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Beyond Digital Sounds

These may be sounds of a word player
Enjoying punctuation marks
Throughout a sync speech
Eventually a low pitch
But they're rather sounds of a lover.

Nothing compares to that music
Sounding amidst those nice words
Heard through a string of emotions
Shared with live punctuations.

Three dots mean for her a lot
Be it clearly expressed or not
Hinting at new lovely threads
Stories without commas she treads.

The talk goes on out of curiosity
Punctuated by the question mark
Which was typed by thee.
Then, we go ahead until next thread.

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poem by Maria C. Costa
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The End Of All Questions II

Why men and women too often mistake sex for love
Why moldy ancient texts still inform peoples prejudices.
Why some people bash the past but can't let it go.

Why the dog wags the tail and not vice-versa.
Where to get the GPS that can take you to the rainbow's end.
Why the well of Truth is bottomless, bottomless.
Why the Spanish, spendthrifts of punctuation,
Insist on those upside-down marks at the start of each question.

Why, why why, what and occasionally where.
Just kidding, of course, but if every question were answered
Still one would remain of all those neatly laid
Out fitted with their answers at the bottom of the page:
Why I loved you from the very first moment of our meeting
And why I continue, in spite of formidable odds, to.
I think it must have something to do with 'character'.
Yeh, character. It must have something to do with that.

poem by Morgan Michaels
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Bliss Star Flights Morning Lights Ecstasy

how rare bliss star flights morning lights ecstasy
ah I was riding the morning breaks then Nair punctuated
paradise capitalized it into a pitiful small black box

then thrown away the key while eternal morning breaks
and I watched amazed as renewal stellar dawn light paled
misty grey dark as darkness crept over earth Nairwood

I saw the morning breaks spread around sphere circle the earth
then Nair zeroed it like a math teacher chasing too many zeroes
was in a daydream he brought me down with finite drab diction

eternity begged artists of divine sight come embrace stellar light
together multiuniverses we crossed in instant thought flight
myriads myriads of angels blessed us upon our star cosmic night

then Nair zeroed infinity with punctuation marks capital letters
crossing t dotting i is not part of nirvana liberation illumination
transcendent consciousness body mind soul embraces stellar bliss

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poem by Terence George Craddock
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Bric-a-brac

On a day you open the door
Hanging upon a keyhole
All those epitomes of yourself
Lying on your doorstep
May merry the hurricane take twist turn
To blow you up
To knock knock knock you down
To ra ta ra ta ta ta ra ta all your preconceptions
About middle age middle class middle life

You might find among these things
A violin key choked by an articulation problem
Once the cords turned into the wires of your cage

Or a message from under the ground
Written on your roots unsettled

The seeds of question marks you sowed
To reap the punctuation of the universe

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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Innocent As Gravity And It's Raining

Innocent as gravity and it's raining.
Trying to paint a Monarch butterfly into a starscape
where all the wavelengths have been woven
by a third eye into a spider web. This morning
the left and right hemispheres of my brain
are separated like an hourglass undergoing
the meiosis of galaxies whose lustre's greyed
by the senile pearl of the sky. I want to play
aspirationally like fireflies among the stars,
but a gust of shadows has snuffed all the candles
and if I'm seeing stars at all, it's like a rainbow
wearing a Joseph's coat of colours
at the bottom of a well that hasn't granted a wish in awhile.

My heart's a loom of dissonant wavelengths
trying to weave my bloodstream like a carpet
it can fly away on braiding all these weak threads
and the light of all these images they carry
like the genomes of the souls of the dead
into the d.n.a. of a stronger spinal cord

[...] Read more

poem by Patrick White
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More Than Words Can Say...

Some writers like short poetry. Others don't.
Some will write long lines... Others won't...
Some like to embellish... Others can't...
Some write with relish... Others shan't...

In poetry, we explore the twists and turns of love.
The blessings here... and the burdens there.
Did we feel we'd reached the end of the theme?
Did we have more lines left unshared?
Did we sense that all was said?
If we forced ourselves to write a few more ideas, what then?
Would we abandon the initial lines along the way?

Writing starts with a wry-tingle... then a knowing within.
We reach for pen and paper or keyboard and computer.
We may begin with a title to spark us off...
We may have a pun in mind as a punchline...
Whatever gets us to begin is useful.

Whatever we create, success or failure, helps.

[...] Read more

poem by Denis Martindale
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Gone Soon Enough

Gone soon enough. To who knows where,
though I suspect the question answers itself
if there's a there to get to at all. Deal with this now
and maybe that, given opposites engender
one another out of their procreative union,
will be tended to as well in every mystic detail.
Mark one jewel and they're all marked.
Do unto one of these and you do unto me.
And maybe this is the belief of every leaf in the fall,
but with me when I'm trying on ghosts
to go with my death mask, it's merely one
of a myriad passing thoughts and scenarios
impassioned by the inspired absurdity
of trying to conceptualize the inconceivable.

Not void bound, though I'm free, I still hope,
more love and loyalty than clinging to mirages,
to take all the stars with me, and the moon and the sun,
the wind, the stone, the flower and all the sorrows
I've venerated over the years as shrines

[...] Read more

poem by Patrick White
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Bomb In C Minor

There's a minefield set inside my head
Any little push and I think we're all dead
The barrel is loaded through my twisted neurology
Which social miasmas set in motion the trigger
Leading tainted endearments that lead me to linger
A hyacinth aborted, in the killing fields bloomed
caution were you tread, or this roman candle will yield

There's a bomb playing c minor, it's my schizoid sonata
Cracked coronets pick away my head with an axe
The violins scratch impressions on mahogany lines
While the Spanish guitar paints me to a far away time
And nobody hears the pressure point crescendo to the drums
as the bomb goes off for session number 1

Everyday is navigated combating a barbed wire planet
For eyes and subtle sneers, firing the shot penetrating fear
Wounds fragrant the body and make a casualty worn
Without notice to recoil the shrapnel lodges your thoughts
And every scar to the insults engineers a damaged mind

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poem by Kevin Patrick
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You Keep Looking

You keep looking for meaning in a world
you say hasn't given you one
worth living for
and you're down and disappointed
and all that red passion
that used to burn like books and leaves
has turned as mystically brown
as the background of a Rembrandt painting
or gone up in smoke
at the Bonfire of the Vanities.
Now you're a copycat Savanarola
in a faculty lounge
trying to turn God back like the Renaissance
for behaving like the Medici.
You used to be a little on the teachy side
but now you're boring and preachy
having settled the whole issue
of what you're doing on earth like a fist.
You once went looking for the point of life like a grail.
Now you plunge it through everyone's heart like a spear.

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poem by Patrick White
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Everybody Knows Why The Children Are Hungry

Everybody knows why the children are hungry.
Everybody knows why the poor give up dreaming
and the rich can't sleep without surveillance.
Everybody knows why this young girl can't read
and the Taliban throw acid in her face.
Everybody knows why this young boy
at twelve years old
feels about as heroic as a statistic
and looks at the future as if
he were already a has-been.
Everybody knows why there's a rifle in his hand.
Everybody knows why
there are people washed up
on the streets of our cities
as if a great ship of state had gone down
like a garbage barge off the coast of New Jersey.
Everybody knows why
women are being sexually colonized
in the Democratic Republic of the mineral-rich Congo.
Everybody knows their atrocities

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poem by Patrick White
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