Posts for June 6, 2015


Before I was a Penguin

I float humbly as a cosmic
entity reeling enormously
over the milky way.
Seeking comets to breach
perception & to light my heart

Rona Roberts

Early Leaving

Young death makes us still.
We don’t light paper lanterns
Meant to soothe and heal.

Len Lundh

Another January Night

To be honest with you, I have no clue
if it was starry during the night.
I was doing my best to end the day
with the woman I’ve given my heart to. 

Forty-eight starry-night years before,
you insisted that all men are bastards
but wouldn’t share the secret that you kept,
preferring instead to say you might love me. 

You spoke of finding an empty field
tucked out of sight behind a thick windbreak,
of wrapping yourself in snow, and sleeping
until spring released you once again. 

Sitting on a bench by the grayed town square,
I couldn’t disabuse you of those thoughts.
Still, by morning I felt you were, if wounded, safe,
at least for the time being. Death is patient. 

Over the years, and the miles, and the changes,
one and another of us talked you off the ledges.
In the end, we were outnumbered by that one demon
you never gave us more than glimpses of by night. 

Your favorites saw you off the stage, beyond us:
A bottle of the finest Irish, the pills to be chased down.
I lean against the car, while my wife gives me space
to set a flame to memories, to fill the sky with stars.

Joseph Nichols




                        look closer.


when the damp & dark of summer night

melts heavy, humid,


                                    I am flashing,




desperate       yellow-green       light


like Gatsby’s distant beacon


            mixing the very breath   I draw


with alchemy, and life blood


                        butterflies & luciferin


calling               to you               across              fields


begging             you                   to see


                 my love               my love


& one little beetle, breaking ground, breaking

my body, burning & incantatory


one of a thousand, yes,

but one of a thousand, hoping


my dance                      my song                        my flash


                    might        convince           you


            above                    &                falling


                             I am a star, too.

Pat Owen

Sitting in Meditation

                              Sitting in Meditation

Occasionally I open my eyes–
look at others in the group.
They sit erect and silent
with the dignity of noble purpose.
Not once have I seen other eyes open–
each engrossed in their own inner world–
each a microcosm of the whole.

My steadfast loyalty to this group–
part of who I am.
What I seek is insight–
listening through the heart,
the crown
the pineal gland.
What I find–
the stillness
of the bubble
in a carpenter’s level.

The Buddhist prayer:
May I meet this moment fully–
may I meet it as a friend.

Gaby Bedetti


yesterday a bowl of cherries on the table
overnight a grey paw finds the fruit
this morning a pit on the floor

Debbie Adams Cooper


I bite the last of the banana
just above the bruise
that didn’t show itself on the outside
of the peel,
its skin.

Jessica Swafford

Iridescent, Ancient, and Crumbling

A lone utterance.
The figuring and sums added.
Ashy elbows – iridescent –
Ancient dragons.
The castle crumbling,
Overtaken by
Ivy, kudzu, honeysuckle.
There are no castles left
Unless you count
The pawn shop variety
Or that relic
On Versailles Rd.
It’s the realization
Of failed dreams.
No knights left – 
Barely any brave souls.
Things once certain
And felt in the blood –
Everyone quaivers,
Prickly and precarious
Have become
The new order.

Carole Johnston

midnight butterfly 6


wish I could paint
chiaroscuro lightning like
Midnight Butterfly
Joan Jet & Black Hearts
silver studs leather jackets


Life in Columbia

Poem 6, June 6


Life in Columbia


Early in the morning

I write words along lines

in my mind,

a young woman,

a beauty,

full of romance,

& wishes

becomes the poem.


I write the poem

as quickly as thunder rattles dishes

after lightning does its dance

down the tallest tree.

The poem ends before love began,

love being undefined,

tasting of sweet white wines.

After all, it was only a one morning