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Monday, November 17, 2014

For the lil time travelers

photo of "Lil Mama" by Fame Ketover 

For the lil time travelers ....
I shall be one 
of your Ancient
Ones - wise relic
of time past and
you twin travelers
shall catapult past
into a future of un-
imagined possibility
in which you shall 
walk in comfort and
complete familiarity
a smile on each face
my name an echo in
the wind caressing 
your cheeks - 
pushing ever so 
gently - with love
behind you always -
the whisper of the
wind at your back 
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Saturday, November 15, 2014

Sweet Sugar Sunday

Lynn Greyling

Sweet Sugar Sunday

She was nibbling at her toast on Sunday
morning when they started to speak, eyes
lingering on each other. Mother began to
mix brown sugar into oatmeal, but the thing
about brown sugar is it tends to be just about
as subtle a cover for oats, breakfast of horses,
as are lingered looks a cover for hints of 
Sounds that sweet and smooth drifted like 
powder, floating on 
pale blue light
late last night under
her doorway - From their passion to her palate
to the core of her soul – tasted on her tongue 
This Sunday morning as she ate her toasty
break-fast: Spooned-served-love on the side 
smiling parents on a sweet-sugar-Sunday-sigh

Sunday, November 9, 2014

Bubby’s Kristallnacht Cup

Bubby’s Kristallnacht Cup
Bubby had a glass tea cup
that she would take down
from its high shelf once in
a very long while and hold
to the golden light at sunset
Sparkling crystal only one
with a saucer so thin it felt
weightless in my small hand
that crisp November evening
when she called to me and
her special voice warm with
a faraway language waved
me to her side – and tears
shining in her eyes showed
me how to hold the cup so
it caught all the light shining
we stood silently side by side
at her window – I a small child
with trembling heart holding
her single secreted souvenier
Until with hair shimmering
silver she straightened her
shoulders and with a proud
tremble in her voice began –
“Let me tell you “kinder” of a night
when they came to break the glass..”
Years tumbled as they will and one
day clearing out her things I found
on the self same shelf her tea cup
and reached on tiptoe my belly big
with child -and listened as it slipped
– a small smash – a tiny shatter – and
as I began to cry – cleaning sparkling
slivers – I saw a fragment Woolworth
label and realized that nothing had
survived that time except the love,
the knowledge and the legacy, to be
retold so as she would say
“it should never be forgotten”
I locked her door and at Tiffany’s
I found a fluted cup of cut crystal
Only one? the saleswoman asked
One will be enough
I answered – One will be enough …
Unwrapped it on a high bookshelf
where it catches the light and waits
to tell its story to the child that will
bear her name

Black Knight

George Hodan

Black Knight

At the crossroads where the crocus meets the
rose that has no thorns
At the crossroad where the birds part for the golden
owl with feathered horns
I shall meet you in the mud where the sun will never shine
In the blackened night around us I will take you there as mine
At the crossroads where you crawl on belly desperate to decide
I shall rise in fervor swirling - scissor to your thread - your lover Suicide

On the other side of the razor

Lynn Greyling

On the other side of the razor

Occam  suggested
Look for the simple
and so she breathed
in desperate incantation
See the shine in the mud
the roses rise o'er thorns
See birds soar above carrion
focused fervor in eyes of fright
Oh Occam! - help me see in this dark night

See benevolent wisdom in stare of the owl
Help me believe still in the crocus prowl
pulsing warm and gay under the frozen crust
Hold this thread of life I bore I must, I must
until I weave a tapestry from times remembered
waving bannered in this cold deadened night
here at the pain-paned window spectred sight
This crossroads as light leeches toward the dust
Hold, see and from this single fraying thread
Weave, weave, yes,  from fraying thread  I must  

Breathing with
him above the
whir life cheapened
beep of machines  where
breath once easy flowed
easy, oh how easy flowed 
to his future golden glowed

Breathe, Breathe, through
this vile, vicious night
See slip of hand accident  
not suicide - not suicide  
Never this complication
would Occam so decide

This child's now unlined brow 
sleeps, simply sleeps until first
first brightening light
waiting - to awaken - to Auroras call

laughing then - a simple solution to this all
laughing then - a simple solution to this all


The Sunday Whirl

Sunday, November 2, 2014

PAD. Day 2 - Given up for lost

Given up for lost...
She had made her peace
watching the cold wind
wave through marshland
consoling her heart that
he small furred creature
who for a time curled in
her home and heart had
made his way back to the
salted seaside stalking at
the yawping gulls, leaping
at the flash of small critters
She had made her peace
standing at the window
watching smiling at his
imagined reclamation, his
tawdry toys now gathered
in a basket for the trash
and thought the familiar
meow a phantom
wish like the itch
of an amputated
limb until at the
open door he
sauntered in
and brushed
past his ebon
in the sun
that filled

Saturday, November 1, 2014

Satisfied - Halloween Horror Leftover

Satisfied – Halloween Horror Leftover

she screamed just a little
as he standing satisfied
fixed to light the gasoline
standing satisfied, jaded,
some might say, as wind
lifted a spark, blew the
rain away and sun shone
in the cold shimmering
grey in that pearlescent way
it has, held up against
the perfect crimson slash
just before immolation

PAD - Day 1. Game Over

Charles Rondeau

Game Over

they were sixteen
he called her Miss Piggie
she called him a Grunt
they stopped riding and
found a spot away from
everybody - alone -
he tickled, they rolled
in the summer grass
their bikes flung wheels
spinning for a long while
she laughed so hard her
breath caught - he smelled
like cherries they'd eaten on
the ride - he tickled harder
and then - m
one hand grabbing burst breasts
naked in the sun his other hand
pinning her arms over her head -
they were alone
when the laughter
stopped forever
and the sweet
scent of

Wednesday, October 29, 2014

After Sandy

After Sandy

We emerged blinking
at sand piled streets
upturned cars, boats
flown from sea to land
all manner of tumbled
flung as toddler toys tossed
after a particularly onerous
unexpected temper tantrum
We emerged blinking
staring at splintered boards
torn remains of a walk holding
the footprints and memories
of generations long past
We emerged in crawling
returning lines
with collective held breath
until we reached home
or what still remained
We emerged
and rushed salt
destroyed gardens
through the murdered
pines to see
if the marsh tree
planted as a tender sapling
thirty years ago
still stood
it did
and only

Sunday, October 26, 2014

red fields

red fields

into that velvet carpet of crimson fields of tulips
pretend poppies slept, a sea of nodding heads, 
dreaming gnarled roots to soft oblivion -as
we ran
two small children
hand in hand
we ran
from our apocalyptic home where we stuffed our breath
in in-adudible rhythyms – hid all frivolous thought below
solemn faces until tip-toed
sprung into the navied blue pre-dawn
we ran 
squeezing through the not quite open gate
of squeaks-creaks –
we ran
barefoot in the chilled dew until safely
far from the sleeping house of strange-mooded giants
we tumbled a week’s worth of laughter
pollinating the cradle of our prescient protective poppies,
rolling, hand in hand, as first fingers of light shimmered
writing for those with literary inklings the epilogue of a future
not yet conceived –
this, the first of our thirteen chapters
as we ran
home before they woke