
To a whisp of a girl
who taught me love
A girl with hands so pale and thin
Fingers so long and delicate
Eyes so fragile and brown
Singing . . .
Singing me back
into existence
Tsunami
Before the Tsunami
There comes a terrifying stillness
Before the wave comes a time when the Sea
is drawn back
Like the blanket of your parent's bed
Revealing many strange . . . things
Things wriggling in the sand
Before the Tsunami
There comes an out-rush of the air
Before the wave the wind leaves the land
like exhaled breath
Whistling through tattered palm fronds
Singing a hissy whispered song of . . .
Death
And then comes the sound
Like the end of the World
And if your stupid enough to run down the beach
where the waters have ebbed
You will see the Sun in the heart of the Wave
It will of course
be the last thing you see
You see
Even little girls have to grow up sometime
Life in the Twenty First Century
There are many mansions
in the Land of Electronic Ghosts
There are many ways to get there
and many ways to leave
But there is always room
for you
There are shape-shifters
in the Land of Sport Utility Vehicles
Men and Women at all stations
all dimensions
And you never really know
Careless
She was more than a little . . .
casual
Had a way of leaving her smile
in strange parts of the room
And you'd find it there
and think
How'd this get here
Was it her plan
to let the ghost of her perfume
Become entangled
with time
in this room
Or was she just a little too . . .
careless
Listen
No
Listen
Do you hear that
Echoes of her whispers
In the torrent of noise
we call Life
Lingering here
like footprints
leading into the desert
Voyeurs
It was one of those really
uncomfortable moments
At the end of the play
When all the actors
came from behind the scenery
And lined up
along the lip of the stage
facing us
They just stood there
Staring . . .
Now up to that moment
We had been nameless gods
hovering in the quiet darkness
Untouchables
looking for . . .
Well we were looking for
A little entertainment
a moment's diversion
An amusement
Perhaps
And that was fine
As long as they remained
up there
inside the invisible walls
playing their parts by the rules
But now the house lights were on
And here they were
real people in make up
lined up along the barrier
Staring
at us
And we
the voyeurs
now revealed
Making uncomfortable eye contact
with the same people
We had been watching
The Moral Lesson
of The Curious Girl and the Beautiful Bird
A curious girl
Saw a bird
And caught it
But when she put it
In her beautiful cage
It thrashed madly about
She said
Just give it time
And it will calm down
But the beautiful bird
Grew evermore frantic
Breaking both wings
And bleeding from the mouth
She lifted its twitching body
Withdrew it from the cage
And threw it up in the air
Hoping it would fly
But it plummeted to the sidewalk
Twitched and screeched something
Perhaps a prayer for its own soul to God
In broken bird song
She refused to cry
And she goes about her days
Pretending everything was OK
Because the Truth
Is always just too painful to embrace,
which is kind of a shame
because if she would face the truth
there would be a purpose to all the suffering.
And the bird . . .
The ants and worms
Ate the remains
Finton's Lament
Finton sits at a table
An empty table in an empty room
the color of a pewter sky
Finton holds a wineglass
that might have been filled at some ancient time
But now cups cobwebs
Finton says
"The true nature of Love
is something I don't want to talk about
Which means that its probably important"
He says
"Its just a bunch of chemicals . . .
I mean its just a chemical reaction
When you react
to that . . . well to anything really"
Says
"There never was any real Magic
Just an evolution of revolutionary
neurotransmitters
Those brainless neurons might as well be
peeing on each other"
Finton sits at a table
Silent in a silent house
somewhere on the west side of town
Finton examines his wineglass
Sticks his finger into the glass
to dig out the cobwebs
Finton says
"The real question in any tragedy is this . . .
Did either of them have any real choice?"
Finton stands
Upends the table
Leaves by a door
The wineglass doesn't survive
Lonán
Lonán is one of those old testament kinda girls
Who can quote the Law
back and fore
But never really understand the Heart of it
Just not enough justice in all that 'forgive and be forgiven' for her
You know all those really rotten people getting off Scott free
just didn't work for her
Lonán wants the World to end
Because that is just the way it should be
Look at all the Chaos and Crime
That Cathulu thing
That's the way its gonna be
you just watch
Better you were never born
When Finton Met Lonán
They were two people with holes in them
And in the man the hole was the shape
of the super model genius that he would never meet
And in the woman the hole was the shape
of a fairy tale father
(or was it an abusive father, you can never really tell)
Finton could change his shape
by changing his mood
Lonán found this amusing
and even changed herself on occasion
Through the creative application of makeup
Thoughts On Facade
Sometimes I'm not nice
I've got to ask
Is there anything behind that mask?
I mean the facial expressions are first rate
But they never quite seem to sync up
Always a second late
or a moment early
I don't know if it's true
That women feel
they must change themselves
When they take that huge step
And while some seem to start out further from the brink
There are often cracks in the facades
It's not just about the facial expressions
It's about the natural language of your movements around the room
The way you always try to hide your hands
When you're doing anything real
It's not just about your natural language
It's about the Facade
The way you try to pretend when we're having an ordinary domestic quarrel
And that you are incapable of defending yourself
Lonán Departs
You know this was fun
Fun for a while
But now
its so . . . so . .
Troubled Dreams
The ivory Madonna
dressed in black
Fine pale pages
trimmed in jet
I have no dreams
But to open her
read her
Know her in every sense
The nubile
snow-flake princess
Vapor seed
from another place
I have no hands
But to touch her
melt her
Mixing her with my tears
Rescue Me
"Natisha
What's going on?
Do you realize that its 4:37 in the morning?"
"Rescue me."
"What?
Yes . .
What?"
"I want to see what are you feeling."
she offered
He knew better
"I-85 won't take you there."
he answered
"In fact I don't think
you can get there from here."
She looked down
scuffing the dirt
"I am not a tourist," she chided
"Look,
Take exit 32,
Hang a left.
You can figger it out from there."
"Rescue me."
She said
"I'll be there in a half hour."
Finton and Natisha
at the Bob Evan's Restaurant
She was a small,
broken angel in my hand
I wanted to take her
into the sky
to see the World
as a marble
a ball
and all your troubles,
are down there
and from here
they look so small
if you really get bored
you can zoom in
for a quick peek
to satisfy your curiosity
but up here
they can never
touch you
Natisha's Lament
Finton
I should not have told you the things I did
You were asking me about your worth
And I just couldn't believe it
I mean is it possible that you don't know
You should know
I shouldn't have to tell you
Its just what I said
I'm sorry it made you mad
Ancient history, right?
I'm not sure I agree with myself
Still thinking
Stripped
Careful
We are so careful
Careful to unravel all the daily threads
Of our tattered sleeve
So that we may cut through the flesh
And speak to each other
The bones of our soul
With a clear sincerity
You cut me
With your keen desire
Making a cavern
A hidden haven of love and affection
I mold you
your flesh
To match the whim and whirl
Of my adolescent yearnings
Frightened
Artful beings
Certain in the inner truth of us
at last
For we have seen ourselves
Stripped of the flesh
One cradled in the other
to Take It Up Again
The illness passes
The tolling bell in my head
is silent
And all that has passed
Amounts to nothing
None of this is real
Is this my strength
That my weakness passes
And I am too stupid
To learn
That I repeat my nonsense
finis
As the days passed Natisha
Traded kindness for indifference
Traded gentleness for coolness
Finton never stood a chance
- - -
To date I have been published in over one hundred hard copy small press magazines including Star*Line, The New Press Literary Quarterly based in Flushing NY, South Ash Press, and Slug Fest Ltd.
I also have close to one hundred on-line publication credits, including The Morpo Review, Quantum Muse, Disquieting Muses, Fashion Finds Fashion Magazine, Gravity: A Journal of Online Writing, and Terrain: A Journal of the Built & Natural Environments.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
8/17/10
Assist
By Amanda Lawrence Auverigne
Laura leaned back in her seat. She placed her pencil on the table before closing the lid of her buzzing laptop computer.
The young woman leaned back slightly in her chair and she placed the rear portion of her skull against the backrest of the seat. She closed her eyes and folded her hands across her abdomen before taking a deep breath.
A sudden burst of fatigue slowly passed over her form. Her breathing slowed while her body began to succumb to the luxury of sleep.
She was jarred from her respite when a pair of warm moist lips suddenly pressed lightly atop her mouth.
Laura sat up with a sputtering cough. She pressed her hand against her mouth while she gazed across the table.
The seat was empty.
A low shuffling noise filled the area before Melanie fell into the chair.
Melanie smiled at Laura sweetly while she placed her computer on the table.
“Good morning sweetheart,” Melanie said. She blinked rapidly with a surly smirk. “Did you sleep well?”
“Did you,” Laura began with a croak. She lowered her hand from her mouth and cleared her throat before continuing. “Did you just kiss me?”
“Um, I don’t know,” Melanie replied tentatively.
“Oh come on, it had to have been you.” Laura said. She licked her lips quickly.
“Wait, I’m tasting…sun ripened raspberries and citrus. Just like that lip gloss you bought from the Dollars and Mart store last week!” Laura exclaimed.
“You still don’t know it was me,” Melanie said sweetly.
“It was you because I can taste your gloss and you bought the last one. And plus your lips were all warm, soft and kissable and stuff,” Laura said softly.
“Why thank you, Laura. I think that’s the nicest thing any girl has ever said to me,” Melanie said softly.
Melanie leaned forward in her chair. “But it’s not me you should be thanking.”
“What?” Laura asked.
Melanie raised her sight from Laura’s face. She focused on something behind her.
Laura turned around and she stared at the space behind her.
A tall dark haired young man was standing behind her chair.
The handsome youth gazed at Laura with a sleepy smile. He held a slender tube of sun ripened raspberry and citrus flavored lip balm in his hand. He rubbed the edge of the waxy cosmetic across his full lips slowly.
The young man stopped the motion of his hand before lowering the thin canister from his mouth and snapping the small cap atop the tube.
The handsome youth slid the lip balm into his pocket with a wink in Laura’s direction before he turned around and walked away.
Laura turned around. She looked at the table in front of her with a painful grimace.
“Oh, he was so fine, Laura. And it looked like he can really kiss too. You should have gotten his number,” Melanie said.
“I have his number,” Laura said quietly.
“Really? So, you hooked up with him before?”
“No.”
“Then how do you have his number? Oh, he’s in the university register. You stalked him right?”
“No, Melanie. I have his number because he’s my damned TA.”
“What?”
“Yeah.”
“Which class?”
“Historical Perspectives on Mental Illness. Mondays and Wednesdays at 9am in the Hawthorne Building.”
“Oh, your early class.”
“Yup.”
“So, are you gonna go out with him?”
“Melanie, just shut up.”
- - -
Amanda Lawrence Auverigne writes fiction. A few of her stories have been published. "Assist" is one of her tales.
By Amanda Lawrence Auverigne
Laura leaned back in her seat. She placed her pencil on the table before closing the lid of her buzzing laptop computer.
The young woman leaned back slightly in her chair and she placed the rear portion of her skull against the backrest of the seat. She closed her eyes and folded her hands across her abdomen before taking a deep breath.
A sudden burst of fatigue slowly passed over her form. Her breathing slowed while her body began to succumb to the luxury of sleep.
She was jarred from her respite when a pair of warm moist lips suddenly pressed lightly atop her mouth.
Laura sat up with a sputtering cough. She pressed her hand against her mouth while she gazed across the table.
The seat was empty.
A low shuffling noise filled the area before Melanie fell into the chair.
Melanie smiled at Laura sweetly while she placed her computer on the table.
“Good morning sweetheart,” Melanie said. She blinked rapidly with a surly smirk. “Did you sleep well?”
“Did you,” Laura began with a croak. She lowered her hand from her mouth and cleared her throat before continuing. “Did you just kiss me?”
“Um, I don’t know,” Melanie replied tentatively.
“Oh come on, it had to have been you.” Laura said. She licked her lips quickly.
“Wait, I’m tasting…sun ripened raspberries and citrus. Just like that lip gloss you bought from the Dollars and Mart store last week!” Laura exclaimed.
“You still don’t know it was me,” Melanie said sweetly.
“It was you because I can taste your gloss and you bought the last one. And plus your lips were all warm, soft and kissable and stuff,” Laura said softly.
“Why thank you, Laura. I think that’s the nicest thing any girl has ever said to me,” Melanie said softly.
Melanie leaned forward in her chair. “But it’s not me you should be thanking.”
“What?” Laura asked.
Melanie raised her sight from Laura’s face. She focused on something behind her.
Laura turned around and she stared at the space behind her.
A tall dark haired young man was standing behind her chair.
The handsome youth gazed at Laura with a sleepy smile. He held a slender tube of sun ripened raspberry and citrus flavored lip balm in his hand. He rubbed the edge of the waxy cosmetic across his full lips slowly.
The young man stopped the motion of his hand before lowering the thin canister from his mouth and snapping the small cap atop the tube.
The handsome youth slid the lip balm into his pocket with a wink in Laura’s direction before he turned around and walked away.
Laura turned around. She looked at the table in front of her with a painful grimace.
“Oh, he was so fine, Laura. And it looked like he can really kiss too. You should have gotten his number,” Melanie said.
“I have his number,” Laura said quietly.
“Really? So, you hooked up with him before?”
“No.”
“Then how do you have his number? Oh, he’s in the university register. You stalked him right?”
“No, Melanie. I have his number because he’s my damned TA.”
“What?”
“Yeah.”
“Which class?”
“Historical Perspectives on Mental Illness. Mondays and Wednesdays at 9am in the Hawthorne Building.”
“Oh, your early class.”
“Yup.”
“So, are you gonna go out with him?”
“Melanie, just shut up.”
- - -
Amanda Lawrence Auverigne writes fiction. A few of her stories have been published. "Assist" is one of her tales.
Monday, August 16, 2010
8/16/10
Beautiful Stranger
By John Grey
You sit momentarily at the edge of the fountain.
A faint water spray,
an eager light, converge on you.
I aim desire like a camera.
What do I have?
Some tremulous snapshots
of what I cannot possess
or a slim French novel,
full of romantic invention,
that I can carry under my arm,
dip into any time?
Wind picks up,
resumes its quarrel
with the shuddering leaves.
You throw back your neck
and your face moves gently
to the center of the world.
I do not know
if beauty is taking shape or taking air
and whether my thoughts
return to base camp
with what I know of you
or merely more ignorance of myself.
Beauty, like the cardinal
crimson on the oak branch,
pushes me unwittingly
into some discreet contest with logic,
the eye unsure of what it sees,
a brain that hides behind
the watercolors of its language.
It hangs me out here,
acting out this rite of disbelief,
my jaw dropped,
my bones like falling flakes,
my heart a blessed fugitive from sense.
You walk quickly away
ignorant of my presence.
You don’t know I’m a poet
and I take you with me down the years.
- - -
Australian born poet, US resident since late seventies. Works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Connecticut Review, Alimentum and Writer’s Bloc with work upcoming in Pennsylvania English, Prism International and the Great American Poetry Show.
By John Grey
You sit momentarily at the edge of the fountain.
A faint water spray,
an eager light, converge on you.
I aim desire like a camera.
What do I have?
Some tremulous snapshots
of what I cannot possess
or a slim French novel,
full of romantic invention,
that I can carry under my arm,
dip into any time?
Wind picks up,
resumes its quarrel
with the shuddering leaves.
You throw back your neck
and your face moves gently
to the center of the world.
I do not know
if beauty is taking shape or taking air
and whether my thoughts
return to base camp
with what I know of you
or merely more ignorance of myself.
Beauty, like the cardinal
crimson on the oak branch,
pushes me unwittingly
into some discreet contest with logic,
the eye unsure of what it sees,
a brain that hides behind
the watercolors of its language.
It hangs me out here,
acting out this rite of disbelief,
my jaw dropped,
my bones like falling flakes,
my heart a blessed fugitive from sense.
You walk quickly away
ignorant of my presence.
You don’t know I’m a poet
and I take you with me down the years.
- - -
Australian born poet, US resident since late seventies. Works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Connecticut Review, Alimentum and Writer’s Bloc with work upcoming in Pennsylvania English, Prism International and the Great American Poetry Show.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
8/15/10
A Future of Memories
By John Ogden
When I stand at the edge of reality and stare down into the abyss that lurks ever on before, I lament the fact that not even magic can hold back these moments. I lament the fact that, for every smiling moment of golden spill sweetness and light, there will be a pining future where the shreds of memory smiles are all that remain to be grasped. I run headlong into each moment of bliss, hold it, taste it, do everything to feel it just a little bit longer, but in the end I am always here, looking back.
Missing you.
- - -
John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.
By John Ogden
When I stand at the edge of reality and stare down into the abyss that lurks ever on before, I lament the fact that not even magic can hold back these moments. I lament the fact that, for every smiling moment of golden spill sweetness and light, there will be a pining future where the shreds of memory smiles are all that remain to be grasped. I run headlong into each moment of bliss, hold it, taste it, do everything to feel it just a little bit longer, but in the end I am always here, looking back.
Missing you.
- - -
John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
8/14/10
"Derek + Elizabeth: Loud Love"
By Jeremy Rhueger
Previously…
“No, I hope you don’t think I’m a weirdo,” she smiled.
Signed sealed delivered: I’m yours
I don’t know what to do. This is all so new and exciting and frightening and quite frankly, driving me insane. For all I know, the Elizabeth outside of work is an axe murderer who has a thing for big silver dollar nipples and Nickelback. I hate Nickelback.
The Elizabeth I know inside work is a funny, beautiful girl who from what I can tell, isn’t much of a Nickelback fan. She’s also a very snappy dresser. Colors never looked so bright on her body. She also likes to laugh at my jokes, and spend as much time not working with me as possible. It’s awesome and nerve-wracking at the same time.
Being in a committed relationship really doesn’t help my cause either. Do I throw caution to the wind, say fuck it, and have the affair? No…I could never do something like that. I wouldn’t be able to look at myself in the mirror anymore and think of myself as a decent human being. Basically I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. I have to get out of this funk. I need a sign. Or at the very least, closure.
Part of me is waiting for her to make a move, but I know that probably wouldn’t happen. I don’t even know her well enough to judge her character that way. We really don’t have that much in common. This is driving me batty.
She is beautiful though…Every pretty song I hear reminds me of her. Slow songs especially. Call it sappy, but I can’t help but fantasizing about driving somewhere secluded and slow dancing in front of the blaring headlights to the music of the Swell Season. Even The Cure or Weezer could work. Look at me; I’m turning into a maple tree. God I want her though…and I don’t even truly know why.
Maybe if I ask her to meet me in Montauk she’ll catch the reference, and then I’ll know for sure whether or not this was a good idea. It’s worth a shot at least.
For some reason, when I set my sights on a girl to ask her out, I cannot summon the courage to do it until the very end of the day. I’ve been constitutionally designed to wait until the last minute to do these things. Why? I’ll never know.
It’s 2:45 in the afternoon. Roughly two hours until we get off the clock. Everything’s going as planned.
“So it’s a show about these kids and how they love to sing, but their high school wants to stop them?” I asked her.
“No, it’s only the one chick teacher. I don’t really pay attention to the plot or anything, I just like the music.” If she played music it would probably move me to tears. Now I know I’m losing it.
“So it could really be about anything, just as long as these hot teens do covers of U2 and Lady Gaga?”
“I suppose” she mumbled.
“Why the long face?” I asked.
“Well…”
“Well what?...”
“I can’t stop thinking about this guy I know. It’s driving me crazy.”
…Come again? Is this the sign, God? A tiny smile, trying its hardest to escape her mouth made its breakthrough.
“He’s really nice. And he’s really easy to talk to, and I like that. I just can’t seem to get him out of my thoughts” she grinned. “I’ve been thinking about him all day long, Jeremy.”
You’ve got to be kidding me…
“His name is Charlie. I’m supposed to see him after work, we’re gonna go dancing at the club, and then maybe afterwards were gonna…”
That’s the last thing I remember her saying before my heart leapt from my mouth and into the nearest four-way intersection.
- - -
Some people like to work hard, and some people don't give a fuck. And then there's Jeremy Rhueger.
By Jeremy Rhueger
Previously…
“No, I hope you don’t think I’m a weirdo,” she smiled.
Signed sealed delivered: I’m yours
I don’t know what to do. This is all so new and exciting and frightening and quite frankly, driving me insane. For all I know, the Elizabeth outside of work is an axe murderer who has a thing for big silver dollar nipples and Nickelback. I hate Nickelback.
The Elizabeth I know inside work is a funny, beautiful girl who from what I can tell, isn’t much of a Nickelback fan. She’s also a very snappy dresser. Colors never looked so bright on her body. She also likes to laugh at my jokes, and spend as much time not working with me as possible. It’s awesome and nerve-wracking at the same time.
Being in a committed relationship really doesn’t help my cause either. Do I throw caution to the wind, say fuck it, and have the affair? No…I could never do something like that. I wouldn’t be able to look at myself in the mirror anymore and think of myself as a decent human being. Basically I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. I have to get out of this funk. I need a sign. Or at the very least, closure.
Part of me is waiting for her to make a move, but I know that probably wouldn’t happen. I don’t even know her well enough to judge her character that way. We really don’t have that much in common. This is driving me batty.
She is beautiful though…Every pretty song I hear reminds me of her. Slow songs especially. Call it sappy, but I can’t help but fantasizing about driving somewhere secluded and slow dancing in front of the blaring headlights to the music of the Swell Season. Even The Cure or Weezer could work. Look at me; I’m turning into a maple tree. God I want her though…and I don’t even truly know why.
Maybe if I ask her to meet me in Montauk she’ll catch the reference, and then I’ll know for sure whether or not this was a good idea. It’s worth a shot at least.
For some reason, when I set my sights on a girl to ask her out, I cannot summon the courage to do it until the very end of the day. I’ve been constitutionally designed to wait until the last minute to do these things. Why? I’ll never know.
It’s 2:45 in the afternoon. Roughly two hours until we get off the clock. Everything’s going as planned.
“So it’s a show about these kids and how they love to sing, but their high school wants to stop them?” I asked her.
“No, it’s only the one chick teacher. I don’t really pay attention to the plot or anything, I just like the music.” If she played music it would probably move me to tears. Now I know I’m losing it.
“So it could really be about anything, just as long as these hot teens do covers of U2 and Lady Gaga?”
“I suppose” she mumbled.
“Why the long face?” I asked.
“Well…”
“Well what?...”
“I can’t stop thinking about this guy I know. It’s driving me crazy.”
…Come again? Is this the sign, God? A tiny smile, trying its hardest to escape her mouth made its breakthrough.
“He’s really nice. And he’s really easy to talk to, and I like that. I just can’t seem to get him out of my thoughts” she grinned. “I’ve been thinking about him all day long, Jeremy.”
You’ve got to be kidding me…
“His name is Charlie. I’m supposed to see him after work, we’re gonna go dancing at the club, and then maybe afterwards were gonna…”
That’s the last thing I remember her saying before my heart leapt from my mouth and into the nearest four-way intersection.
- - -
Some people like to work hard, and some people don't give a fuck. And then there's Jeremy Rhueger.
Friday, August 13, 2010
8/13/10
Ode to the Rocking Chair
Glenn Keller
In each man's heart and seldom shared
some passion burns and flares
in mine when silence takes me there
doth creak the rocking chairs
there's nothing there of power
nor bold display of might
in fact the humble cane and wood
seem fragile, weak, and light
the symphony of squeaks and groans
syncopate with creaks of bones
yet still reverberate the tones
of laughing youth, and lover's moans
the wood is etched, yet hid from view
with loving tools, and from that grew
a place for love to be so true...
a place to sit and be with you
In August's sun, or April rain
we sit upon the supple cane
and touching binds our love in gain
in sickness, health, in joy or pain
there hearks upon the heavens fair
the angel's glorious aires
but sweeter still, without compare
doth creak the rocking chairs!
- - -
Glenn Keller is a writer, father, geek, and avid fan of old, slow vehicles, who lives on the coast of Oregon with endangered things. He is currently working on a series of short stories about the delicacies of parenting, with a twist of autism and other disabilities.
Glenn Keller
In each man's heart and seldom shared
some passion burns and flares
in mine when silence takes me there
doth creak the rocking chairs
there's nothing there of power
nor bold display of might
in fact the humble cane and wood
seem fragile, weak, and light
the symphony of squeaks and groans
syncopate with creaks of bones
yet still reverberate the tones
of laughing youth, and lover's moans
the wood is etched, yet hid from view
with loving tools, and from that grew
a place for love to be so true...
a place to sit and be with you
In August's sun, or April rain
we sit upon the supple cane
and touching binds our love in gain
in sickness, health, in joy or pain
there hearks upon the heavens fair
the angel's glorious aires
but sweeter still, without compare
doth creak the rocking chairs!
- - -
Glenn Keller is a writer, father, geek, and avid fan of old, slow vehicles, who lives on the coast of Oregon with endangered things. He is currently working on a series of short stories about the delicacies of parenting, with a twist of autism and other disabilities.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
8/12/10
That Night…
By Rachel V. Olivier
That night your smile carried more secrets.
Laughing at a drunk joke, I felt your hand
caressing my hair as if I might break.
Such careful, precious desire.
Sighing in the safety of your arms,
I felt my heart in my mouth
and the whisperings of fear.
Instinctively I knew
I would say things wrong;
do things wrong;
just be wrong.
I always was.
That morning your eyes shuttered.
“You’re still here.”
Surprise laced with disappointment, iced with regret.
“Never sleep with a friend,” you joked.
Habit kicked in. I laughed with my tormentor;
the clang of my closing heart deafening to my ears.
That night I lay down with a friend.
That morning I got up alone.
- - -
I am a proofreader, copy editor and writer. My poetry and fiction have appeared on Daily Love, Everyday Weirdness, Bewildering Stories and Mindflights as well as in Electric Velocipede, Aoife’s Kiss and elsewhere.
By Rachel V. Olivier
That night your smile carried more secrets.
Laughing at a drunk joke, I felt your hand
caressing my hair as if I might break.
Such careful, precious desire.
Sighing in the safety of your arms,
I felt my heart in my mouth
and the whisperings of fear.
Instinctively I knew
I would say things wrong;
do things wrong;
just be wrong.
I always was.
That morning your eyes shuttered.
“You’re still here.”
Surprise laced with disappointment, iced with regret.
“Never sleep with a friend,” you joked.
Habit kicked in. I laughed with my tormentor;
the clang of my closing heart deafening to my ears.
That night I lay down with a friend.
That morning I got up alone.
- - -
I am a proofreader, copy editor and writer. My poetry and fiction have appeared on Daily Love, Everyday Weirdness, Bewildering Stories and Mindflights as well as in Electric Velocipede, Aoife’s Kiss and elsewhere.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
8/11/10
Long Distance
By Lindsey Renuard
She remembered the soft curve of his
neck and the way his muscles
moved beneath his skin, the feel of
goose bumps on his back after she
gently rubbed it with her fingernails.
She knew the feel of his lips
chapped by winter winds
and the weight of his body beside her.
She could recall in perfect clarity
their first meeting, and their first
cigarette, shivering just outside the
warmth of the house.
She remembered their last cigarette
together and their parting conversation,
the solemness in his brow, the hesitation
in his body to leave her,
knowing the time that would pass
before he would see her again.
- - -
By Lindsey Renuard
She remembered the soft curve of his
neck and the way his muscles
moved beneath his skin, the feel of
goose bumps on his back after she
gently rubbed it with her fingernails.
She knew the feel of his lips
chapped by winter winds
and the weight of his body beside her.
She could recall in perfect clarity
their first meeting, and their first
cigarette, shivering just outside the
warmth of the house.
She remembered their last cigarette
together and their parting conversation,
the solemness in his brow, the hesitation
in his body to leave her,
knowing the time that would pass
before he would see her again.
- - -
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
8/10/10
The Most Wonderful Experience
By Michael Postel
I.
“Most Wonderful”
It falls on deaf ears
Interpreted and subsequently transcribed
As thoughtful play on namesake derived in innocent times.
It is this …
Most Wonderful because
A body in perfect symmetry
Houses homeostatic existence,
A meticulously carved figure manifest.
The absolute solution of universal energy
That is SHE
Against an intoxicating contrast of forces
For pure harmony yields at temple’s apex
Magnificent chaos
Spewing forth and flowing immeasurably
Forming dark, voluminous strands.
Any less chaotic, twisted, flowing complexity
Would result in compromising complete unimaginable agreement of structure.
The balance between a pair of opposites
Like the lull between changing tides,
An exemplar of true beauty.
She IS Most Wonderful!
II.
It was said
An artist loves from afar
But never wishes to obtain
And in so doing
Attains
Most Wonderful, often addressed by her lovers simply as
M W,
Was eagerly searching
When found boy playing Man.
His name was Bindra, but he
Hated the way the middle consonants forced
His tongue to the roof of his mouth;
So answered to B., instead.
B. knew it then, when he first discovered MW,
Or was discovered by MW, but said,
“If right; then right.
Enjoy it while it lasts.
It won’t.”
He prayed to be wrong.
III.
B. will be home soon.
You will love him more than before
Since he has been gone for so long.
Less, as time goes on.
Soon it will be as it was.
You will love him for a few moments in the morning.
Ignore him by the afternoon.
Forget him by evening.
Remember all his flaws?
Do you remember?
Will it be different this time?
Your expectations are of a dream,
A chimerical play in an exotic cerebral theatre.
All up on sugar and spice …
He dances home.
Smile brighter than before
And never frowns.
Eyes deep translucent green.
Hair tightly trimmed with streaks of sun-bleached blonde blending into kempt beard.
A man of men
Muscles with strength
And a new found staying power to match.
Head thrown, you try him out.
He bends you inward;
You fold.
Folding, he leans
Runs a hand through your hair
Whips back your head with a thrust.
Once spent, he strokes your hair over blueberry pancakes;
Even blueberry pancakes will grow tart in time.
IV.
Can you see B. scribbling on that card?
He waits to feel his racing heart retard.
The way a swoon, a sparrow, or a swallow will pause in between song.
He settles his mind and carries on …
“Most Wonderful,
Thinking of you and how I am
The happiest creature in the universe when I am with you
Less when without
But happy memories and images
Of our fleeting moments together keep my spirits up
Waiting impatiently for the next chance to …
Suckle on candied ginger nubbins
Breathe peach nectar from conic caverns
And savor that cake-like crystal amidst muffled conflagrations
Croak, creek, slide, and sway
Wash this rainy day away
Behind drapes drawn, dripping window panes
Love and best wishes
Least Wonderful,
Most Adoring
B.”
V.
B. always knew
Things would end painfully,
But he chose to love anyway.
He sensed loss
From the very beginning.
He foresaw sorrow, too,
But only amidst great love
And passion
Loss and sorrow cannot exist
Without first experiencing the comfort
Of complete happiness.
Though, he has not yet lost,
He feels it coming
The way achy joints predict
Pressure changes with approaching storms.
It will be great
And as tragic as any
Great changes of the time.
He will always remember it as the Most Wonderful Experience
Greater than that dish you made,
The delectable amandine.
VI.
There B. goes again
Scribbling feverishly on coffee-stained napkins
With wet, pin-point pen bleeding his thoughts into form
All those words he never meant to say
“Let us do one more trip
Back to France
Back to ParÍ
Remember when
We were happy?”
“Meet you at the café
Yes, I remember love,
Coffee with cream.
I will wait for you there
Finish your morning routine
You do not need all that makeup
But I will let you be.”
“Why do you ask?”
Why are we here?
“To amble through busy streets.
To slowly, for a change, pass through time
Wandering without direction
Your hand in mine,
To share each other one last time.
It has been four and one half months
I still fail to shake you from my mind
I am not fine, my love
I am not fine.”
“What is this, life?”
Love and loss
Bliss,
And in the same breath,
Ruins.
From which all other transitory emotions are spawned
Desire, longingly, until obtained
Then fear of loss settles
I am not fine, my love
I am not fine.”
“All is transitory
It is known but never spoken
Once lost, as is inevitable,
Desire weighs heavy until security is obtained again
The mind is strewn across this pendulum
It’s pivot being the only safe ground,
However unattainable
I am not fine, my love
I am not fine.”
“Please help me escape this place
To be free of duality’s reach
If there was a pill, I would swallow it.
Should there be a path, I would trek it.
Show me the sea, and I will swim it.
I am not fine, my love
I am not fine.”
“Emptiness is perfect
Come find me here
You can not
This no place
Can only be found
Without you near”
“Grounded in weighted love
A heavy heart bears fruit
All that water,
Such a heavy flow
Bursts forth through crooked banks!
Oh, but to be the water Lilly
To be the jelly fish
Just floating on”
“Do not write me anymore
These eyes can not read
Light these embers
Stoke this fire
Dredge up the dunes
To soak these tears!”
VII.
We were right to worry about him
If love were to lead to loss.
He can not cope,
Not within the confines of his routine.
See? Off he goes.
It is not likely
That he will survive long;
Less so that he will return.
His future, or vision of,
Is now gone.
When it is his time,
He asks to please bury him under the fruit tree.
You can enjoy him each summer.
He will never grow tart.
Just promise one thing:
Please share him with the birds, the foul,
And the furry things.
- - -
Michael Postel is living, studying and writing poetry in Brooklyn, NY. His mentors include the poet, Frank Fagan, and the writer, Deirdre Fagan, Quincy College Professor of Literature. He has been an economist, a farmer, a grocer, a traveler, and most recently, a writer.
By Michael Postel
I.
“Most Wonderful”
It falls on deaf ears
Interpreted and subsequently transcribed
As thoughtful play on namesake derived in innocent times.
It is this …
Most Wonderful because
A body in perfect symmetry
Houses homeostatic existence,
A meticulously carved figure manifest.
The absolute solution of universal energy
That is SHE
Against an intoxicating contrast of forces
For pure harmony yields at temple’s apex
Magnificent chaos
Spewing forth and flowing immeasurably
Forming dark, voluminous strands.
Any less chaotic, twisted, flowing complexity
Would result in compromising complete unimaginable agreement of structure.
The balance between a pair of opposites
Like the lull between changing tides,
An exemplar of true beauty.
She IS Most Wonderful!
II.
It was said
An artist loves from afar
But never wishes to obtain
And in so doing
Attains
Most Wonderful, often addressed by her lovers simply as
M W,
Was eagerly searching
When found boy playing Man.
His name was Bindra, but he
Hated the way the middle consonants forced
His tongue to the roof of his mouth;
So answered to B., instead.
B. knew it then, when he first discovered MW,
Or was discovered by MW, but said,
“If right; then right.
Enjoy it while it lasts.
It won’t.”
He prayed to be wrong.
III.
B. will be home soon.
You will love him more than before
Since he has been gone for so long.
Less, as time goes on.
Soon it will be as it was.
You will love him for a few moments in the morning.
Ignore him by the afternoon.
Forget him by evening.
Remember all his flaws?
Do you remember?
Will it be different this time?
Your expectations are of a dream,
A chimerical play in an exotic cerebral theatre.
All up on sugar and spice …
He dances home.
Smile brighter than before
And never frowns.
Eyes deep translucent green.
Hair tightly trimmed with streaks of sun-bleached blonde blending into kempt beard.
A man of men
Muscles with strength
And a new found staying power to match.
Head thrown, you try him out.
He bends you inward;
You fold.
Folding, he leans
Runs a hand through your hair
Whips back your head with a thrust.
Once spent, he strokes your hair over blueberry pancakes;
Even blueberry pancakes will grow tart in time.
IV.
Can you see B. scribbling on that card?
He waits to feel his racing heart retard.
The way a swoon, a sparrow, or a swallow will pause in between song.
He settles his mind and carries on …
“Most Wonderful,
Thinking of you and how I am
The happiest creature in the universe when I am with you
Less when without
But happy memories and images
Of our fleeting moments together keep my spirits up
Waiting impatiently for the next chance to …
Suckle on candied ginger nubbins
Breathe peach nectar from conic caverns
And savor that cake-like crystal amidst muffled conflagrations
Croak, creek, slide, and sway
Wash this rainy day away
Behind drapes drawn, dripping window panes
Love and best wishes
Least Wonderful,
Most Adoring
B.”
V.
B. always knew
Things would end painfully,
But he chose to love anyway.
He sensed loss
From the very beginning.
He foresaw sorrow, too,
But only amidst great love
And passion
Loss and sorrow cannot exist
Without first experiencing the comfort
Of complete happiness.
Though, he has not yet lost,
He feels it coming
The way achy joints predict
Pressure changes with approaching storms.
It will be great
And as tragic as any
Great changes of the time.
He will always remember it as the Most Wonderful Experience
Greater than that dish you made,
The delectable amandine.
VI.
There B. goes again
Scribbling feverishly on coffee-stained napkins
With wet, pin-point pen bleeding his thoughts into form
All those words he never meant to say
“Let us do one more trip
Back to France
Back to ParÍ
Remember when
We were happy?”
“Meet you at the café
Yes, I remember love,
Coffee with cream.
I will wait for you there
Finish your morning routine
You do not need all that makeup
But I will let you be.”
“Why do you ask?”
Why are we here?
“To amble through busy streets.
To slowly, for a change, pass through time
Wandering without direction
Your hand in mine,
To share each other one last time.
It has been four and one half months
I still fail to shake you from my mind
I am not fine, my love
I am not fine.”
“What is this, life?”
Love and loss
Bliss,
And in the same breath,
Ruins.
From which all other transitory emotions are spawned
Desire, longingly, until obtained
Then fear of loss settles
I am not fine, my love
I am not fine.”
“All is transitory
It is known but never spoken
Once lost, as is inevitable,
Desire weighs heavy until security is obtained again
The mind is strewn across this pendulum
It’s pivot being the only safe ground,
However unattainable
I am not fine, my love
I am not fine.”
“Please help me escape this place
To be free of duality’s reach
If there was a pill, I would swallow it.
Should there be a path, I would trek it.
Show me the sea, and I will swim it.
I am not fine, my love
I am not fine.”
“Emptiness is perfect
Come find me here
You can not
This no place
Can only be found
Without you near”
“Grounded in weighted love
A heavy heart bears fruit
All that water,
Such a heavy flow
Bursts forth through crooked banks!
Oh, but to be the water Lilly
To be the jelly fish
Just floating on”
“Do not write me anymore
These eyes can not read
Light these embers
Stoke this fire
Dredge up the dunes
To soak these tears!”
VII.
We were right to worry about him
If love were to lead to loss.
He can not cope,
Not within the confines of his routine.
See? Off he goes.
It is not likely
That he will survive long;
Less so that he will return.
His future, or vision of,
Is now gone.
When it is his time,
He asks to please bury him under the fruit tree.
You can enjoy him each summer.
He will never grow tart.
Just promise one thing:
Please share him with the birds, the foul,
And the furry things.
- - -
Michael Postel is living, studying and writing poetry in Brooklyn, NY. His mentors include the poet, Frank Fagan, and the writer, Deirdre Fagan, Quincy College Professor of Literature. He has been an economist, a farmer, a grocer, a traveler, and most recently, a writer.
Monday, August 9, 2010
8/9/10
Leaving But Really Staying
By Michelle Chang
It's our last night here
let us dissolve the quarters of the past
and lay together
when I left you
I was scared and impatient
afraid of your rejection
but you remained silent
as I babbled like brook
We were both stupid then
on this last night
let our lips finally unite
- - -
Michelle is a simple college student who lives in the suburbs and dabbles in poetry.
By Michelle Chang
It's our last night here
let us dissolve the quarters of the past
and lay together
when I left you
I was scared and impatient
afraid of your rejection
but you remained silent
as I babbled like brook
We were both stupid then
on this last night
let our lips finally unite
- - -
Michelle is a simple college student who lives in the suburbs and dabbles in poetry.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
8/8/10
Poem Without Words
By Fred E. Beaulieu
you are my poem without words
cadence and rhythm too beautiful to be constrained by mere stanza and verse
fluid measures unbound by the rigid confines of the printed page
sweeping elegance too elusive to be captured by scribe’s quill
flowing streams of cascading rhymes faintly scented with hints of lavender
you are my poem without words
I long to explore the depths of your hidden meanings
immerse myself in your subtle imagery
and bask in the elation of your eternal message
as your raven tresses frame the fair borders of your sweet visage
you are my poem without words
when compared to the revered sonnets of the ages composed by sage poets,
none can approach your delicate and graceful eloquence
in your presence I stand breathless and awestruck
forever inspired by the timeless nature of your perfect prose
you are my poem without words
...let me read you again
- - -
Fred is a lifelong resident of West Michigan, and has enjoyed a rewarding career in computer programming. His interests include music, reading, puzzles, old movies, and of course poetry. He enjoys writing poems which reflect the many faces of life and love.
By Fred E. Beaulieu
you are my poem without words
cadence and rhythm too beautiful to be constrained by mere stanza and verse
fluid measures unbound by the rigid confines of the printed page
sweeping elegance too elusive to be captured by scribe’s quill
flowing streams of cascading rhymes faintly scented with hints of lavender
you are my poem without words
I long to explore the depths of your hidden meanings
immerse myself in your subtle imagery
and bask in the elation of your eternal message
as your raven tresses frame the fair borders of your sweet visage
you are my poem without words
when compared to the revered sonnets of the ages composed by sage poets,
none can approach your delicate and graceful eloquence
in your presence I stand breathless and awestruck
forever inspired by the timeless nature of your perfect prose
you are my poem without words
...let me read you again
- - -
Fred is a lifelong resident of West Michigan, and has enjoyed a rewarding career in computer programming. His interests include music, reading, puzzles, old movies, and of course poetry. He enjoys writing poems which reflect the many faces of life and love.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
8/7/10
For My Perfect Match
By George Irwin
When we sit here like this, together, arms and legs tangled, faces so close they become a love painting by Picasso, my lips can only smile. I lose myself in you, transcend flesh to become whole with you. The closer we are, the more right it feels, the more natural, like two halves guided back together to seal in a solid fit. You are the reason I believe in God, the reason why I trust absolutely in fate, believe there has to be something to reincarnation. You are the yin to my yang, I the darkness to your light. Love, as a word, cannot approach the feeling that sparks and vibrates between us. Together, we simply are.
~For Desiree~
- - -
George Irwin laughs at things that really don’t matter. He encourages you to laugh at them as well.
By George Irwin
When we sit here like this, together, arms and legs tangled, faces so close they become a love painting by Picasso, my lips can only smile. I lose myself in you, transcend flesh to become whole with you. The closer we are, the more right it feels, the more natural, like two halves guided back together to seal in a solid fit. You are the reason I believe in God, the reason why I trust absolutely in fate, believe there has to be something to reincarnation. You are the yin to my yang, I the darkness to your light. Love, as a word, cannot approach the feeling that sparks and vibrates between us. Together, we simply are.
~For Desiree~
- - -
George Irwin laughs at things that really don’t matter. He encourages you to laugh at them as well.
Friday, August 6, 2010
8/6/10
I let go for you
By Ciara Livingston
You are my life.
My air, my words.
The flesh pinned to my bones.
I hold you too close to my heart,
The fear of suffocating,
Death,
Penetrating my every thought.
The slightest movement,
The wind in the trees,
Rushes blood to my wounds.
An angry swarm, calloused lies
Swallowing me alive.
Feeling corrupted,
By the pull of my heart
To hold you near,
The softness of your life
Deep within my skin
The aching need for your joy
Pounds in my veins
I see your face,
Taut with grief
The desire for the world
Slowly dissipating,
Melting through your open hands
I feel the pain
The ache that rips through your bones
The fear that cripples you paints your reason
Ever shining in the dark.
You fill me like a drowning light,
Seeping through the cracks in my mind.
- - -
I am a 19 year old nursing student and have been writing ever since I can remember. I love spending my days when I am not working and doing school, painting, listening to
indie folk music, and of course writing.
By Ciara Livingston
You are my life.
My air, my words.
The flesh pinned to my bones.
I hold you too close to my heart,
The fear of suffocating,
Death,
Penetrating my every thought.
The slightest movement,
The wind in the trees,
Rushes blood to my wounds.
An angry swarm, calloused lies
Swallowing me alive.
Feeling corrupted,
By the pull of my heart
To hold you near,
The softness of your life
Deep within my skin
The aching need for your joy
Pounds in my veins
I see your face,
Taut with grief
The desire for the world
Slowly dissipating,
Melting through your open hands
I feel the pain
The ache that rips through your bones
The fear that cripples you paints your reason
Ever shining in the dark.
You fill me like a drowning light,
Seeping through the cracks in my mind.
- - -
I am a 19 year old nursing student and have been writing ever since I can remember. I love spending my days when I am not working and doing school, painting, listening to
indie folk music, and of course writing.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
8/5/10
(Letters to a) Dear Unknown
By Fred E. Beaulieu
- - -
Fred is a lifelong resident of West Michigan, and has enjoyed a rewarding career in computer programming. His interests include music, reading, puzzles, old movies, and of course poetry. He enjoys writing poems which reflect the many faces of life and love.
By Fred E. Beaulieu
Today while I shopped near the old village square
I glanced through the crowds in the hopes you were there
I felt that I’d know, by the look on your face,
You also were seeking a lover’s embrace
I browsed through the bookstore and stopped for a bite
Then, folding my napkin, I ventured to write
I left you a note just in case you were near
Recounting my dream of the day you’ll appear
~
Today was a good day, my mood was upbeat
My work was productive, my tasks all complete
But when I arrived at my home late that night
I had no one waiting to share my delight
I made myself supper then tried to unwind
Yet rather than freedom, my heart felt confined
I longed to relate my success and good news
To hear your perspectives, your insights and views
~
Today was quite normal and not much transpired
My work was mundane and I felt uninspired
I wished we could meet at a local café
To share idle chatter and silly clichés
You’d listen intently and smile as I’d speak
Then brighten my mood with a kiss on the cheek
We’d laugh over nothing while others looked on
And linger about till our lunchtime was gone
~
Today I felt ill so I stayed home in bed
With thoughts of you floating around in my head
I wondered, if only you knew of my plight,
Then would you illumine my dark with your light
With poems and prose, would you sit by my side
And read me a tale of two lovers denied
Then lie for a while with your head on my chest
And gently depart when my eyes closed in rest
~
Today was a sad day, I felt quite depressed
It took me an hour just to get myself dressed
I drove around town in a downpour of rain
Discarding the smile I no longer could feign
I thought for a moment of how you might cope
If ever I faltered and forfeited hope
Would somehow you sense that a chance had been lost
If fate never smiled and our paths never crossed
~
The days are a blur as they pass swiftly by
They fold into years in the blink of an eye
Reflecting back over a lifetime alone
I yearn for the day you’re no longer ‘unknown’
I glanced through the crowds in the hopes you were there
I felt that I’d know, by the look on your face,
You also were seeking a lover’s embrace
I browsed through the bookstore and stopped for a bite
Then, folding my napkin, I ventured to write
I left you a note just in case you were near
Recounting my dream of the day you’ll appear
~
Today was a good day, my mood was upbeat
My work was productive, my tasks all complete
But when I arrived at my home late that night
I had no one waiting to share my delight
I made myself supper then tried to unwind
Yet rather than freedom, my heart felt confined
I longed to relate my success and good news
To hear your perspectives, your insights and views
~
Today was quite normal and not much transpired
My work was mundane and I felt uninspired
I wished we could meet at a local café
To share idle chatter and silly clichés
You’d listen intently and smile as I’d speak
Then brighten my mood with a kiss on the cheek
We’d laugh over nothing while others looked on
And linger about till our lunchtime was gone
~
Today I felt ill so I stayed home in bed
With thoughts of you floating around in my head
I wondered, if only you knew of my plight,
Then would you illumine my dark with your light
With poems and prose, would you sit by my side
And read me a tale of two lovers denied
Then lie for a while with your head on my chest
And gently depart when my eyes closed in rest
~
Today was a sad day, I felt quite depressed
It took me an hour just to get myself dressed
I drove around town in a downpour of rain
Discarding the smile I no longer could feign
I thought for a moment of how you might cope
If ever I faltered and forfeited hope
Would somehow you sense that a chance had been lost
If fate never smiled and our paths never crossed
~
The days are a blur as they pass swiftly by
They fold into years in the blink of an eye
Reflecting back over a lifetime alone
I yearn for the day you’re no longer ‘unknown’
- - -
Fred is a lifelong resident of West Michigan, and has enjoyed a rewarding career in computer programming. His interests include music, reading, puzzles, old movies, and of course poetry. He enjoys writing poems which reflect the many faces of life and love.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
8/4/10
Blank Love
By Lee Bauer
She awoke from a dream. Her eyes shifted to the clock beside her. Though her mind was still foggy from her slumber, she knew there was something missing. She groped for the button on the alarm and sprawled out of bed. If only she could get her out of her head.
Once again, she visited her dreams, and Silke refused to think any further of the message that the dreams were trying to tell her about Ayano. Silke’s cell phone buzzed, once, twice, three times… it was Ayano.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Nothing but you,” Silke thought, but dared not to text back, instead she put down the cell and got ready for breakfast. It wasn’t as if by texting her back, telling her how she felt, would change anything. Ayano had a partner, and Silke was away at college…. Far from Ayano. Yet Silke couldn’t help but think of Ayano’s laughter, and her soft smile that on anyone else wouldn’t have fit well with her cold yet sad eyes. Nor could she help but remember the night that she told Ayano that she had broken up with her own girlfriend. Silke still replayed that moment over and over. She wasn’t sure whether or not she really saw Ayano’s eyes light up at the news, or if it was just her own imagination running wild with lust for Ayano. She wanted to touch Ayano’s soft skin and taste her lips, to never let go, to make her hers.
But it was only a dream… Ayano would never break up with her partner; they had already made plans for the future. Ayano had her life set out, go to college, graduate, marry her partner, adopt a child and live happily ever after. There was no room for Silke in that future as anything other than an “aunt” to their child. But Silke wanted more than that. Though she laughed when Ayano had teased at the prospect of Silke being the aunt of her child, she wanted to help raise that child with Ayano. Together. To wait for her at the altar and say their I Do’s. That was what Silke wanted… but dared not to say. Ayano’s family would never approve of Silke anyways, and she would rather not burden her with more trouble.
Three more buzzes sounded, “When are you coming back from college?”
Again, Silke didn’t answer even though she wanted to. She couldn’t.
Their days went on like this, day in, day out. Every so often Silke would reply back, but it never seemed often enough.
However, on one particularly sunny day Silke got the text, “Ayano’s in the hospital!”
At this, Silke was sure that her heart stopped for a few moments. How could this happen? Silke thought, she’s only 18, young, kind, and strong willed.
“Where? Why?” Silke texted back.
Bzzzzt. “Wut pgs do we have 2 read?” Shut up!
She waited in terror-filled silence, clutching onto the cell for a response on Ayano’s status. It seemed as if hours dredged on and as she waited huddled on the beanbag chair, her mind wandered to the first time she met Ayano.
They were hanging out with friends, it was wintertime. Ayano shrugged off a few layers as she walked into the café after a night at the youth group. Some other people were smoking cigs outside, but she wanted nothing of that, she hugged a friend of hers. Then she laughed at something her friend said then walked… no pranced over to the counter. While she waited for her drink, she chatted up with a couple different gay guys from the group; they were interested in who this new lesbian was. She was short, slender and wore her dark hair up as if it bothered her to have it touch the back of her neck. Her facial expressions were animated, yet honest. Her eyes, however, held a little bit of sadness and her smile didn’t always touch her eyes. Yet she was beautiful, flirtatious, and cute. Ayano would every so often make hand gestures to emphasize her words, and her voice floated smoothly around Silke’s head as she spoke.
Then with drink in hand, she hugged him then walked back over to her friend, Tina. Ayano looked at Silke and smiled as she took a sip of her drink.
“Mmmm, this café makes a mean soy chai.” Then to Tina, “Scoot over.” Tina moved, and Silke found herself beside Ayano, legs touching through skinny jeans. Silke had to look away to be sure she wasn’t blushing and stroked her girlfriend’s hand. “Hey,” she piped as she shifted her soy chai to the other hand. “I’m Ayano, you?”
When Silke looked over, she found that Ayano was talking to her, and while slightly surprised she took Ayano’s hand to shake it, “I’m Silke”.
Her eyes lit up some, and her smile softened, “such a pretty name…” and as if she just realized something she perked up, “oh, wow! Your hands are so warm! And you must be her girlfriend, right?” She leaned over, and Silke couldn’t resist taking the chance to peep. “How long have you two been going out?”
“About 4 months,” Emily responded.
“Ah…..” She leaned back and took another sip, “My girl and I have been together for about 8 months now. It’s surprising how fast time flies, huh?” Ayano’s eyes retracted in thought then snapped back, “so, where are you two from?”
A text broke Silke out of her memories, “It’s in the northern part of the city. She was beaten up.”
She leaped up and ran towards the door, grabbing her keys. Silke didn’t care if she had to use all of her money she earned this week to get to Ayano. She had to find a way to get to her. As she closed the door, she stuffed her wallet into her back pocket and ran down the hall, dodging dorm mates and ignored their confused stares as she ran to the bus stop. She had to be sure that Ayano would be ok.
Finally she got onto the bus, it was empty but for nine other passengers. Only one glanced up as she skipped a few steps getting onto the bus then found a seat. Now in a seat, she texted back, “what happened?”
Thirteen minutes later, “She was helping some old lady get her groceries in2 her car. 2 men came over and started throwing slurs @ her. She turned around & asked them wut their problem was. They then threw an ice ball @ her, it hit her in the face, & she fell. They then came closer, called her more slurs, then kicked her repeatedly.”
“What about the old lady?”
“She left.”
Silke’s stomach dropped. “Is she ok?”
“We don’t know, she suffered multiple broken bones, she was a bloody mess when she got to the hospital.”
Silke leaned back against the back of the seat. Her body slumped like a ragdoll. She tried to think of the last time they were together to avoid crying.
They sat on the roof of her car, talking and drinking chai as the sun was about to set. It was summer, but Ayano still wore jeans and sneakers despite the heat. Her hair was now cropped short in a boyish manner, giving her the appearance of an emo guy. But the genderfuck look suited her. She was laughing over something that Silke had just told her. Then she paused, and looked down at her hands.
“You know what I don’t get?” Her slender fingers fiddled with the sleeve on her drink. “I don’t get how people can hate each other so much… and blame gays for the 51% divorce rate then claim it needs to be ‘protected’. Protected from what? Love? Marriage isn’t a Christian institution anyways… “
Silke smiled and leaned back, being careful to not slide back too far. “I really don’t think you need to worry about that. Who cares what they think? They can be bigots if they want. You can’t change them anyways, Ayano.”
She looked up with her eyes brimmed with tears, “True, but I’d like that for once, they would realize that we’re not that much different from them. We can’t help who we’re attracted to after all… and with all this hate in the world… why hold back love? Why fear it? Why seek to make the lives for those who are happy and know who they are, more difficult? Can’t they see that they’re only harming society? There’s a reason why the GLBTIQ community has such a huge issue with drugs, alcohol and depression… There’s so much negative perceptions toward sexuality… we’re told constantly that we’re sinful, going to hell, evil, perverts, and more… Sure, you can ignore it and lay in acquiescence… but what will that do other than beat you down? They hate against us constantly, but claim to love us. It’s not love though… they’re just passing judgment and are,” she clenched her now empty cup, “hypocrites”. She laughed tearfully. “We’re just constantly told these vile things, beaten down and denied rights by the government… and we have to find ways to escape. Whether art, drugs, alcohol, writing, suicide, we find ways to cope, or run away from the issues caused by the thorns of society. They just sew our lips shut and laugh at us; they mock us. Sure, some of us unbind our lips… but to what extent? How much blood and pain must be spilled before we can be treated as human beings?” Her voice started to rise a little, “I’m tired of sitting back. I want liberty; I want freedom!” She paused and placed her cup down and then lay back on the metal. “…Sorry Silke for the rant, I know how it upsets others… I just can’t help it.”
A smile slithered across her face as she looked down at Ayano’s stretched out body, she had the urge to lean over her and plant a kiss on her smooth lips. “It’s ok. It’s good to let out some of that anger.”
She looked up at Silke, “but I’m not angry… just frustrated.”
Silke soaked in Ayano’s words, not for the content, but for the smoothness of it; the innocence of it. “I….” she was going to say that she loved her but went for a different route, “How’s your girlfriend?”
“She’s… ok, we haven’t talked in a while, she’s been gone getting ready for college.” She stuck out her tongue in disgust. “How’s Emily been?”
Silke really didn’t like this new topic, “I broke up with her.”
Ayano bolted up and Silke suddenly wished Ayano would pull her close to comfort her, “I caught her cheating on me.”
“Oh… wow, that really sucks! Her loss then….” Ayano’s eyes then grazed the horizon, “oh! Silke, look! The sun is setting! It looks gorgeous, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, gorgeous….” Her eyes were set on Ayano’s lips.
“Silke…? Did they hurt?”
“Did what hurt?”
“Your snakebites,” she said it so casually, it was almost sexy the way it came out.
Silke shrugged, “Nah, not too much. I sort of like the pain anyways.”
Ayano’s laugh sent shivers down Silke’s spine, “You’re such a masochist.”
“Are you ok?” Silke suddenly felt someone’s hand on her.
She shrugged it off and looked at the person; she was probably in her thirties, her green eyes smothered with worry, “Yeah…” She didn’t want to go into complications with a stranger on the bus.
“Are you sure?” She nagged.
“Yup.”
“But you’re crying.” She held out a tissue.
“T-thanks.” The bus stopped and she speeded off and nearly tripped off the last step. She should have been a mile away from the hospital now. Silke looked at the street signs, but found that she suddenly didn’t know where she was. She pulled out her cell phone to look up her location.
She groaned; she was near a hospital alright, but at the opposite end of the city. She cursed under her breath and ran in the direction of the right hospital. She then turned at 31st street and halted. The sidewalks and street was blocked off; construction. She would have to find a new way. She turned back to the street she just came off of, and then tried 32nd, only to find that that street was blocked and a biker parade was inching through the streets. Back tracking, she ran to 30th street, only to hit 27th.
She turned left onto 27th, and hit High St, turned toward 31st and found 30th street. 30th was bustling with people, multiple times she was nearly clotheslined by passersby. It then started to rain and she still had to make it to 12th and Long Street. By the time she reached 20th street, her heart pounded and her feet were sore. Resting for a few seconds, she glanced around for any concession stands to get bottled water. There were none, despite being near the courthouse and a museum.
She got another text, “did u finish last nites homework?”
The church on the end of Day Avenue lay silent as if praying in solitary confinement as people entered the buildings around it. She then hit 19th Street and was still exhausted. Yet she trudged on, she needed to see Ayano to be sure she was ok… and to tell her what she failed to tell her that night on the car.
She was half way between 13th and 14th street when suddenly she overheard, “hey, look at that dyke!” “What are you running for fag?” “Slow down bitch!” Silke glanced behind her shoulder, and found she was being followed by three gangsters; she faced forward again and gasped right before smacking into a large burly man. His bear hands clenched onto her arms and spun her around, the leader of the group was lanky, with a designed chin strap beard and a tattoo that snaked up his arm to his temple. He sneered as he placed his scaly hands on Silke’s chin tilting it toward him. She bared her teeth at him, disgusted.
“Look boys, looks like we’ve snagged a butch bint,” his smile lay crooked on his broken face. “How about we have some fun with this one?” The rest of the guys jeered and jabbed at the idea, all seeming to be thrilled with the prospect of having fun with a lesbian.
On the opposite end of the street, a cop walked by, seemingly blind to the commotion as she was dragged into the alleyway. She struggled and fought against the bear-like creature that held her; yelled in protest with multiple different profanities. Finally she was able to get one hand free and bit him, he yelped. Angered, he punched her, she ignored the pain and grabbed for a broken pipe that lay on the floor. She yanked her other hand out of his grip. Screaming, she smashed the pipe against his shoulder. A splintering sound waved through the air, creating silence. She stood there for a millisecond, shocked that she broke some bones. But then ran towards the exit, only to find that the men were there.
Terrified, she skidded to a halt and bolted in the opposite direction where a high fence stretched toward the sky. Quickly, and barely even taking the time to think, she leaped onto a box. It crushed some below her, but she didn’t take heed as she jumped to a new box and flung herself onto the closed dumpster. From there, she ran toward the fence and hurdled her body toward the fence. She made it, mostly. But her hand began to slip while the guys below groped for her ankles. She violently kicked a few hands away and found her footing on the security chain-linked fence. Her hands bled from the barbed wire, but she ignored the pain until she fell to the other side of the fence. She didn’t even bother mocking the jerk as she ran away…she was actually glad to be away from them until she saw the Rottweiler standing before her, jaws snapping and ears back.
Her body froze, terrified she squeaked, “Good doggy… good doggy… don’t mind me… I’m just…”
In the distance someone whistled, the dog looked behind it, glanced back at Silke, and then ran to its master. Silke let out a sigh of relief; nearly melted into the dirty asphalt even. But a text sounded and reminded her why she wasn’t in her dorm room in the first place.
With more resolve than before, she ran out of the area towards the hospital.
She crashed through the hospital doors startling the receptionist momentarily; she stumbled forward out of breath. Enervated she gasped, “where’s Ayano?”
The receptionist sighed, “Family?”
Would like to be… “Yes” she lied.
“Last name?”
She paused to catch her breath, “Zal, Z-A-L”.
She popped her gum, “room 289 down that hall.” She passively pointed in the general direction.
“Thanks.”
“Whatever,” and flipped the page of her magazine.
Finally Silke reached the room. She swung open the door to find Ayano’s girlfriend beside her bed.
Silke fell to the floor as the screen above the bed sneered “TOO LAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATE”, and her legs melted. Ayano’s girlfriend wept, her body hunched over beside the bed with her hands clenched tightly to her chest.
Feebly, Silke stumbled to Ayano’s girlfriend, feeling the slices and bloody shards left by Ayano’s shattered hourglass that smashed before them. The two women wept over the loss of their loved one, alone in the bloodied sand. All the while, a lone voice sang in the hallway.
- - -
I'm an 18 year old GLBT activist and proud lesbian who will be attending Kutztown University in the Fall. I have always lived by my father's saying, "if you have two choices; one easy and one hard. The hard one is usually the right one". Although he and I never agree anymore, I wish to share his wisdom through my stories.
By Lee Bauer
She awoke from a dream. Her eyes shifted to the clock beside her. Though her mind was still foggy from her slumber, she knew there was something missing. She groped for the button on the alarm and sprawled out of bed. If only she could get her out of her head.
Once again, she visited her dreams, and Silke refused to think any further of the message that the dreams were trying to tell her about Ayano. Silke’s cell phone buzzed, once, twice, three times… it was Ayano.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Nothing but you,” Silke thought, but dared not to text back, instead she put down the cell and got ready for breakfast. It wasn’t as if by texting her back, telling her how she felt, would change anything. Ayano had a partner, and Silke was away at college…. Far from Ayano. Yet Silke couldn’t help but think of Ayano’s laughter, and her soft smile that on anyone else wouldn’t have fit well with her cold yet sad eyes. Nor could she help but remember the night that she told Ayano that she had broken up with her own girlfriend. Silke still replayed that moment over and over. She wasn’t sure whether or not she really saw Ayano’s eyes light up at the news, or if it was just her own imagination running wild with lust for Ayano. She wanted to touch Ayano’s soft skin and taste her lips, to never let go, to make her hers.
But it was only a dream… Ayano would never break up with her partner; they had already made plans for the future. Ayano had her life set out, go to college, graduate, marry her partner, adopt a child and live happily ever after. There was no room for Silke in that future as anything other than an “aunt” to their child. But Silke wanted more than that. Though she laughed when Ayano had teased at the prospect of Silke being the aunt of her child, she wanted to help raise that child with Ayano. Together. To wait for her at the altar and say their I Do’s. That was what Silke wanted… but dared not to say. Ayano’s family would never approve of Silke anyways, and she would rather not burden her with more trouble.
Three more buzzes sounded, “When are you coming back from college?”
Again, Silke didn’t answer even though she wanted to. She couldn’t.
Their days went on like this, day in, day out. Every so often Silke would reply back, but it never seemed often enough.
However, on one particularly sunny day Silke got the text, “Ayano’s in the hospital!”
At this, Silke was sure that her heart stopped for a few moments. How could this happen? Silke thought, she’s only 18, young, kind, and strong willed.
“Where? Why?” Silke texted back.
Bzzzzt. “Wut pgs do we have 2 read?” Shut up!
She waited in terror-filled silence, clutching onto the cell for a response on Ayano’s status. It seemed as if hours dredged on and as she waited huddled on the beanbag chair, her mind wandered to the first time she met Ayano.
They were hanging out with friends, it was wintertime. Ayano shrugged off a few layers as she walked into the café after a night at the youth group. Some other people were smoking cigs outside, but she wanted nothing of that, she hugged a friend of hers. Then she laughed at something her friend said then walked… no pranced over to the counter. While she waited for her drink, she chatted up with a couple different gay guys from the group; they were interested in who this new lesbian was. She was short, slender and wore her dark hair up as if it bothered her to have it touch the back of her neck. Her facial expressions were animated, yet honest. Her eyes, however, held a little bit of sadness and her smile didn’t always touch her eyes. Yet she was beautiful, flirtatious, and cute. Ayano would every so often make hand gestures to emphasize her words, and her voice floated smoothly around Silke’s head as she spoke.
Then with drink in hand, she hugged him then walked back over to her friend, Tina. Ayano looked at Silke and smiled as she took a sip of her drink.
“Mmmm, this café makes a mean soy chai.” Then to Tina, “Scoot over.” Tina moved, and Silke found herself beside Ayano, legs touching through skinny jeans. Silke had to look away to be sure she wasn’t blushing and stroked her girlfriend’s hand. “Hey,” she piped as she shifted her soy chai to the other hand. “I’m Ayano, you?”
When Silke looked over, she found that Ayano was talking to her, and while slightly surprised she took Ayano’s hand to shake it, “I’m Silke”.
Her eyes lit up some, and her smile softened, “such a pretty name…” and as if she just realized something she perked up, “oh, wow! Your hands are so warm! And you must be her girlfriend, right?” She leaned over, and Silke couldn’t resist taking the chance to peep. “How long have you two been going out?”
“About 4 months,” Emily responded.
“Ah…..” She leaned back and took another sip, “My girl and I have been together for about 8 months now. It’s surprising how fast time flies, huh?” Ayano’s eyes retracted in thought then snapped back, “so, where are you two from?”
A text broke Silke out of her memories, “It’s in the northern part of the city. She was beaten up.”
She leaped up and ran towards the door, grabbing her keys. Silke didn’t care if she had to use all of her money she earned this week to get to Ayano. She had to find a way to get to her. As she closed the door, she stuffed her wallet into her back pocket and ran down the hall, dodging dorm mates and ignored their confused stares as she ran to the bus stop. She had to be sure that Ayano would be ok.
Finally she got onto the bus, it was empty but for nine other passengers. Only one glanced up as she skipped a few steps getting onto the bus then found a seat. Now in a seat, she texted back, “what happened?”
Thirteen minutes later, “She was helping some old lady get her groceries in2 her car. 2 men came over and started throwing slurs @ her. She turned around & asked them wut their problem was. They then threw an ice ball @ her, it hit her in the face, & she fell. They then came closer, called her more slurs, then kicked her repeatedly.”
“What about the old lady?”
“She left.”
Silke’s stomach dropped. “Is she ok?”
“We don’t know, she suffered multiple broken bones, she was a bloody mess when she got to the hospital.”
Silke leaned back against the back of the seat. Her body slumped like a ragdoll. She tried to think of the last time they were together to avoid crying.
They sat on the roof of her car, talking and drinking chai as the sun was about to set. It was summer, but Ayano still wore jeans and sneakers despite the heat. Her hair was now cropped short in a boyish manner, giving her the appearance of an emo guy. But the genderfuck look suited her. She was laughing over something that Silke had just told her. Then she paused, and looked down at her hands.
“You know what I don’t get?” Her slender fingers fiddled with the sleeve on her drink. “I don’t get how people can hate each other so much… and blame gays for the 51% divorce rate then claim it needs to be ‘protected’. Protected from what? Love? Marriage isn’t a Christian institution anyways… “
Silke smiled and leaned back, being careful to not slide back too far. “I really don’t think you need to worry about that. Who cares what they think? They can be bigots if they want. You can’t change them anyways, Ayano.”
She looked up with her eyes brimmed with tears, “True, but I’d like that for once, they would realize that we’re not that much different from them. We can’t help who we’re attracted to after all… and with all this hate in the world… why hold back love? Why fear it? Why seek to make the lives for those who are happy and know who they are, more difficult? Can’t they see that they’re only harming society? There’s a reason why the GLBTIQ community has such a huge issue with drugs, alcohol and depression… There’s so much negative perceptions toward sexuality… we’re told constantly that we’re sinful, going to hell, evil, perverts, and more… Sure, you can ignore it and lay in acquiescence… but what will that do other than beat you down? They hate against us constantly, but claim to love us. It’s not love though… they’re just passing judgment and are,” she clenched her now empty cup, “hypocrites”. She laughed tearfully. “We’re just constantly told these vile things, beaten down and denied rights by the government… and we have to find ways to escape. Whether art, drugs, alcohol, writing, suicide, we find ways to cope, or run away from the issues caused by the thorns of society. They just sew our lips shut and laugh at us; they mock us. Sure, some of us unbind our lips… but to what extent? How much blood and pain must be spilled before we can be treated as human beings?” Her voice started to rise a little, “I’m tired of sitting back. I want liberty; I want freedom!” She paused and placed her cup down and then lay back on the metal. “…Sorry Silke for the rant, I know how it upsets others… I just can’t help it.”
A smile slithered across her face as she looked down at Ayano’s stretched out body, she had the urge to lean over her and plant a kiss on her smooth lips. “It’s ok. It’s good to let out some of that anger.”
She looked up at Silke, “but I’m not angry… just frustrated.”
Silke soaked in Ayano’s words, not for the content, but for the smoothness of it; the innocence of it. “I….” she was going to say that she loved her but went for a different route, “How’s your girlfriend?”
“She’s… ok, we haven’t talked in a while, she’s been gone getting ready for college.” She stuck out her tongue in disgust. “How’s Emily been?”
Silke really didn’t like this new topic, “I broke up with her.”
Ayano bolted up and Silke suddenly wished Ayano would pull her close to comfort her, “I caught her cheating on me.”
“Oh… wow, that really sucks! Her loss then….” Ayano’s eyes then grazed the horizon, “oh! Silke, look! The sun is setting! It looks gorgeous, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, gorgeous….” Her eyes were set on Ayano’s lips.
“Silke…? Did they hurt?”
“Did what hurt?”
“Your snakebites,” she said it so casually, it was almost sexy the way it came out.
Silke shrugged, “Nah, not too much. I sort of like the pain anyways.”
Ayano’s laugh sent shivers down Silke’s spine, “You’re such a masochist.”
“Are you ok?” Silke suddenly felt someone’s hand on her.
She shrugged it off and looked at the person; she was probably in her thirties, her green eyes smothered with worry, “Yeah…” She didn’t want to go into complications with a stranger on the bus.
“Are you sure?” She nagged.
“Yup.”
“But you’re crying.” She held out a tissue.
“T-thanks.” The bus stopped and she speeded off and nearly tripped off the last step. She should have been a mile away from the hospital now. Silke looked at the street signs, but found that she suddenly didn’t know where she was. She pulled out her cell phone to look up her location.
She groaned; she was near a hospital alright, but at the opposite end of the city. She cursed under her breath and ran in the direction of the right hospital. She then turned at 31st street and halted. The sidewalks and street was blocked off; construction. She would have to find a new way. She turned back to the street she just came off of, and then tried 32nd, only to find that that street was blocked and a biker parade was inching through the streets. Back tracking, she ran to 30th street, only to hit 27th.
She turned left onto 27th, and hit High St, turned toward 31st and found 30th street. 30th was bustling with people, multiple times she was nearly clotheslined by passersby. It then started to rain and she still had to make it to 12th and Long Street. By the time she reached 20th street, her heart pounded and her feet were sore. Resting for a few seconds, she glanced around for any concession stands to get bottled water. There were none, despite being near the courthouse and a museum.
She got another text, “did u finish last nites homework?”
The church on the end of Day Avenue lay silent as if praying in solitary confinement as people entered the buildings around it. She then hit 19th Street and was still exhausted. Yet she trudged on, she needed to see Ayano to be sure she was ok… and to tell her what she failed to tell her that night on the car.
She was half way between 13th and 14th street when suddenly she overheard, “hey, look at that dyke!” “What are you running for fag?” “Slow down bitch!” Silke glanced behind her shoulder, and found she was being followed by three gangsters; she faced forward again and gasped right before smacking into a large burly man. His bear hands clenched onto her arms and spun her around, the leader of the group was lanky, with a designed chin strap beard and a tattoo that snaked up his arm to his temple. He sneered as he placed his scaly hands on Silke’s chin tilting it toward him. She bared her teeth at him, disgusted.
“Look boys, looks like we’ve snagged a butch bint,” his smile lay crooked on his broken face. “How about we have some fun with this one?” The rest of the guys jeered and jabbed at the idea, all seeming to be thrilled with the prospect of having fun with a lesbian.
On the opposite end of the street, a cop walked by, seemingly blind to the commotion as she was dragged into the alleyway. She struggled and fought against the bear-like creature that held her; yelled in protest with multiple different profanities. Finally she was able to get one hand free and bit him, he yelped. Angered, he punched her, she ignored the pain and grabbed for a broken pipe that lay on the floor. She yanked her other hand out of his grip. Screaming, she smashed the pipe against his shoulder. A splintering sound waved through the air, creating silence. She stood there for a millisecond, shocked that she broke some bones. But then ran towards the exit, only to find that the men were there.
Terrified, she skidded to a halt and bolted in the opposite direction where a high fence stretched toward the sky. Quickly, and barely even taking the time to think, she leaped onto a box. It crushed some below her, but she didn’t take heed as she jumped to a new box and flung herself onto the closed dumpster. From there, she ran toward the fence and hurdled her body toward the fence. She made it, mostly. But her hand began to slip while the guys below groped for her ankles. She violently kicked a few hands away and found her footing on the security chain-linked fence. Her hands bled from the barbed wire, but she ignored the pain until she fell to the other side of the fence. She didn’t even bother mocking the jerk as she ran away…she was actually glad to be away from them until she saw the Rottweiler standing before her, jaws snapping and ears back.
Her body froze, terrified she squeaked, “Good doggy… good doggy… don’t mind me… I’m just…”
In the distance someone whistled, the dog looked behind it, glanced back at Silke, and then ran to its master. Silke let out a sigh of relief; nearly melted into the dirty asphalt even. But a text sounded and reminded her why she wasn’t in her dorm room in the first place.
With more resolve than before, she ran out of the area towards the hospital.
She crashed through the hospital doors startling the receptionist momentarily; she stumbled forward out of breath. Enervated she gasped, “where’s Ayano?”
The receptionist sighed, “Family?”
Would like to be… “Yes” she lied.
“Last name?”
She paused to catch her breath, “Zal, Z-A-L”.
She popped her gum, “room 289 down that hall.” She passively pointed in the general direction.
“Thanks.”
“Whatever,” and flipped the page of her magazine.
Finally Silke reached the room. She swung open the door to find Ayano’s girlfriend beside her bed.
Silke fell to the floor as the screen above the bed sneered “TOO LAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATE”, and her legs melted. Ayano’s girlfriend wept, her body hunched over beside the bed with her hands clenched tightly to her chest.
Feebly, Silke stumbled to Ayano’s girlfriend, feeling the slices and bloody shards left by Ayano’s shattered hourglass that smashed before them. The two women wept over the loss of their loved one, alone in the bloodied sand. All the while, a lone voice sang in the hallway.
- - -
I'm an 18 year old GLBT activist and proud lesbian who will be attending Kutztown University in the Fall. I have always lived by my father's saying, "if you have two choices; one easy and one hard. The hard one is usually the right one". Although he and I never agree anymore, I wish to share his wisdom through my stories.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
8/3/10
Longing
By Matthew Vincent Nardozza
I crave a touch I have never known; I feel it in the depths of my dreams; I feel it like a strange echo before the sound; vague outlines, silhouettes, and shadows seen before the object - and its teasing images and my own fictional perceptions only redouble my cravings! What, then, am I to do?
I dream of things unknown to me; my mind makes something of them, and I feel them. But I know they are but thin-veiled ghosts of truth; wispy shadows the mind weaves into visages of demons in the night. Their false visions make me hunger for their truths. A thousand illusions - a million petty dreams that cannot possibly compare to one vibrant truth!
Ah, the soul yearns for it!
Longing for the barley known...
Moth to a flame; my soul flies to what I dare not touch.
Thanks, then, that the flame is but a thin reflection; what force, what effect, should that flame have upon my soul, should it be reached? Am I truly held back by the shutters? Or, of my own, deep-seated fears, hidden from even myself, do I hold the shutters shut?
Does my own fear tether me to the known? To the commonplace; the comfortable? Is my chassis held to the cliff by a rope, or is it only my own hand that fixes me to the wall?
Oh, damnable emotion!
Detestable Humanity!
Tormented by dreams of slivers of things truly foreign, and held by bindings to which I hold the key! What then, what holds me here? Is it that damnable fiend, Fear? Is it another of Pandora's associates? Cruel, cruel is Fate!
Fate what has granted my snippets of such beauty, yet what tears them from me with such malice! What demons torment me with their images of feats and their icons of rest, while they pierce my flesh with their spears and feed me only dust.
To long... to long is to be human. But to know of these things, and yet be held so far from them...! I would that I had never known of their existence.
What I would do, in my eternal moments of torment, for a single sip of that secret Ambrosia. What sins I would gladly commit, what spears I would gladly throw myself upon, for a single touch. A caress; a single intimate gesture - the sensation of flesh upon my own, gentle and warm; of another's fingertips against my own, of crimson lips parted not in speech, but in ecstasy.
Keep, then, the soul. Keep the mind; keep the deep knowledge of worldly things. Keep the depth beyond the eyes. I crave only the flesh, only the deep physical truth of carnal love.
- - -
Matthew Vincent Nardozza is a previously unpublished author and a student of Environmental Science, with a literary bent.
By Matthew Vincent Nardozza
I crave a touch I have never known; I feel it in the depths of my dreams; I feel it like a strange echo before the sound; vague outlines, silhouettes, and shadows seen before the object - and its teasing images and my own fictional perceptions only redouble my cravings! What, then, am I to do?
I dream of things unknown to me; my mind makes something of them, and I feel them. But I know they are but thin-veiled ghosts of truth; wispy shadows the mind weaves into visages of demons in the night. Their false visions make me hunger for their truths. A thousand illusions - a million petty dreams that cannot possibly compare to one vibrant truth!
Ah, the soul yearns for it!
Longing for the barley known...
Moth to a flame; my soul flies to what I dare not touch.
Thanks, then, that the flame is but a thin reflection; what force, what effect, should that flame have upon my soul, should it be reached? Am I truly held back by the shutters? Or, of my own, deep-seated fears, hidden from even myself, do I hold the shutters shut?
Does my own fear tether me to the known? To the commonplace; the comfortable? Is my chassis held to the cliff by a rope, or is it only my own hand that fixes me to the wall?
Oh, damnable emotion!
Detestable Humanity!
Tormented by dreams of slivers of things truly foreign, and held by bindings to which I hold the key! What then, what holds me here? Is it that damnable fiend, Fear? Is it another of Pandora's associates? Cruel, cruel is Fate!
Fate what has granted my snippets of such beauty, yet what tears them from me with such malice! What demons torment me with their images of feats and their icons of rest, while they pierce my flesh with their spears and feed me only dust.
To long... to long is to be human. But to know of these things, and yet be held so far from them...! I would that I had never known of their existence.
What I would do, in my eternal moments of torment, for a single sip of that secret Ambrosia. What sins I would gladly commit, what spears I would gladly throw myself upon, for a single touch. A caress; a single intimate gesture - the sensation of flesh upon my own, gentle and warm; of another's fingertips against my own, of crimson lips parted not in speech, but in ecstasy.
Keep, then, the soul. Keep the mind; keep the deep knowledge of worldly things. Keep the depth beyond the eyes. I crave only the flesh, only the deep physical truth of carnal love.
- - -
Matthew Vincent Nardozza is a previously unpublished author and a student of Environmental Science, with a literary bent.
Monday, August 2, 2010
8/2/10
You don't show me
By Ciara Livingston
When you say you love me,
Do you say it with a fire tongue?
When you kiss my face,
Do you feel stabs of ecstasy running through your veins?
When you hear the words to the sweetest song,
Are you listening for the lyric of my breath?
Am I the posture of your dream state?
The blood, tendons and muscles of your body?
Or am I the only thing that makes sense in your life?
The length of my thigh wraps around you.
My skeleton is made up of your scent.
- - -
Ciara is a 19 year old nursing student who likes to write when her emotions are the strongest. She has been writing ever since she could hold a pen in her hand.
By Ciara Livingston
When you say you love me,
Do you say it with a fire tongue?
When you kiss my face,
Do you feel stabs of ecstasy running through your veins?
When you hear the words to the sweetest song,
Are you listening for the lyric of my breath?
Am I the posture of your dream state?
The blood, tendons and muscles of your body?
Or am I the only thing that makes sense in your life?
The length of my thigh wraps around you.
My skeleton is made up of your scent.
- - -
Ciara is a 19 year old nursing student who likes to write when her emotions are the strongest. She has been writing ever since she could hold a pen in her hand.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
8/1/10
Storm's Blossom
Ariel T. Statman
Floating on the silent black waves,
Descending to the world of pain,
A blossom on the sea of storms,
Sweet scents and beauty abound,
Now the stench of pain retreats,
A world of peace now emerges,
Golden petals shine joyfully,
You are my flower in the turbulent sea.
- - -
An avid reader and writer since a young age, tries to find passion and joy in the most simple to most complicated things in the world.
Ariel T. Statman
Floating on the silent black waves,
Descending to the world of pain,
A blossom on the sea of storms,
Sweet scents and beauty abound,
Now the stench of pain retreats,
A world of peace now emerges,
Golden petals shine joyfully,
You are my flower in the turbulent sea.
- - -
An avid reader and writer since a young age, tries to find passion and joy in the most simple to most complicated things in the world.
