Scott Ferry

16.

i tell my son we need to get out of the pool

but, of course, he wants to stay

as i crawl along the shallow water to the exit

i feel his tiny but strong hand grip my ankle

and i let him begin to move my large body backwards

i see time flash through the blur

as if i am getting younger

the deeper he pulls me

after he has transported me all the way back

to the barrier between earth and ether

i stand up and look surprised

i am five again with him

a brother or a grinning father

it is impossible to tell

and we dart and splash and dive

in the eternal light 

when it is time for me to go

hopefully many years from now

i will tell him i must go alone

that he will not be able to pull me back

but share this with your children, son

be young with them in this grand sparkling pool

for the time you have

which is forever

 

Patricia Murphy

POINTS

Points in a game of football

Are important to it.

Points in a relationship

Can either break it or make it.

To make a point

Is even more important.

For to be deceived

Is a part of grief.

So wishing upon a star

Is by far great.

It's not too late

For a mate.

Once conceived

Is to be believed.

Then you'll be relieved

And can leave.

UP

I look up at the sky

And see a rainbow

With beautiful colors

Like flowers.

They tower above

Like a lover's touch

If it's too much

That's great.

What's at stake

Is what to make

Of a date

With your mate.

Such is fate.

It's not too late

For a plate.

Just open the gate.

Radomir Vojtech Luza

Crimson Rain

Telling me I am insane

In this armpit

Of a game

Screaming Mary Jane

Again and again

As I follow my bane

To the grain

Pointing to the same

Red rain

On my skin

Magenta shower

Digging in

Scarlet sprinkle

Tickling head

April Tulip

Strong as lead 

Crippled Triple

Three words of

Power and blight

Sour and might

Time the thief's stolen grief

Rendering the machine

Clean and green

Pointing to a nasty scene

Drowning the

System with

Each dirty stream

A moose unseen

A trio of nouns

Coming home from

A dance of frowns

Solid and silent

King Lear's clowns

Idiot Box

Throw the television

From the ledge

As you watch it

Lose its edge

Time to think

For yourself

Be strong

Not weak

Show this salad

Up the street

This mutt

The contaminated meat

Michelle Smith

I miss his essence.

It is fleeting in leaves

that grow in all seasons,

glow in all colors,

and blow in the wind.

The beckoning on my shoulder

is a perched watchful wise owl

in a tree.

Am I dreaming of komorebi?

The warmth of your spirit

bakes fronds rustling on

the ground. With my every step

their crunchy points

speak to your essential sturdy spines.

The stillness frames a misty

watercolor memory;

a fleeting moment that

I wish could be reality.

Flare Up & Flare Down

Don't forget the Zofran

I-D elixir: stir it

up in a cup. Whatever

comes out won't be

a pretty portrait picture.

Click. Click.Click.

Nauseousness and keen

nose aromas may make me

upchuck. But

the smell, well hell it

will vacate

a room. Unfortunately, a car's

engine and your ass can't

move quick enough, to go

varoom, boom, boom. My stomach

is a bubbly calderon. My small

intestine aka ileum has particles

and liquid combos to move

back and forth, back

and forth. The ebb

and flow

of the Pacific Ocean after

the dry, why sigh,as I cry, cry. Multiple

dry heaves tumble and roar in my abdominal

walls, imaginary drum

set non stop and won't fall. My head

aims for the porcelain throne.

Flush, flush, gush

Flee, flee, fuck!

Will I need a plumber?

Or the heroism

of Robin Hood and Friar Tuck?

I can see

my open toe sandals

covered in your known what with

the illness of IBD

aka

Crohn's Disease.

The abdominal flares are

an unfit, unforgiving, unfair

puzzle piece. Screech, each leech

a continuous spinning

top. Plop, plop, fizz, fizz. Oh

what a relief it is--Not!

Tramadol or Charlotte's

Web. I pray these pain

relievers won't have me

press my luck. I'll be

the ostrich with its head

buried

in the sand with no feathers

being plucked, plucked, plucked.

Peggy Castro

holding in my palms

a teardrop containing every tear I have ever cried 

laughter containing every laugh

always with me that silent scream from birth

my palms are old and wizened 

they will be 80 in a few weeks 

it is the weight of those palms

transforming my life into an echo

one I can trace from the Big Bang…

a most perfect wabi

my life for decades caught up in the indescribable lightness of being dancing with camellias in the rain yes always bound by the darkness but one step ahead now must face that truck hurling towards me…

Alone and in the dark

Mary Langer Thompson

Climbing the Proverbial Ladder

Up, up, and away to a new location

but a higher title.

I’ve studied hard and long for this.

“What goes around comes around.”

 I’m still waiting.

I climbed methodically, step by step

following the wrong proverbs.

Heads Up

A new baby was delivered to our church manger today,

exactly like the one that had its head stolen.

Or maybe the whole body was taken and someone 

dropped it and ran away with just the top.  

It took a week before anyone found it 

missing in the trash nearby. 

All agree that first baby Jesus was a treasure.

We’re considering a small tracking device for this one.

I’m no magi, but when did we lose sight of the stars?

The Washington Monument

For my brother, Dave

I followed you up hundreds of iron steps

inside the world’s tallest obelisk

stretching five hundred feet above the ground.

No, the sole elevator wasn’t broken.

We chose our way because we were young

plus you said “only phonies take the easy way.”

 

You arrived at the observation level first—

took a look around and saw the world as it was.

Then you turned to look for me.

I had a while before reaching the top.

Did you think to keep me in innocence

like Catcher Holden wished for his sister Phoebe?

 

If so, your original plan

didn’t work, and like the building

just gravity and friction held us together.

Since you’ve been gone,

my once naive heart has been 

closed for repairs.

Gia Civerolo

ignorant *pomo haiku

If it were up to

me, your ignorance 

Would be buried dead

*Post Modern

why do you only call at night

Dirty dishwater gives

nothing back

No reflection at all

Grief kept knocking at

the midnight door

I open it 

While black crows 

blended into black 

velvet sky

I say the “Silence is

annihilating.”  

“It bruises blue.”

You say “What’s

your point?”

As other Fathers

and Daughter gather

together one last

time

Who robbed who?

It was not easy

not to envy

It felt familiar

to have your 

mouth moving

I wish I could

go back, bend

and kiss 

All that demolishes 

me In the in

betweens

Like the night

not needing any

stars

universe playing tarot cards

Swimming through the 

Gray of the clouds

Trying to find the bright 

Smile of the moon

To cradle her 

Reaching up for strength 

Facing cracks in the

Mirror reflecting back 

Serrating her blue veins

Dripping red death teardrops

Blowing luminous bubbles 

Bursting with confetti

Raining down on lovers 

Lying next to each other 

Naked in the dark forest

While the voyeur hermit

Watching through the

Broken window like

His broken heart

Faintly hearing the

Siren song of the high

Priestess she used to be

The magician mending her

Torn wind of a wing

She was flying high 

In art that has no limit

Praying that the 

Universe would

Break the patriarch

Snaking around

Her tongue with

Crushing judgement

Startled in delight

Standing on top of

The world in all her

Bodacious gory glory

Trish Saunders

Dance, Pleiades, Only Dance

When some angel hammered on my door, calling,

Come outside and look up! I didn’t know what to expect,  

certainly not a giant tear in black velvet, but here they come  

tumbling out of inky sky 

a salt shaker pouring constellations

and if that isn’t a group of seven 

cavorting in blue. 

They don’t want to disappear

in morning. They don’t want to be

only a dream. Then don’t. Stay, sisters,   

for hours longer, the moon 

so close you could

throw a shoe and hit it. 

Mark A Fisher

faded stars

I look up

at the Rorschach stars

telling stories of

near forgotten archetypes

told by apes

‘round fires

in the darkness

when we were afraid

of this world

instead of ourselves

and valued food

and cheer

above hoarded wealth

but all we touched

has gone to dust

as we turned away

from the moon

and stars

and heroes

to clutch at empty tombs

filled with promises

that float on breezes

just out of reach

litter on the beach

covered in footprints

that the tide

cannot erase

and now…

I seem to have forgotten

my point

Terry McCarty

THE BALLAD OF TAYLOR SWIFT AND JAKE GYLLENHAAL

she made records he made movies  

she was an old soul when it came to business 

but young enough to still believe in love 

as something that mattered more than 

mere material for song lyrics 

but he was ten years older and steeped

in the ways of the world as he saw it 

when the breakup came,

he apparently said something about 

how the age difference made a difference 

so therefore he was okay with leaving 

she felt like a crushed pomegranate 

then turned heartbreak 

into no ordinary end of relationship song 

singing for ten minutes on SNL 

with audible grief of youth 

still present in the thirtyish woman 

telling fans not to walk up and down this particular path 

if you don’t yet have self-awareness

especially don’t give yourself to a man 

who may regard you as no more than a mere trifle

TONY AND JUDY

they seemed so happy and right for each other 

she gave him focus, he buoyed her confidence 

but, at a certain point, their love disappeared 

and he departed hipster Austin for his conservative hometown 

I never knew why they split up

but it couldn’t have been the desire

to work in the family business

repairing telephone cable in a ladder truck

POEM ABOUT GUN MASSACRES AND PERPETRATORS 

 we act shocked 

 at something we didn’t foresee 

 offer up thoughts and prayers

 and do nothing after this one

 repeating the cycle of

 unchecked anger

 grieving families and friends

 again and again and again 

Joan McNerney

while we waited

hearing daybreak begin in

alphabet chaos

forgetting ocean trenches are

longer than mountains.

our cores hard like moons

listening to rhythm of

dead waters

the electric generation

watching clocks

push forward on soiled walls

reaching up and across

from each other we are

dressed in sweat

and polyester.

weary with longing to pop

out of our skins.

our anger burns  

eyes of eagles.

this configuration of rage.

Aquila

fire flying

we realize not a thing is

w I d e r

than the sky

broken dream

into dream of gray

imprisoned within gray stone

away from fragrant red roses

far from soft green grass

behind gray walls unable

to breathe in air like cement.

can you remember smooth

oceans or recall falling stars?

imprisoned for too long.

walls begin to crack open 

stones knocked over steel bars

crushed walls blasted into bits.

now you can breath no longer

enclosed finding this world

this world is up just in front

of you pulsating alive free

Edward S. Gault

Beside the Point

i.

There would be no point

My father explained

For anyone to hire me

For a job

Unless I could do the job

To their satisfaction.

But the turtles and the trees 

All do their jobs 

To Someone’s satisfaction.

ii.

For anyone to hire me

For a job

My father explained,

There would be no point

Unless I could do the job

To their satisfaction.

But to someone’s satisfaction,

The turtles, birds, and trees

All do their jobs.

iii.

To someone’s satisfaction,

The turtles, birds, and trees

All do their jobs.

But, my father explained,

Unless I could do a job 

To their satisfaction,

Nobody would hire me.

For a job.

There would be no point.

Jeffry Jensen

IT WAS A SIGN THAT GAVE ME PAUSE

I found myself taking the target off the wall

as the stars wander close to the vest of syndication

no 2 crabby toad sucking vengeance breeding

stemming from a formula buried 10 feet below

in the slow lane of murmurous psychology

I watch the honeysuckle unpruned and sagging

between the hobbling and the passionate atmosphere

evacuating the entire front of buoyancy

before a furious tide swings into action

shuffling was not going to help my cause

a mule on the bridge turned plowing into philosophy

a sewing basket lost to imperial design trimmed to whale size

a wave pattern crushed between doors of perception

mud flaps spilled into a kind of juvenile treachery

upright and naked when cowardice is my last refrain

there was a judgment nailed to my backside

sleep took a powder in the moonlight

right angles wheeled and watchful down to the letter

Jethro Tull was found on the wagon of lost fleshy promises

no flame large enough to reach milking day

a particular heartless astonishment bent on straddling

when no one heard the shape of liquid dry up

fear could point toward rapt absorption of musical squatting

wide and waiting for holy conformation as windows

take a fresh direction as roosting becomes a common outcome

tree to cut 4 ways to Sunday best shining onward

as rest comes to signify solidarity of hollow purpose

there is one bluff left to rise the clumps of lamplight believers

I can nuzzle indifference with a wink and a moan

gripping a grave with a slant more square

than backed into bleeding shapes of California bearing

down on trembling in an upstream style of blowing juvenile transgression

Rick Spisak

Up on Garbage Mountain

Up on garbage mountain

along the Biscayne Bay

although the seagulls stop for dinner

they seldom fly away

t'would seem a foul idea to build it up so high

its not too wise

to leave out all that garbage

piling...

          higher...

                    vaster...

                                W - I - D – E

mountainous high

strenuous glazes, heat hassles hazes

layers strumming

summing suns drumming

heating stuffed surprise

trucks take dumps on hasty humps

leak laughing pungent snares

vapors drifting wafting... lifting

sifting in the air

waves welling falling

smelling up the air

don't rush right up or d-d-drink the c-c-cup

without a seal-tight mask to wear

we don our yellow gloves there  our acid test boots

completely airtight overalls,

and air-conditioned suits

with special pressure steel toed boots

amid the gushing whoosh

bugs are mighty strange there

we've quite a special strain

the chemicals they hatched in

resemble acid rain

they carry mighty virus, sure

a highly aggressive brood

so do not park your car nearby

they've acquired a taste for tires,

radials are good

the roaches that survive there

have carborundum shells

and when they fly from place to place

falling sparking trails are traced

the "mud that moves" we call it

watching some crawl by

don't get any on your shoe,

it'll eat right through you quick

and should you dare to poke it

it'll probably eat your stick

one thing you'll find amazing

as it reaches cloud rimmed Olympic heights

one thing its true

good it can do

bring into a tourists well earned view

a look at that strange and bloated large

a jersey, and a garbage barge

ripe as homeless and as sad a sight

as a garbage truck outta luck and gas

with a years young load

of your own waste...

Like the Taste?

Bubble Up

from a deep and silent place

I bubble up

rising from the royal blue

to the goddess above

I bubble up

a thousand artesian wells

pouring forth from the silent earth

I bubble up

reach through the layers of sea

layers of warmth,

layers of silent cool

I bubble up

listening to a beloved call

from the goddess in love

I bubble up

rising from the valley to the peak

from the roots to the trees

I bubble up

rising from the depths to the surface

rising from the earth to the air

I bubble up

rising on a million bubbles of hope

bubbles of words of light

I bubble up

rising from your toes to your feet

filling you with swirling light

rising from your legs to your spine

I bubble up

filling your arms

filling your neck

each hair extended

I bubble up

rising  through your spine

in kundalini time

I bubble up

filling you from toe to fingertip

with a billion bubbles of light

I bubble up

your entire form charmed in light

your entire being in delight of starfire

I bubble up

our light merging

our souls surging

doppler shifts to blue

we bubble up

showers of blue sapphires

iridescent puddles

seething galaxies of ecstasy

Medi-cale' Medi-cin-ale ' Mariwanta

The first rough joint, swollen and choking. The friendly circle, friends daring some dear dred danger. Sharing a confidence from hand to hand from lip to sip. Even and balanced from hind to mind caring careful, measuring moments of Miraculous Mary's hot breath!

Leafy green or dried and dusty brown, bush-buds or leaves  the jagged reaching leaves mind sieves replace out open  minded signs those interruptive stems, the blast berries of brown beetle seeding bombs

flowering buds, golden boughing bundles of bright brain food, rude to break up, stogy droughts of thoughts

leafy powder, pinch to a pipe – that

That first forest time. Sitting friended in the woods,  Off the road mere mute minutes from the madness and then the giggles gladness came - the raining gales of honest home baked humor.  Cage breaking, bar bending, balloon bubbles of blue grey, brain shaking noise with joys - did the sleeper awake, what did it take?

How gradually gradually the thoughts, unclots ten tin turn global grander sees scenes unveiling prevailing schemes.  Larger circles concede indeed the creed replace with grace

Papers, drapers, wrappers, clappers

brain breaching snappers, slaps sainted sapient seekers, tricking treaters remove the tile tasked masks

Sifting on an album book, the look as seeds tumble south, please plant these striving lives to solid soils embrace bright place roots reaching

consciousness UN-containing brain rockets , from these short sections of fine leaf selections -

Are your papers in order, are they gummed?  Are they flavored to match the merry march?  Who has papers? Who has the catching marched matches?  Who can roll the droll tally troll Mighty Merit badges for new ages sages skills among the circle's pride and pure brotherhood builder at the ashes compliant complaint.

The rituals, the victorious glorious victuals - find the source,  sift the coarse - separate the weeding seeds of need and stem tides decamp'd ride

those massed explosive spasm reveals reverie in the deviltry of tiny shirt-stained holes to knows what incensed the wires fires flow -

twitch tumbles of volcanic passion humble ashy crumble spray

Whose pitched part plan of the tribal circle clan -  Who knows and who doesn't?  Who knows the codes  roads the rules tools

Rolling papers and pipes, the types of pipes - the gassy glass, the gonging bong -  The casual coopted tobacco pipe,  corn cob, meerschaum, or the specialty antique clay

From bitty metal nettled disguise

to bright blasting plastic bong

from recycled fruity station ordered orange to apple pipe  to metal tipped toilet paper tubed roll -

The concert scene where you brought jays to burn and yearning jarring jays to share the dare crackling on the firing line from handing man  to partial seatward chum and row-wise warder - no hoader hides the wide true with lining hidden lies subdue for you

The wide array the tray of colors

and textures.  Dark green and pale green, dry crackling, Sticky, brown, amber, reddish, pale green, leafy, pressed rock solid, powdery to sticky  piney pitch the itch loose baggy leaves or rosy red-bud with whiter trimmed delight

Papers, zig zag, flavored, strawberry, cocoanut,   thin, fragile heavy as canvas,  ah the frenchy fine, topper's working stiff  old friend of One point five, one point two-five  or just the serious and solitary one to daring share the suns light repeals the stealing ash

Can you bowl and  roll a joint

that draws well and doesn't run,

even burning bud draws well,  

without sending failing orange golden glitter hail  in the debris that doesn't shower your sweethearts knees

with charming bejeweled sparks

the stem that starts and pokes like jokes through papers draper rolls ,

to push unburned protruding rude

beyond the bastion of the sacred flame trailing shrine its time though thou hast added flame and kisses

Engirding outcircling flames that untamed lurk inside.  And as the rings of smoke surround.  And blue-tinged ribbons, curl confound  And tease from dreamy eyes new vistas hipsters spy.  On even ephemeral cleverer rivers with misty wispy treelined budding bloom -  winding creeks of freaks and gurgling wisps -  Which tease and taunt while gasping spouts  thrust passed the trusty thought-carrying clouds

breaking up the buds long wispy tendrils of buds bloom,  dry clumps of brown and golden buds.  Buds that break into crushed dust,  buds that sticky clump and only prying fingers find stingily reduce the bundle to pipe fitting kindling

by the jay for the day by the nickel bag that was a box by the three fingered bag that memory lagged by the carefully measured blossom that tossed on sacred bedside bounce the ounce

and when on some teenage night

the frighty pound  was pounced

fresh wrapped from smugglers catch

they dearly dissect the dense delight

when pressed for shipment

these victorious blooms of heaven bounty blossoms begin when unconfined to reach your salient mind

and then beyond whose gradient of radiant defining silent power trains your teaching reaching brain to

stretch out passed outposts of the common drummond  - mind the clime where grander richer vistas  undefined can catch and tease toes tiny thoughts to lots of gaining gales of unbaling laughter rafters off  and having laughed last the loss of glittered littered dross

the little lie of alone  oh call the sacred circle nigh  and bell bring bright brain berries ferries music march and catch the fetching flight incense folds  the roles of blue smoked wings my chariot holds

to heaven nigh

or treasured seas side tidal wash

Joe Grieco

Proof Of Life

Remember that time you undressed me

In the old kitchen in Highland Park, in the dark?

Then you opened the door of the fridge,

Shivering in buttery light,

Showed me how your tits pointed up.

Right? Remember that?

Me neither.

Remember when SC won, you pushed me against the wall

In Tunnel 9 at the Rose Bowl.

Took a knee,

And, quick like a bunny,

Wham bam, thank you ma’am. 

Remember that?

Me neither.

Remember when you wore that lacy tiny skirt, no underpants at all,

And I was climbing stairs behind you

At Pasadena City Hall?

And you bent over like you were picking  something up.

I think you looked back at me, and winked.

You don’t remember that?

Me neither.

It’s funny how good stuff gets forgotten.

I guess when you’re married long as us....

You start to wonder did it happen?

There’s still time. We can snap a selfie.  Even video.

Capture proof of life. 

You want to give that a go? 

Me neither.

Alex S Johnson

Manning the Beacon with Ellyn (Maybe)

Who's driving?

oh, I don't know

Traffic's not what

it used to be

Remember when...

Yup.

I sure do.

Who's driving?

I'll try but honestly 

It's hard...

Hey, check out this cool 

beacon

It points towards the

true 

North

Stars and 

Stripes 

Forging anti-swords forever

That's what's up

That's what's groovy

It points down 

Like an ocean of clocks 

like a river of stars 

like a soup kettle full of

Dreams

Nietzsche was right

about the

eternal

Recurrence.

It points up

it 

points 

down

Where you can see

yourself in the 

dialectical mirror of

Georg

Wilhelm

Friedrich

Hegel

Moving not 

necessarily

in a

forward

progress from

thesis

antithesis

synthesis but

RATHER

From the 

storm center of

dialectic and

negative

dialectic

Where the ocean for the waves

where the trees for the forest

where the droplets for the 

rain

Where the mist for the gas

Where we've run out of 

gas

Stranded on the shoulder of an

enormous 

Boulder

High as a kite in 

the fountains of

Outer

Space

Looking down...

At all the

tiny

people...

It's a small beacon 

right now

But we've scaling it towards

a roaring 

Bonfire

to keep us all warm

in the dark winter of the

soul's

Discontent...

Tim Tipton

hot sexy afternoon

vanilla burning on your

hot sexy afternoon

hot sexy afternoon

vanilla burning on your

Shapely tan torso

my tongue laps it up

before it can melt

away

licking it clean

Spring Warmth

The nights are getting warmer

Winter went by so quickly

soon it will be Springtime

At nightfall the streets fill up

With the echo & movement of people

a longing comes over me

A window stands open,

I feel drawn to the sounds of Springs past

The years I walked through sunny streets

In search of friendship and music,

and crawling home to be with imaginary lovers

Here I am, on the edge of a new season

Missing friends I love, wondering if the time

With ever pass till we’re together again

I often ponder if other people feel this way

Like me; yearning to find closeness, to find warmth

Just go one step at a time

Let's see what the next few months bring.

Coastal Tree

I’m extra horny for the wilderness

Where I can walk on dirt banks

hoof miles with the wind on my back

The whole route alone with my compass

Be lost in the woods

Stop and stand on a dry stump

and look around

hear roaring creeks

Wow at wild hills

Watch a shapely burnt Coastal tree throw a silhouette

over the grassy patch field

See a wild hawk gently guide across the clouds

Feel the golden lit finger of a giant sun

Point down

and touch me with a yellow thread.

CLS Sandoval

Bird Sounds

 

Pecking

Bird on palm tree

Beating beak against trunk

I look up smiling at him

Loud bird

 

My Daughter Conquers the Rock Wall at Gymnastics

 

Evelyn climbs up

Thinks she can’t get to the top

Smiles touching ceiling

View of Toledo by El Greco

 

Katie Holmes is from Toledo.  My former student is from Toledo.  She fought fibromyalgia all throughout winning speech competitions regionally, state-wide, and nationally in college.  When she talked about her hometown, her sunny personality never allowed me to believe that Toledo could have even the slightest tinge of gray, at least not her Toledo.  She was all smiles and chin-up, complements and a thoughtful question about whatever she knew I was going through.  She’s a preacher now.  El Greco’s View of Toledo, full of sharp-tipped castles, steep green hills, and stratus clouds int the Toledo in Spain is at odds with the woman I know from the town of the same name in Ohio.   Now she preaches the Good News despite what others may see, the darkness they may paint into the corners of lightness she brings.

Dean Okamura

A unique Asian American voice

 

I listened to Asian American poets, and to my untrained JA (Japanese American) ear, 

they sounded like many Black and White poets. I wondered if 

this was the point of completing an MFA program. What do I know? 

The poems were skillful, beautiful, and deserving of 

being published in American journals. Maybe the 

process of selection excludes a uniquely Asian 

American voice. Maybe English forces it to be more 

American and less Asian. Who can really say? 

Then, in the most unguarded moments of your reading, 

I heard you laugh. You laughed like my mother. 

You laughed like my grandmother. And I guess 

all our mothers before them. 

These mothers did not laugh to fill rooms. They covered 

mouths with hands — it was not proper to laugh 

in loud foolish ways. Mothers' tender warmth. 

Gentleness becomes them and holds us. 

Then I noticed words were spoken with a nasal touch 

from our physiognomy. Broad noses 

resonate when we speak. 

Perhaps it was my imagination? 

is there a point?

 

the forest 

you saved today 

by choosing recycled paper 

will be your coffin 

the grove 

you preserved today 

by not printing documents 

will be your urn 

the tree 

you let it live 

by buying plastic furniture 

should have been yours 

---- 

is this eco-haiku? 

or just the sound of frogs splashing … 

Shih-Fang Wang

A Trap   

From the Stone Age 

To space exploration

Human’s ingenuity continues

To explore and create 

It is an ongoing adventure

To an unknown destiny

As there is no end point

To human curiosity 

But there is always a danger 

When greed knows no end 

Profit has no conscience

Ambition can be turned into tyranny 

With the advent of artificial intelligence  

We may have created a Frankenstein monster

A minority may take control of the majority

Loss of individuality can occur 

 

As we fall into a trap built by ourselves

Of unknown depth and width

And if we continue to challenge God’s design      

A dystopian future lies ahead   

David Fewster

MY COMEDY STORE CAREER: ITS UPS AND DOWNS

I was an 18 year-old college dropout who had

just run away from home and traveled by Greyhound

3000 miles to become a famous comic folksinger,

with no specific plan on how to achieve that goal.

While crossing the Arizona border,

I picked up an LA Sunday Times (8/7/1977)

and the Calendar section's lead article

was about the Comedy Store's Monday open mike.

"That's for me!" I exclaimed,

and after a night in a downtown $10 hotel room,

there I stood on the threshold of fame.

Due to miscalculations, I had gotten off the bus too soon

and had to walk the last mile, hauling

my suitcase with my life's possessions

and my hollow-body white Gretsch

with its broken case tied with a bathrobe sash,

so I was too tired to balk at paying

the $30 to stay at the Sunset Hyatt.

I was in plenty of time for sign-up.

Performers under 21 were put on at the very start of the show,

with the provision that they leave right after their set

due to liquor laws.

In a flash, I was standing in the spotlight

singing "Go Lamby Go", my song about

an Iowa farmboy having sex with sheep

vaguely set to the tune of "Johnny B. Goode."

This number was the keystone in my campaign

to conquer Hollywood.

Anyhow, it got a couple of laughs, and then, like a fool,

I did what I was supposed to do and went back to the Hyatt

instead of sneaking into the bar

and trying to meet someone famous.

The coda to this story is that a week later

I was sitting at the counter of Sambo's on

Ocean Ave. & Pico in Santa Monica over

a cup of coffee and a stack of silver-dollar pancakes

drenched in boysenberry syrup (which, ironically,

would become my major source of sustenance for the next 9 months)

when this young couple comes in and the guy says

"Hey, weren't you at the Comedy Store last week?

We're in town for a vacation. You were pretty funny."

"Gee," I thought as they left

"they must tell those stories about how hard it is

to make it in the big city just to scare people away.

It's turning out to be easy!"

Flash forward 2 years.

It turns out the apartment complex in Mar Vista

(a seedy neighborhood somewhat redeemed by

its relative proximity to the ocean)

where I ended up also housed

a budding comic songwriter three years my senior--

a pianist who had composed a mini-rock opera about his sister

entitled "Robin the Disco JAP",

which I learned stood for "Jewish-American Princess."

For a Presbyterian from a hick town in upstate NY,

this seemed like pretty sophisticated stuff,

so we decided to pool our resources

(me with my bestiality bit, Howard handling the ethnic angle)

and make a go as a duo.

But, as veterans of the scene by this time,

we knew we were going to have to up the ante

and come up with a cutting-edge number that

would set us apart from the pack.

We'd both seen "Lenny" about 20 times,

we knew the score.

This was the year of the Comedy Store strike,

brought on by the greed of the club's owner, Mitzi Shore,

who was sort of a cross between Leona Helmsley and Col. Tom Parker.

On June 1, a young comic named Steve Lubetkin leapt from the top

of the Hyatt House (the very place I stayed 2 years prior)

after being fired from the club as a result of his part in the strike.

Six weeks later, the Sunday Times Calendar section

ran a huge front page feature on his life and blighted career.

"This is what it takes to get famous in this town--

You gotta kill yourself?" we fumed

as we pondered the article, filled with envy

for that lucky bastard Steve Lubetkin

who was getting all this free publicity.

For a couple seconds, we considered

the pros & cons of following in his footsteps,

but being hedonistic potheads we quickly rejected that route.

Instead, we wrote a protest song.

The first and last verses should suffice

to give one the general tone of the endeavor:

1st:  I'm looking down from the 14th floor

        I see a vision of Mite Shore

        Saying "You'll never play at the Comedy Store"

Last: I'm looking up at the 14th floor

         All the angels look like Mitzi Shore

         Life is Hell, and Death is the Comedy Store

And, just in case we were being too subtle,

we entitled the song "Crucify Me."

The very next Sunday, armed with my Gretsch and a little Pignose amp,

we hightailed it to the Improv's open mike to debut our masterpiece.

This was back in the day when Budd Friedman, the owner,

actually attended these Sunday night cavalcades

of losers, wanna-be's, and mental defectives.

When we finished our epic, to a smattering of stunned applause,

Budd called out from his table.

"I imagine you boys won't be doing

that number at the Comedy Store."

We were stunned. Budd Friedman had spoken to us.

Nothing like this had ever happened to us before.

It must have been like that for Moses

when God said "Hi! Like what I did with the bush?"

Blushing like schoolgirls, we chirped

"We sure are, Mr. Friedman. Tomorrow night!"

and completely overwhelmed, beat a hasty retreat.

True to our word (and no doubt still brimming with hubris

from the Budd F. acknowledging we existed thing)

there we were the next night

at the Comedy Store (Westwood Annex.)

We got a spot fairly early in the evening

(as opposed to being with the riffraff without friends or connections

they put on around 1AM after everyone had gone home,

which is where we usually ended up.)

This may have seemed like a good omen.

But it was not.

We barely got thru the second line of the song

when the MC's voice boomed over the intercom--

"THAT'S IT. YOU'RE DONE. GET OFF THE STAGE

AND LET'S GET SOME REAL COMEDIANS UP HERE."

We didn't even have time to pack our gear

as we made a hasty exit down the aisle,

clutching half-open cases and trailing cords,

as the pock-marked toady MC screamed

"YOU GUYS ARE BANNED FOR LIFE.

STEVE LUBETKIN WOULDN'T HAVE LAUGHED"

while a small posse of his henchmen stood behind.

You could see in their eyes that they had all started to think

"Gee, if I show Mitzi my fists covered with their life's blood,

maybe she'll give me that opening spot in the Belly Room Thursday night..."

(although I remember my main fear was they would break my guitar.)

We made it out to my girlfriend's '66 Ford Falcon unscathed

and drove a circuitous route home in case we were followed.

Back in Mar Vista, rattling a shoebox lid

to see if there was still a half-bowl of dope

nestled in all the seeds, we came to grips with

the realization that our comedy careers were over.

After a short PTSD beak,

we remade ourself as a folk/punk act

called "The Rummies"

which also ended badly, but that's another story.

Mike Turner

Point of Departure

There is a point

‘Twist “real” and “fantasy”

Whence lies “opportunity”

None of us travels

To that point alone

But rather in company

Of those we meet on the journey

Together, making that point

Not merely destination

But way-station

Thus realizing

Our hopes and dreams

In our quest beyond

To what is possible

Is Death a Savior?

Is Death a savior?

Come to deliver us

From a life of tedium

Loss

Despair?

Is Life perhaps

Not of purpose

But a way-station?

A mere passing

From Point A

To Point B

Its predecessor unremembered?

And our passing

Simply a transition

From this plane

To the next?

Where will we find salvation

Redemption

Fulfillment?

Should we not then welcome Death?

Hope for its quick coming

Welcome its loving embrace?

Looking to the time

When our moral existence

Is concluded

And Eternity is begun?

When Time Comes

When my day’s concluded

When the Styx I cross

Do not mourn my passing

Feel no sense of loss

I’ve lived the life I’ve wanted

Done the things I’ve done

Seen some sights I’ve cherished

Gave and shared true love

Such things are eternal

And will last beyond my time

Remember them, on winter’s night

To you, of me, remind

And know that I’m now staying

At the point from whence we start

Though a leave a memory of my soul

In a place within your heart.

This poem previously appeared in my collection, Visions and Memories, published by Sweetycat Press in 2021.

PJ Swift

Deep State

Deep in the lowest realms of the ocean reside mysterious, miraculous creatures—glorious, beautiful, yet largely unknown. Humans have studied them, but these beings have had minimal contact with us. One might think they know virtually nothing about us, except that we are odd, covered creatures who appear only sporadically.

In truth, the creatures of the deep know far more about us than we know about them. They are aware of humanity’s entire history and the full scope of its knowledge. Yet they choose to remain in their idyllic, prehistoric oceanic bliss, as if we were nothing more than a temporary irritation.

But down in the depths, they also serve as a serene repository—a silent backup of knowledge, in case anything goes wrong with the world above. And, oh boy, is that looking all the more necessary.

Open

M. was resentful and upset that doors never did open up for him.  Never.  He'd stand and wait, and allow himself to hope.  But no doors ever opened up for him. No great opportunity presented itself.  No unknown wonder graced him upon the light of entry. This was his life's most profound disappointment.

What M. did not understand, however, was that there were no doors.  Not in this land.  There were no doors because there were no walls.  In this land everything was open and accessible.  Everything was available.  Anything that one desired -- with a pure and genuine heart --  was attainable.  No door was needed.

And yet, M. waited for a door to open. Any door.  And waited and waited.

Statuesque 

The two men were bitter rivals, with Z. always getting the upper hand. He was the more accomplished, successful, and celebrated—year after year, decade after decade—while R., his overlooked nemesis, forever seethed in his shadow. Even in death, Z.'s legend endured. A grand statue, an effigy in his honor, was erected in one of the city's most prominent squares.

R. passed away in obscurity, and even in the afterlife was relegated to a lower tier of reincarnation, trapped in a timeless loop of near-rodent existence. Again and again, instead of rising to an exalted state, he returned to earth as a humble pigeon—which he loved dearly, for it allowed him to spend eternity perched atop Z.’s vainglorious marble head, sitting and shitting upon it.

Connie Johnson

 

Lynn White

Beginning Again

Tomorrow will bring

a new beginning, 

another new beginning

so many beginnings I wonder

when I will reach the end

of my beginnings

and what has been the point to them

when everything has been started before.

But this time is different,

and I am pointing up the difference,

for this time it is my end 

that is beginning

and there is nothing left 

to be started now.

The Point

What’s the point of it all 

if life is just a game,

a beautiful game

if you’re in luck,

but still a game.

Still,

let me point it up again.

You might get lucky

if you play the game.

Though,

in any case

three strikes 

and you’re out,

out of this game.

When Paradise Was Lost

It was paradise,

a perfect life in the sunshine

for the two of them.

Eating the luscious fruits,

drinking the succulent juices.

Wanting for nothing.

Nothing,

except, 

perhaps, 

to know the point of it all.

It came to them suddenly,

the penny dropped

not the apple.

It was pointed up clearly.

In a flash of understanding. 

they saw that

tomorrow could be different 

That one tomorrow 

would certainly

be different.

That human life doesn't go on

without an end.

That it will end

and its ending is unpredictable,

the where and how and when

unknown.

And they knew 

it was impossible to have this knowledge

and remain in paradise.

That it was hell to live with this clarity,

this knowledge, 

theirs, 

for the rest of their lives.

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Priorities on a Monday 

Nothing heavy on my mind.

A snowcapped mountain

in my vision point. No one

ill or mad. It’s only Monday 

and I’m sitting in my car

waiting for the school bell

to ring to pick up my nephew.

I promised him to toss the

football around. No poem

is more important than that.

This Is Me

This is me,

a former dishwasher, and 

coffee cup server,

a third-grade basketball champion,

and if you find anyone who cares, ask them

how many dishes I washed, 

and how many cups of coffee I served before I quit, or how many points I scored?

Forgive me if there is no corroboration

for what I remember. I washed a hundred plates at least, I served and washed a hundred coffee cups, a hundred glasses, a hundred spoons, forks, and knives. I was given two dollars in tips, and so I quit. I scored 10 points, five baskets, each more creative than the other playing below the rim. There was no three point line in 1977. I stuck a half-quarter shot to win the game, 15 to 14. Another kid made one free-throw, and two others made lay-ups off of my behind the back dimes. I’m going now.

I just wanted to let you know who I was.

That was me as best as I could remember.

So Smart

Never pretend to be so smart

that your time will be taken up

by people wanting one thing

and then another. They will pick

your brain, burst your eardrum 

to the point you are exhausted.

Plain and simple, play dumb.

Take a breath. Take it easy.

Just do enough to get along.

Do not go out of your way unless

you have to. Listen to this closely.

Take a breath. Take it easy. 

Do not pretend to be so smart

you will not be around to rest.

jf giraffe 🦒

THE BEAUTY OF IT (Haiku) 

The stars were sparkling

I pointed up and you looked

Shared experience

THOUGHTS OF A PESSIMIST (Haiku) 

Hope seems so pointless 

Damn those politicians 

Optimism ruined 

WE WON'T MISS YOU (HAIKU) 

Political trip

Send the bad guys up in space

Make it a long flight

Ellyn Maybe

Boiling Tensions (Haiku)

Frog entered the pot

Someone turned the stove way up

American Life

Life Worth Living (Haiku)

Emotions tingle

The movie Up is magic

Art so needed now

Bittersweet (Haiku)

What's the point of it

Memories remain profound

Long after we die

Wyatt Underwood

knife fighter

he carried his knife point up into the fight

the better to brandish near your face

the better to threaten your gut

the better to make you fear

he did not know berserker lore

only knew making opponents sweat or piss

and learned nothing when Olson stomped on his hand

just waited and exercised to heal

then carried his knife point up into the fight

and ended his life face in the mud

his knife point up deep in his butt

teacher

he wagged his finger into the air

as if to point up geometric truth

he tried so hard to make students admire

what we had learned from the Greeks

but boys heard about swords and spears

and girls heard about how cloth draped

they came back to celebrate his retiring

or to let him know they remembered

he smiled and he smiled and declined to wag

his finger pointed up still wishing to make

them finally get his intent

pointless

for years, he tried to point up the dangers

of what we did, where it took us

he might as well have been named Cassandra

people listened and nodded, listened and smiled

but nobody acted, not even him

the planets rolled 'round in their orbits

the moon cycled through phases unending

til one day there we were, air thick with poison

children being born with strange shapes and weak bones

and another war looming, no one knew why

the ancient man wept and stared at the sky

which barely showed comets or stars anymore

Robert Fleming

 

Marieta Maglas

The Mirror

a mirror to look deep

into the inner being;

to reveal shadows of self;

flaws and fears;

yet to reveal the reasons behind

the imperfections;

healing until grounding;

hearts in the heart of the earth;

flakes from a single core;

shadow images like metaphors

for sacred waters;

we are water;

water and force;

the force of the mind;

a portal to realms

that cannot be seen;

to interact with;

to sharpen inner sight

while squatting within

our faint-hearted souls;

worms as teeth to eat us all;

in the mirror of death;

an inauspicious one;

under a cinnamon sun;

where life means flowing blood;

or sap; sap is like blood;

it contains water; 

flowing water that moves

all over the earth;

tsunamis, monsoons, floods;

there is no move in the ice;

in Antarctica;

only below it,

near the heart of the earth;

life expands its wings with

the speed of

a contagious disease;

seeds, sowing;

laughter is contagious;

Sometimes,

it's hard to understand

why people laugh

when they're happy;

Mostly people need

words; they need love when

they mirror themselves

in the light of God;

to understand this

existence up to a point;

love, word, and knowledge;

holy refraction within

when the soul

is prepared to perceive

only goodness;

the polluted water cannot

refract the light;

being like a flower;

folks like

cinnamon flowers

in the spring rain;

light absorption;

water absorption;

reflection and refraction;

to grow up and

to rise as freely as

the waters flow.

This Universe

In this enigmatic universe, the perceptions is

like a vivid canvas carved upon the retina;

a dance of colors; reflections of the thought.

The stars’ songs whirl like the symphonic

 

notes; recurrence, rumination, reverberation.

This cosmos seems to be immutable.

A green comet looks like a gargantuan

emerald misplaced within the welkin;

 

lifeless; becoming wishy-washy; A green

comet doesn’t hold life; only glycine.

Life flows through the leaves; pulse within

the petals of a bloom. It is ebullient in this

 

well-thought-out created world, which is full

of anguish and many calaboose cells; farewells.

All thoughts glimmer like the far-off stars or

contract like the black holes but only up to a

 

certain point. All musings spring forward from

the well of the Sacred Insight; a surreal painting

upon the texture of our minds; I love this

universe holding the sacrosanct truths.

Carl Stilwell AK CaLokie

My First Car and All that Jazz

At the age of 31, I bought my first car—

a fading blue ’53 Chevy which I called 

the Blue Blazer for $125

What a bargain!

When I saw Thelonious Monk on the cover of Time 

and heard he was featured at Shelley’s Manne Hole on 

North Cahuenga Blvd in Hollywood, me and Blue Blazer 

took off to hear him and his band perform

“Round Midnight” driving on Hollywood and Pasadena

Freeways, “Straight, No Chaser” “Reflections” of 

a “Blue Monk” “Epistrophy” did "Rhythm-A-Ning" me 

all the way home

Blue Blazer also took me to Shelley’s Manne Hole 

to hear and watch the Modern Jazz Quartet, Charles

Lloyd. Carmen McRae, Miles Davis and Bill Evans who 

was one of the pianists on the greatest jazz albums 

ever recorded, Miles’ maga-classic, Kind of Blue

One year after the riots or uprising

depending on your point of view

I attend the Watts Jazz Festival

In the afternoon under the junk sculpted tower of Simon Rodia, 

the drumming is like a flower power fiesta at a love-in

and DEEP in my heart I do believe that 

ONE DAY

WE

BLACK AND WHITE TOGETHER 

SHALL OVERCOME

But as Hugh Masekela trumpet fanfares West Coast 

sundown, majority of minority Euro-Americans leave festival 

and l am left  with a few other white skins engulfed 

in a Joseph Conrad Heart of Darkness night  

War beat takes over drums

Flash backs to year ago unrest follow

“BURN, BABY, BURN.”

“GET WHITEY!”

“BLACK POWER!”

Suddenly blonde Euro in bare midriff stands up 

in spotlight and shakes blue jean booty to 

roar and laughter of jazz aficionado assembly 

A jazz brother needs a ride

and in my ’53 Chevy, I drive him to his ghetto home

My pale blue clunker could have broken down there

but it didn’t

And even if it did

as Miles Davis might have “kind of blued” with 

muted horn to Bill Evan’s piano introduction, 

“SO WHAT”

Jackie Chou

I Look Up to You 

I look up to you,

beyond skin color,

beyond aptitude.

I don't need to touch your surface,

for I only see your shine.

I look up to you,

like a stargazer 

instead of a lover.

I distance myself from anyone 

who might think otherwise.

I look up to you,

and it's something intangible.

You beg for the feel of my hand,

a kiss on the lips.

I look up to you,

like one does a porcelain god.

You want an earthly love,

someone your equal.

I look up to you,

it is my undoing. 

It makes you uncomfortable,

and I am sorry.

I look up to you,

wishing you could say

the same about me.

Up 

I am up,

up like wings 

propelled by wind

I am up.

I am up

where even the sun

cannot keep up,

its face shrouded 

in clouds.

I am up

against gravity 

I am up,

like a pug's nostrils 

I am up.

I am up above 

the downward glances

I am up.

Mary Mayer Shapiro

UP TO THE TOP 

Just a mound 

Climbing to the top 

Pointing up 

Safer to zig zag 

Back and forth 

Takes longer 

The race began 

Each starting at different 

Point from the bottom 

Of the butte 

Falling over little 

Pebbles 

Earth loose, avalanche 

Slipping down 

Some racers tumble 

Slide down 

Restart 

Finally 

A winner 

Reached the summit 

Not the strongest 

But the weakest 

Determination 

Strong will 

No trophy, no prize 

Just the fulfillment 

Knowing the  

Ant could do it 

SKYWARD   

Point to the stars 

Not the constellations  

All stars in the sky 

Use your imagination 

See a smiley face 

A sad one 

Crying shooting stars 

Find the fingers 

Stretch from 

A hand 

Tree branches reaching out 

Cluster of leaves  

Make out fruits 

Apples, peaches 

Mountains, Valleys 

House with smoke 

Coming out the 

Chimney 

Look up 

Point to the stars 

Not the constellations 

All stars in the sky 

Use your imagination 

TRAVELING 

Place a map upon 

The wall 

Throw a dart 

See where it lands 

Be adventurous 

Travel to unknown 

Places 

Avoid tourist 

Traps 

See the world 

Not as a sightseer  

But a native 

Learn the culture 

Mingle with 

Common folks 

Learn some languages 

Show your interest 

In learning 

Participate in 

Actives 

Taste different 

Foods 

Then go home 

Till the next 

Dart throwing point 

Wayne F Burke

Late

I came to this poetry

business

in my 50's

and after having given up

writing

for two years--

and unsure why

not prose, but

but determined

to get something down

or to die

trying,

and

I am still at it

still trying

and dying too

but not

dead

yet.

1918

they brought us up in the

40 and 8's and

we got out and marched

three abreast

through countryside untouched

by the war. Red poppies bloomed in the

green fields--a lovely sight

Campbell on my right side

Stanley left of me, agreed.

The guns became deafening as

we approached the ridge: they hit

us with 77's, 105's, wizzbangs, and

ashcans--and blew to hell the bloody ridge.

A shell took off poor Stanley's leg.

(A one-oh-five, Campbell said.)

Blood from the stump, poppy-red.

In the first lull the prick of a General ordered us

up and

forward into No Man's Land, the

Maxim guns sounding like typewriters writing the

story of our end, but on we

ran, toward destiny and death

for la glorie and la patrie

and for the profit margin of the shits' in the rear--

those new millionaires

who made a killing in the war.

Nightlight Days

I was left too long

alone

she said, my girlfriend

in my crib

upstairs in the home

with dust motes

and heraldic pattern of a gray 

floor rug--

a shaft of sunlight on varnished wood

a closet where the bogeyman

lived; window casings that rattled

in the wind, and

muslin curtains that flew up

like ghostly arms in a storm--

the attic overhead where

the dead walked on creaking boards...

My brother, in his crib

on the far side of the moon: his

crybaby cries brought the

overhead light, like a sun

and Grandma; her

stuttering orthopedic shoes, and

golden crucifix around her neck.

Don Kingfisher Campbell

Upside

Down

The ceiling is the floor

The floor is the ceiling

Look up at the carpet

Stand on stucco

The furniture is too high

Step up through the door

Fall into the sky

Observe streets above

Amazing how cars and trees hang there

And planes and clouds swim in lower blue

Say goodbye to the wet welkin

Gaze down to the only void

Keep falling to be surrounded by black

Giant marbles all around float along

Now up is no longer relevant

But the existence of a soul still important

Upward Bound

The ramp is a time machine

And I’m the one powering it

Walking to class every summer

The ramp is the angular plane

I ascend into a future which becomes

Present, then descended passed

I’m the one who used to be young

Reddish brown beard turned gray

Now glasses like Santa Clause

Walking with a tee shirt on, cut off shorts

Tennis shoes, white socks...oh well...guess

Some things don’t change too much

Vista Point

 

Pan down from vast

Baby blue sky

 

Low horizontal clouds

Over brown haze

 

Inside one can make out

Downtown skyscrapers

 

Come closer and see

Colorado Boulevard buildings

 

Looking like a village

Surrounded by trees

 

Just below the foothills

Houses, backyards, pools

 

Matchbox cars parked

On the gray veins

 

Wooden telephone poles

Veer away from hills

 

On the dusty trail

Groups of morning walkers

 

Sweaty steady runners

Water bottle equipped hikers

 

Wear wide brimmed

Earth-colored hats 

 

A father carries young

Son on his shoulders

 

White bearded man leans

On a crooked cane past

 

Agave cacti, shrub roots

Run alongside cliffs

 

Hybrid butterflies dance

Around purple thistle

 

Bee flies dart into/

Out yellow mustard

 

Spot a long spotted

Lizard in the brush

 

An empty Capri Sun

Packet on the path 

 

Clear plastic sandwich

Bag at the edge 

 

Torn portion of 500 count

Bath tissue farther away

 

Cobalt beer can rests

Amidst the bushes

Pick Up Walk

Even though the dog we sat

has been gone for a week

I don't want to lose the habit

So I tell my wife let's stroll

despite being animal-less

look at the morning moon 

We retrace a familiar path

the street we've known

for five cohabitating years

Only this time we stumble

upon a menagerie of toys

strewn on a green verge

There's a smiling pink whale

an assortment of tea cups

scattered miniature road signs

Among other smaller objects

tiny flatbed cargo trucks

and faux medicine applicators

I stop and contemplate why

they are there so jumbled

Were they left in haste

We continue our sojourn

and sight the usual succulents

that look like green flowers

A knotted tree makes great

photography except in color

Mockingbird remembered

A sidewalk corner sports

a spray painted black X with

two red circles like angry eyes

My love says see the plane

encountering some clouds

it is circling around okay

But my mind cannot leave

the collection of children's 

discarded happy plastic

When we return I postulate

if they are abuse victims

I hope both are safe now

What can we do but incant

my wish for no violence 

by pilfering one favorite

To take home and gaze

upon to remind myself

we all need some magic

Just to successfully go

through each diurnal

in a world of humans

Who can become forgetful

that small creations do

help us plan our lives

Which depend on others

to either support or break

the dreams of futures