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Before you
there was nothing
and after
you, there will be nothing.
I've always told you, young lad,
how you remind me
of Lord Krishna.

As you bathe in the light of
nuclear holocaust,
your outstretched arms transform
into IV hangers.
The softest, most tranquil
valium
runs laps through
my nervous system.

Oh how the rays of misty light
look beautiful
on your expressionless forehead.

[...] Read more

poem by Carl A.I.
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His Actions Have Appalled Us All

The people have become enraged.
Look at their faces.
He promised us,
With his leadership...
He would attempt to walk on water.
But he asked us to be patient.
Since the task before him was tremendous.
And may require time to undertake!

'Excuse me!
He 'is' walking on water.'

With argyles?
When was the last time,
You saw anyone fashionable...
Wearing argyles?

'Yeah, but...'

But nothing!

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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It Was Good Then

I go back to my childhood
And images come flying at me
These water color memories
That have faded to a certain extent
With the passage of time
Fade no more
But become no brighter.

I remember things in
Sunshine yellows
And frosty blues
Minty greens
And lavender hues.

I remember smells.
Is it even possible to remember
Smell?
But, I swear I do.

Days had their own smell

[...] Read more

poem by Rabia Minhas
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The Lost One

The smoke from the incense rises

To envelope me and transport me

Into another reality.

My body's perfume becomes mingled with

The exotic fragrances of a fairytale land.

Cumin, clove, lemon, Corriander, ginger, and garam masala.

I look down and see
my feet

Shackled with the bell adorned anklets the dancers wore

I see my hands covered with red

[...] Read more

poem by Rabia Minhas
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Baseball

Can you smell the fresh cut grass and feel the energy of the crowd
The roaring sound of thousands as they cheer what makes them proud
The sound of a wooden bat making contact with a fastball
The joy of millions at home watching their team give it their all
In many circumstances the only thing in common of a father and son
Is the love to watch their team drive in the winning run
It will make grown men cry tears of joy and tears of pain
Hardened up drunken tough guys and do good sensitive men its all the same
It can lift the spirits of an entire city as they prepare that parade
A world series victory how it can just feel so heaven made
Think of what Jackie done to elevate his entire race
Or what the Yankees did in 77 the pain of a city it did erase
In 2004 the mighty sox let many finally rest in peace
An end to Bostons suffering 86 years of defeats
And just a year later the Black Sox finally cleaned themselves white
Chicago finally got to celebrate making Shoeless Joe in the right
We waved goodbye to curses miracles we all had seen
As baseball did what it always has filling every Americans dream

poem by Sam Edison
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Pondering Mariner

Beneath golden sun, hanging high,
in endless indigo heaven.
At the water’s edge, shoeless, I meandered.
In wavelets lapping peacefully, on white sand beach.

With slight interest I watched, silent tern,
soar without effort, ‘cross blue expanse.
Into emerald green, of tranquil deep.
Distant horizon melded.

As silent tern glided o’er, dancing, rolling whitecap.
On unseen, sirocco’s flows, my thoughts traveled.
Their course set, to port so far.
To sojourn awhile, with lover pining there.

Remembering her beauty, shining, tearfilled eyes.
Watching her fade, as the wake left behind.
To be messenger, I urge my thoughts.
Convey to her, she longs not in vain.

[...] Read more

poem by Kurt Hearth
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The Gipsy's Camp

How oft on Sundays, when I'd time to tramp,
My rambles led me to a gipsy's camp,
Where the real effigy of midnight hags,
With tawny smoked flesh and tattered rags,
Uncouth-brimmed hat, and weather-beaten cloak,
Neath the wild shelter of a knotty oak,
Along the greensward uniformly pricks
Her pliant bending hazel's arching sticks:
While round-topt bush, or briar-entangled hedge,
Where flag-leaves spring beneath, or ramping sedge,
Keeps off the bothering bustle of the wind,
And give the best retreat she hopes to find.
How oft I've bent me oer her fire and smoke,
To hear her gibberish tale so quaintly spoke,
While the old Sybil forged her boding clack,
Twin imps the meanwhile bawling at her back;
Oft on my hand her magic coin's been struck,
And hoping chink, she talked of morts of luck:
And still, as boyish hopes did first agree,
Mingled with fears to drop the fortune's fee,

[...] Read more

poem by John Clare
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The Last Parade

With never a sound of trumpet,
With never a flag displayed,
The last of the old campaigners
Lined up for the last parade.

Weary they were and battered,
Shoeless, and knocked about;
From under their ragged forelocks
Their hungry eyes looked out.

And they watched as the old commander
Read out to the cheering men
The Nation's thanks, and the orders
To carry them home again.

And the last of the old campaigners,
Sinewy, lean, and spare --
He spoke for his hungry comrades:
"Have we not done our share?

[...] Read more

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Three yards up the road

When your great-great-Grandmother
sold across the brush of cotton
was singing songs of Africa
and working under lash and lock
and yoke the white man slaver set
the child in England shivered

Silently as Dada died or Mama died
she moved to separation from her own
became a Parish burden picking oakum
was sold to northern mills in groups of slaves
locked inside forbidding winter temples
stocking dross the Parish sent away

When your great-great-Grandmother
sold by stronger tribes in Africa
to make them rich and build their acres
to feed the rich man's people hunger
passing cramped across the ocean
watching daily deaths - or hourly

[...] Read more

poem by Charlotte Peters Rock
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Galleria of Nostalgic Senses

Love me when the show’s over,
When you have the rosy glow from
Walking barefoot beneath the lanky mangroves,
Teething on the saw grass, teething;
And when it rains over the service industry of
Well-calved stewardesses:
When the university is pulsing through
The young steams bowed in holy:
Love me, and put dried flowers in my book of
Blank verse,
Turn your head and cough,
Black-eyed in the shadows, put on injuries,
Dirty your nails and jog for me short-skirted
To the semi’s h*rny bl*ws-
Graduate for me in the lighthouse’s slender
Cathedrals on the land spit, spikenard
For alligators,
Defanged lions cleaning themselves in emasculated zoos
Of androgynous thunder.
Love me too in old picture books of the Holy Land,

[...] Read more

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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