Windy on the Bridge
By Sylvie Morgan Flatow
cold
like the inside of a minty mouth
flew up and down my shirt
passing briefly through cleavage
for the view
of a lifetime.
UNFINISHED DYSFUNCTIONAL LOVE STORY
By Amy Chin
It kills me.
What you have done.
Kills me.
You don’t know.
No idea.
That kills me even more.
How to forgive the unjustifiable?
The question goes unanswered.
I turn my cheek.
Look away.
Build fairytales, Hollywood endings, weaving truths and lies
Monstrous fatal gossamer web
Deceptive dreams bury stifled cries.
I fool myself and fool you too
You do the same for me
Until delusions blaze and burn
Annihilation screams.
Caught without your smoke and mirrors
Can’t confront the naked truth
Instead we both claim victimhood
Partners, thrashing, used, abused
Blow by blow, the body battered
Pounding down the soul
Until a tiny flicker turns
Embers, glowing coals.
Tattered, shredded, threaded, bedded
Serviced, done, now rest, what purpose
Timeless dramas told, retold
What could I say, I knew the script, I fit the mold.
Who taught the man to rape and hit and pin the woman down?
Who taught the woman hide within and take it lying down?
Who taught the man to lie and lie, to twist reality?
Who taught the woman to deny, to live half-dead amidst debris?
Who taught the man to fall asleep as woman cried and cried?
Her sobs becoming choking fits, her body bloodied dry.
Who taught her to defend her man while others screamed abuse?
Who taught him how to kill respect, to maim the woman who refused?
And then suggest she must comply, to practice with him day and night
Until he tore her past repair, her nightlife terror and despair.
In between he soothed with kisses, honeyed words, home-cooked dishes
She loved him more, starry-eyed, now daily willing to comply.
But to comply was agony
Because there was no way
To stop him when the pain intensified and water pooled her eyes.
Yet how could she refuse?
He loved her so, so much so much, like no one she had known.
Broken home, no place to turn, he took her in, made her his own.
Fed and sheltered by her man, no money left to spare
She gave herself to him.
Together they foreswore despair.
And clung to dreams of love.
Prostitution, some would say, sex for food and shelter.
How could you others said, he’s old enough to be your father.
But love there was and love there is, deep tenderness and care
In between those violent scenes was sweetness soothing bliss
Ecstatic highs, truths and lies
One yo-yo roller coaster ride.
Monster, saint, villain, hero, damsel in distress
Knight in shining armor, brutal rapist, exotic sex slave
Illusions and confusions.
Filed under Poetry | Comment (1)Haiku
By Moffatt
bamboo delightful
sighing thicket damp and warm
morning coupling
Holiday Season
By Parrothead
People moving in such a rush
Aisles of this store a blur
Rapidly grabbing from shelves
Employees restocking with passion
Perpetual motion
I too have morphed into this haze of activity
Grabbing, pushing, buying
Two bottles of wine
Headed towards checkout
Life at a dizzying pace
Quick impressions
Indistinguishable movements
Black dress, red shoes-high heeled beauty
She stills time
Her smile, gaze, essence
Flips her hair over her shoulder
Slow motion
A moment to cherish
Gone
Dude with a full cart trying to snake my place in line
No Grand Adventure
by Lauri Langton
Worn hands look young
as they mend
the garden gate that welcomes
the old love, now friend.
Bent willow chairs are carefully
arranged in the shade
and times remembered
that never fade.
We have no grand adventure,
no morning after,
just quiet discourse
and gentle laughter.
Have we lost the energy,
the look, the passion
that we had
when we were in fashion?
Filed under Poetry | Comment (0)The Earplug
Lauri Langton
My left ear is sore because I have had an earplug stuck in it for far too long. I like the isolation I feel when I listen to music through earplugs pushed way into my ear canals. But after too many hours of self indulgence with the MP3 player, my tender internal ear skin just screams.
Right this moment I am listening to Ray Charles sing “America the Beautiful” which was recorded in 1963 in Hollywood, California It is a grand piece. With my high quality earplug it is as if he is sitting somewhere behind my left ear and singing right into my head, the tone is so intimate. I can see him on stage, let’s say at the Hollywood Bowl, dress in a tux, with a few back up singers standing just to the left of him. Never a bad performance – wouldn’t you be happy if your epitaph stated, “Never a bad performance.”
Transported back to 1963 Hollywood in my little music cocoon. Gasoline is $.30 a gallon and the weather is good. Just far enough inland you can’t smell the beach but you know its there so you drive, drive, drive. Smart cotton summer dress, pointed shoes, a boyfriend who likes to make out, and plenty of room in the front seat of the car for all sorts of shenanigans. Quiet, subdued parents don’t see the tsunami rising in the youth. Ray is singing and life can be called good. I push the earplug deeper and I smell the beach again.
Filed under Poetry, Stories | Comment (0)JAZZ AND POETRY
By Nay Torious The Educator
Jazz and poetry it’s something alike
I never know what I’m going to write
But I’m a jazz head from a kid you see
Listening to jazz since at least sixty three
Ella Fitzgerald was hitting those notes
So much beautiful music came from her throat
Lady Day crooning of lost love and strange fruit
In sartorial splendor the Duke could be found in a snappy suit
And dizz all dizzy creating his legacy, Manteca sprinting from the speakers
Jazz got us high before crack heads and tweakers and two hundred dollar sneakers
That I never buy
Don’t ask me why cause I will tell know lies about the burdens played from a saxophone
And Betty Carter and Nina Simone spilling their guts into the microphone
Have you heard of the watts poet’s brothers from watts telling the truth on society and the cops
Tupac told the same truths was a poet so let’s give him props
Maya Angalou rising still when I hear her, I can feel the honesty that can’t hide in her words
In Memory of V-Tech
By Cameron Cowan
It was any other day
26,000 students trudged off to class
Unsuspecting
Unsuspecting that someone was seeking
For a place
To belong
He was crushed and like a seed must burst
He germinated at the barrel of a gun
His growth
Our sorrow
32 died that he might live for a moment
Filed under Poetry | Comment (0)Have You?
By John Kalpatrick
“Have You?”
Have you ever listened, have you
ever heard,
As trees bend low and sigh?
Have you ever paused, and watched
a bird
Swiftly passing by? Continue reading »
His Name Is David
by Brett Staggs
She told me the story of her father,
His name is David,
He is an alcoholic,
He lives five minutes from her house and
Doesn’t ever stop to visit.
She used to see him all the time when she
Was probably about five or six.
The last time she actually spent time with him was
About five years ago,
He said to her while he was drunk,
“You know why I hate you so much? Because you’re so ugly.”
She says she still loves him with all her heart, though.
Damn.
