Sunday, December 28, 2014

The Two Worlds

From Robert Bly's The Light Around the Body

"For according to the outward man, we are in this world,
and according to the inward man, we are in the inward
world. . . . Since then we are generated out of both worlds,
we speak in two languages, and we must be understood also
by two languages."
                                            -Jacob Boehme

Thursday, December 25, 2014

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

i can't haiku

by Peter Mitchell
Originally published on fragments of a scroll from the future

i can't haiku
i can't say anything
in seventeen syllables

Thursday, December 18, 2014


by Mark Strand
From his collection entitled Dark Harbor

I go out and sit on my roof, hoping
That a creature from another planet will see me
And say, "There's life on earth, definitely life;

"See that earthling on top of his home,
His manifold possessions under him,
Let's name him after our planet." Whoa!

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

Sunday, December 14, 2014

How Do You Suck the Life Out of a Day?

The global orange ...

Sink teeth into its tender flesh
swollen with juicy sinew.
Rend the filmy sheath,
     licking the clinging tubules from
     gleaming enamel and slick gum
as the juice streams down your 
     face in rivulets,
     leaving a sticky residue on the chin,
the pungent citrus tickling the nose,
the acrid aftertaste tingling the tongue,
and though satiated with the sensuous experience,
     the juice-ridden throat is left
You grope for water to wash it all down, down,
     down - 
     until the thirst for that sweet fulfillment moves
     you to pick another.


Smash jagged cones into its tender flesh,
     catching the juice that streams
     down the plastic in rivulets
     in a cold, glass jar,
leaving white, tattered skins plastered
     against the adobe textured rind
     intermixed with deflated tubules.


Sink serrated metal teeth into its coarse,
     pocked rind
methodically dissecting the swollen skin
     into carefully quartered pieces.


Leave it to rot in the stinking heat.

Thursday, December 11, 2014

Doodling Around

Doodling Around, from the high school notebooks of Ashleigh Hartsock

Tuesday, December 9, 2014


By Margaret Atwood
From her collection entitled The Door

Shivering in the almost-drizzle
inside the wooden outboard,
nose over gunwale,
I watched it drip and spread
on the sheenless water:

the brightest thing in wartime,
a slick of rainbow,
ephemeral as insect wings,
green, blue, red, and pink,
my shimmering private sideshow.

Was this my best toy, then?
This toxic smudge, this overspill
from a sloppy gascan filled
with essence of danger?

I knew that it was poison,
its beauty an illusion:
I could spell flammable.

But still, I loved the smell:
so alien, a whiff
of starstuff.

I would have liked to drink it,
inhale its iridescence.
As if I could.
That's how gods lived: as if.

Sunday, December 7, 2014

Collage With Squares Arranged According to the Laws of Chance

Jean (Hans) Arp, Untitled (Collage with Squares Arranged According to the Laws of Chance)
1916-17, courtesy of the MoMA online collection

Thursday, December 4, 2014

i'm giving away my cows

by Peter Mitchell
Originally published on fragments of a scroll from the future

i'm giving away my cows
one at a time
having nothing
and there is yet more to give Away

Sunday, November 30, 2014

Seen From Above

by Wisllawa Szymborska
From her collection entitled view with a grain of sand

A dead beetle lies on the path through the field.
Three pairs of legs folded neatly on its belly.
Instead of death's confusion, tidiness and order.
The horror of this sight is moderate,
its scope is strictly local, from the wheat grass to the mint.
The grief is quarantined.
The sky is blue.

To preserve our peace of mind, animals die
more shallowly: they aren't deceased, they're dead.
They leave behind, we'd like to think, less feeling and less
departing, we suppose, from a stage less tragic.
Their meek souls never haunt us in the dark,
they know their place,
they show respect.

And so the dead beetle on the path
lies unmourned and shining in the sun.
One glance at it will do for meditation - 
clearly nothing much has happened to it.
Important matters are reserved for us,
for our life and our death, a death
that always claims right of way.

Thursday, November 27, 2014

Tuesday, November 25, 2014

Downstairs, late at night

by Kat Comer

Downstairs, late at night
in a dark, closed room
the rite begins
four women, tensed in expectation sit
in a half moon
on the tiny lit tablada.
In slow motion
the spirit of Andalusia rises
to the cry of Flamenco
as one by one the dancers advance
feet placed in decision
arms raised, fingers splayed
a chorus of wings
doves' songs ascending
a stepping backwards into silence
older than speech
hips circling
cadence of seduction, retreat
          into origin
Sudden explosion, stampede
clapping hands and heels
predatory advance
each movement, a staccato precision
flings mockery at the face of "el hombre"
invites, dares him to ecstasy, release, madness
articulates Spain's passionate soul
splits open the heart
shattering words and their deceptions

Sunday, November 23, 2014

Thursday, November 20, 2014


by Walter Abish
From his work entitled 99: The New Meaning

Yet I exist. Not of course, as an individual, since in this respect I am merely the stake - a stake perpetually at risk - in the struggle between another society, made up of several thousand million nerve cells lodged in the ant hill of my skull, and my body, which serves as its robot. Neither psychology nor metaphysics nor art can provide me with a refuge. There are myths, now open to internal investigation by a new kind of sociology which will emerge one day and will deal more gently with them than traditional sociology does. The self is not only hateful: there is no place between us and nothing. And if, in the last resort, I opt for us, even though it is no more than a semblance, the reason is that, unless I destroy myself - an act which would obliterate the conditions of the option - I have only one possible choice between this semblance and nothing.

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Sunday, November 16, 2014

A flower

by Peter Mitchell
Published on fragments of a scroll from the future

a flower
comes into my life
breath of God flowing
I blink
and you are gone

Sunday, November 9, 2014

Greeting the Supersonics

by Wislawa Szymborska
From Poems New and Collected

Faster than sound today,
faster than light tomorrow,
we'll turn sound into the Tortoise
and light into the Hare.

Two venerable creatures 
from the ancient parable, 
a noble team, since ages past
competing fair and square.

You ran so many times
across this lowly earth;
now try another course,
across the lofty blue.

The track's all yours. We won't
get in your way: by then
we will have set off chasing
ourselves rather than you.

Thursday, November 6, 2014

Tuesday, November 4, 2014


by Kat Comer

Behind my eyes
I saw the sun
its firey glow
into hills ringed
against El Salvador's sky.

as fingers
of purple shadow
inched slowly
over barren fields
by faceless men
who carried guns
and held within their fist
the nucleus of power
from tired skeletons
bowed across the ground
in stationary arcs
with eyes blued blind
beneath them
the rebel came
bringing with him words
that fell on listening hearts
and reached
past barriers of silence
erected long ago
by a people dumb
with their own acceptance.
                                          mountain guerillas
answering his call
emptied villages
upon the night
to gather force within
the silence.

Aping snakes
with teeth of steel
                                         they crawled
through cane fields
shaved of harvest
                                         to kill
the enemy
comfortably asleep
on satin sheets
in luxurious haciendas.

Sunday, November 2, 2014


"Honest" by Ashleigh Hartsock, 2014, acrylic on canvas

Friday, October 31, 2014

All Hallows Night

by Lizette Woodworth Reese

Halloweenies by Charles Wysocki

Two things I did on Hallow's Night:
Made my house April-clear;
Left open wide my door
To the ghosts of the year.

Then one came in. Across the room
It stood up long and fair -
The ghost that was myself -
And gave me stare for stare.

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

Sunday, October 26, 2014

Acid Rain

by Elliot

White electric knife splits the sky in two;
heaven's screams resound against earth's walls.
Her clouds explode, and the rain breaks through -
life-giving liquid, like clear blood, falls
upon her children's drought-parched lips. Craving
in self-blind voracity. Spitting back
filthy pollution in thanks for saving
the greenery they turned black.
Now listen to who's screaming in sick pain
while the sweet, life-giving water cascades
as putrid acidic death, tearing up organisms 
with its toxic blades.

Once more, our causes can't see their effects.
What, just what will we blindly undo next?

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Looking at Rousseau's Sleeping Gypsy

by Jonathan Aaron
From his collection entitled Journey to the Lost City

Henri Rousseau, "Sleeping Gypsy"

A gypsy girl decides to visit her grandmother
on the other side of the desert. Carrying a staff, 
a jar of water to quench her thirst, a lute for music
to keep her company, she travels all day.
It's getting dark when she arrives at an oasis.
After she eats a few dates and drinks some water,
she picks up her lute and sings herself a song.
Then she lies down and quickly falls asleep.
She doesn't see the moon rise, and the stars as well,
and the night turn into an approaching lion.
Lions eat anything from insects to antelopes to giraffes.
This one has to be at least ten feet long from the end of his tail
to the tip of his nose. I can't tell you what he's doing here.
I don't know why he's not back home in some African savannah.
He walks up to the sleeping girl. Maybe she's dreaming about
her grandmother, whom she counts on seeing tomorrow. Maybe not.
The desert is completely silent, except for a jackal barking
faintly and far off. The lion looks around with a shining eye,
and a breeze stirs his yellow mane as it would the curtain
across the window the girl sleeps next to in really hot weather.
No, I don't think the lion is going to eat her. Yes,
you could say she's wearing a brand new dress.

Sunday, October 12, 2014

The Cycle of Time

"The Cycle of Time" by Ashleigh Hartsock, 2014, acrylic on canvas

Thursday, October 9, 2014


by Kat Comer

Oh Goddess
Where is the map that would lead me to you?
So often I lose my way, a child.
I grope blindly along a dark trail
through rocky terrain.
Covered in dust, I wander
a nomad on the edge of madness.
I slip and fall on razor sharp stones
that shred my feet
to a crude mosaic of skin and blood.
I am alone.
I am child, nomad. Unformed. Unfinished.
Finding you is not easy.
Even the moon's light is out.
So I stop, wait and listen.
Turn inward to my center
where the silence is thick and deep as night.
I turn black in the stillness, a black flame
ready to ignite.
Such is my power.
In the distance the howl of coyote
rises with the new moon.
I feel my own howl rise
splitting my night
into a constellation of stars.
I am formed. I create.

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Landscape with the Fall of Icarus

by William Carlos Williams
From his collection entitled Pictures from Brueghel

Pieter Brueghel, "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus" 

According to Brueghel
when Icarus fell
it was spring

a farmer was ploughing
his field
the whole pageantry

of the year was
awake tingling

the edge of the sea
with itself

sweating in the sun
that melted
the wings' wax

off the coat
there was

a splash quite unnoticed
this was
Icarus drowning

Friday, October 3, 2014

Quantum Shadows

by Peter Mitchell
From fragments of a scroll from the future

quantum shadows
on refracted dreams
spinning into maya
Who can understand this?

transcending the dream
shadows fade away
into oneness of divine love
Joy explodes

Sunday, September 28, 2014

Still Life Beside a Lake

by Jonathan Aaron
From his collection entitled Corridor

Yes, everything's here, everything's right
where it should be, tranquil, luminous, sublime.
The wisdom of the ages, bread and books.
Not a hair on the nib of your pen;
you won't have to wipe it on your sleeve.
And you can be sure the wine cellar harbors only wine.
The elements present themselves - wind, stars, a storm.
But you're already dreaming up the names of sailing ships,
can't wait to get out of this place ...

Before you can say them aloud, or even sooner,
you're going to be running for your life,
like the pilgrim who fled Olympus because
he couldn't find a single goddess there.

Friday, September 26, 2014

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

Ice Cube

by Elliot

In a dream ...

I was an ice cube
Content - alone and detached
          in my encasement of blue plastic
Welcoming - the dark cold world
          I lived in 
          among the ice cream & frozen TV dinners
Hating - the sudden burst of light
          and short spurt of warmth
          that took yet another thing
          from my world
Then came the earthquake
I felt the walls tremble
          - a crack split through my spine
Your hand enclosed over my body
A warm, red substance
          - like amniotic fluid - 
          engulfed me - 
          pulsated through my pores
I touched your lips and felt
          part of me melt away
Intoxicated with this new existence
          I didn't care that I was
My identity - 
          merging with the fluids
          to be swallowed into you

Tuesday, September 23, 2014


"Navigate" by Ashleigh Hartsock, 2014, acrylic on canvas

Sunday, September 21, 2014


by Dean Young
From his collection entitled Bender

I find myself more and more among
those marginal characters who seem intent
on getting nothing done, decommissioned hussars,
jilted maids-in-waiting or fauns, even,
all wooly from the waist down realizing
their eon's over, no one believes in them
anymore and if you asked, Heck, they'd say,
We never much believed in ourselves.
It all happened so long ago, the storming
of the prison, the invention of happy gas,
the marriage of the sun and the moon. Suddenly
a lady might need her petticoat removed,
the band would play until the fuzz arrived
and the fairies were almost safe in piano bars.
But the certainties of any age will rot
as they are recycled and must be shoved aside
to allow the next loud, thunking youth
its anthems and wars, its splatter.
Such has been muttered since the end
of time and will be muttered more while
the world stays stitched with golden rays
and each finds her own way out.

Friday, September 19, 2014

General Nuke

"General Nuke" by Robert Arneson
Smithsonian Hirshhorn Muesum and Sculpture Garden

Thursday, September 18, 2014

Contour Drawing

by Kat Comer

Curious, I stoop to examine
a piece of tangled wood
put in my path by chance.
Ancient eyes carved by wind and rain
pierce me with an eagle's gaze.

I enter through the eye, a pool.
Bathed in multiple textures
I crack open worlds.
Shaped by vision
landscapes form and pass away.
My pencil traces borders of
an uncommon geography.

A mere shift in angle - 
Peaks rise like the breasts
of a woman aroused
and flatten to soft planes.
Prairie grasses brushed by wind.

Layers of bark peel away centuries.
The earth is naked and hardened to bone.
A prehistoric skull stares into sun.
Shadows crouch in its sockets.
The sea is countries away.

A map of South America
sketched on the wing of a tropical bird
plunges downward to sea
The moon is a shaman's drum
rising on the tide of dream
The jungle's heart beats
Steam rises
The polished leaves of rain forest breathe.

The vision passes.
A tangled piece of wood
hangs in my window.

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Sunday, September 14, 2014

Born to Be Stars

by Vincent Boateng
From his collection entitled The Jesus I Know

We are all born to be stars,
but many of us are content with just being fans
cheering in the shadow of other stars.

We are all born to be stars,
but many of us refuse to shine,
choosing instead to hide behind the clouds.

We are all born to be stars,
but many of us look for light
from sources darker than ourselves.

Friday, September 12, 2014

The Truth is Out There

Promotional Postcard for The X-Files, The Truth is Out There book series

Thursday, September 11, 2014

The Sacred Oak

by Peter Mitchell
from fragments of a scroll from the future

it took an hour
for the sacred oak
to acknowledge my presence
his space in the woods
became a magical place
full of wonders

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

The Nobodies

"The Nobodies" by Ashleigh Hartsock, 2014, acrylic on canvas

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

How My Grandmother Joined the Sky

by Cynthia Arrieu-King
From her collection, People Are Tiny in Paintings of China

In China, her daughters
and sons argued who'd
pay rent on her burial vault, 
so they reburied her
in the bamboo forest:
ceremony, white lotus,
getting drunk on wine.
They forgot to mark
the grave.
          In the country
shaped like a dragon
and packed with a billion
swallowed people, her ashes wait
and don't mind being misplaced.
Her ashes alone like an abandoned
dog while the wind sweeps all
the iron she was into its arms.

Sunday, September 7, 2014


by Elliot

Can you hear the snow fall
     upon sky imbued land
Pale shades of grey broken only
     by the dark skeletons of dead trees
     Whose leaves once green and gold
     withered - lifeless - buried
     under fallen snow
          Torn away from their lifeline -
          miles and months apart - their cries of anguish
          smothered by snow falling
Can you hear her spirit dying
     invisible blood upon empty sheets
In long, black nights broken only
     by exhaustion's insistent calling 
     Dreams once green and gold
     withered - lifeless - buried
     under the fallen tears
          Torn away from her lifeline - 
          miles and months apart - her cries of anguish
          smothered by
Snow falling headlong to the ground
     in a crash that breaks the stillness
     and drowns the leaves' cries - the soul's death - 
A last resonance before it fuses
                                                   into oblivion ...

Thursday, September 4, 2014

Tuesday, September 2, 2014


by Tomas Transtromer
From his collection entitled The Half-Finished Heaven

At times my life suddenly opens its eyes in the dark.
A feeling of masses of people pushing blindly
through the streets, excitedly, towards some miracle,
while I remain here and no one sees me.

It is like the child who falls asleep in terror
listening to the heavy thumps of his heart.
For a long, long time till morning puts his light in the locks
and the doors of darkness open.

Sunday, August 31, 2014

Friday, August 29, 2014


by Kat Comer

Slowly the dumb beast treads
heavy footed toward home.
His long black shag hangs
matted and dusty with age.
A funeral horse
submitting blindly
to the burden he carries
Bent figure shaped
like gnarled wood
rides lightly on the tired beast
and stares at me across the void
as if to say: "see me."

Thursday, August 28, 2014


"Bob" by Ashleigh Hartsock, 2014, acrylic on canvas

Tuesday, August 26, 2014

How the Past Comes Back

by Natasha Trethewey
From her collection entitled thrall

Like shadow across a stone,
     gradually - 
          the name it darkens;

as one enters the world
          through language - 
     like a child learning to speak
          then naming
everything; as flower

the neglected hydrangea
          endlessly blossoming - 
               year after year
     each bloom a blue refrain; as

the syllables of birdcall
     coalescing in the trees,
a single word:

as the dead bird's bright signature -
          days after you buried it -
     a single red feather
          on the window glass

in the middle of your reflection.

Sunday, August 24, 2014

Friday, August 22, 2014

Words fly away

by Peter Mitchell
originally published on fragments of a scroll from the future

writing poetry
under a cloudy sky
A soft breeze lifts the words
off the page swirling
vanishing into the clouds

Tuesday, August 19, 2014


by Francesca Abbate

He tries to remember what the letter said
the first time he read it, which is like trying
to remember the look of the city you live in
before you knew it too well. Sometimes he sits

for hours, the clock loud on the kitchen wall,
the chair loose under his crossed legs, and out there,
the watchfulness of the trees, the gray river.
There was some message, a code he's forgotten.
But what can he do? What else can the mind do

with a map charting so much dark water?
At night, it turns the familiar colossal, ungainly,
tries driving its audience wild with dreams.
The heroes go down singing. They go down

with mouths full of thorns. There's the stage again,
and the smell of the house - autumnal, heavy
with smoke and leaf dust - and there
he is, calling out from the wings, "Moon,
you're so rich, why don't you buy me something?"

And the moon sailing into the curtain's blue folds.

Sunday, August 17, 2014

Postcards From Europe (1988): William Blake

"... At once, I was in the Spirit, and lo, a throne stood in heaven, with one seated on the throne! And he who sat there appeared like jasper and carnelian, and round the throne there was a rainbow that looked like an emerald. Round the throne were twenty-four thrones, and seated on the thrones were twenty-four elders, clad in white garments, with golden crowns upon their heads. From the throne issue flashes of lightening, and voices and peals of thunder, and before the throne burn seven torches of fire, which are the seven spirits of God ...
... And round the throne, on each side of the throne, are four living creatures, full of eyes in front and behind: the first living creature like a lion, the second living creature like an ox, the third living creature with the face of a man, and the fourth living creature like a flying eagle. ... "
... And whenever the living creatures give glory and honor and thanks to him who is seated on the throne, who lives for ever and ever, the twenty-four elders fall down before him who is seated on the throne and worship him who lives for ever and ever; they cast their crowns before the throne, singing, 'Worthy art thou, our Lord and God, to receive glory and honor and power, for thou didst create all things, and by thy will they existed and were created.'"
- From Revelation, Chapter 4 (The New Oxford Annotated Bible)

The Four and Twenty Elders casting their Crowns before the Divine Throne by William Blake, 1805,
pencil and watercolor

Thursday, August 14, 2014

Song Lyrics #2

By Eric Peters

The highway is calling
The road is a way
To open the eyes of your heart and make you pray
The river is calling
The water's a way
The sea is a story that will make you pray

The road is a living thing
The sea is a giving thing
Your heart is a holy thing
The road is a living thing

The night time comes crawling
on down the hill
The light as it fades sings out in praise so still
The dreams that come calling
plant seeds in your mind
The ideas that grow are mirrors that show you why

The night is a living thing
Your dream is a growing thing
Your heart is a holy thing
The night is a living thing

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

Tuesday, August 12, 2014


From Jack Kerouac Book of Haikus

In the sun
   the butterfly wings
Like a church window

Sunday, August 10, 2014

Fruit of the Spirit

Painting by Erin Adero

"But the fruit of the spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness,
faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law." 
-Galatians 5:22-23

Fruit of the Spirit by Erin Adero, acrylic on canvas

Thursday, August 7, 2014

The Battle Between Whont and Knead

by Matt Sise

General Whont is a short, ugly demon of a man.
General Knead is long and lean in his gorgeous tan.
They did battle by the statue of the Grand Dame.
Whont broke off an arm, and Knead did the same.
Oh, what a terrible thing I've started.

It was the statue they fought with; the statue they fought for -
He who won the statue won the fight, the battle and the war.
The beauty of the Grand Dame gave eternal life,
But the victor had to go through internal strife.
Knead hit high, and Whont struck low.
Whont swung again, and Knead returned the blow.
Oh, what a terrible thing I've started.

They broke off more, because it gave power to win the fight.
Knead was fighting because he loved the Dame with all his might;
Whont was trying to gain power and out of lust.
They fought until the statue was dust.
Oh, what a terrible thing I've started.

They keep fighting, though they don't know what for.
They've been fighting so long, no one cares anymore.
Oh, what a terrible thing I've started.

Wednesday, August 6, 2014

Monday, August 4, 2014


by Philip Booth
From his collection of poetry entitled PAIRS

Old spirit, in and beyond me,
keep and extend me. Amid strangers,
friends, great trees and big seas breaking,
let love move me. Let me hear the whole music,
see clear, reach deep. Open me to find due words,
that I may shape them to ploughshares of my own making.
After such luck, however late, give me to give to
the oldest dance . . . . Then to good sleep,
and -- if it happens -- glad waking.

Saturday, August 2, 2014

So Devilish

So Devilish by Ashleigh Hartsock, 2014, acrylic on canvas

Thursday, July 31, 2014


by Kat Comer

Welcome to the midnight circus
Kansas City hip
Backstreet rhythms jam
          like wild birds
Dancers swoop and flame
in daring spins
Women in black with chalky faces
purring and bizarre
float by in a dream
The understated
the low vibration.

Like the skeletons
hanging from the ceiling
No one need be seen
on Halloween.

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Mind's Eye

"Mind's Eye" Collage & Acrylic on Canvas by Ashleigh Hartsock

Sunday, July 27, 2014

Sweet Darkness

by David Whyte
From The House of Belonging

When your eyes are tired
the world is tired also.

When your vision has gone
no part of the world can find you.

Time to go into the dark
where the night has eyes
to recognize its own.

There you can be sure
you are not beyond love.

The dark will be your womb

The night will give you a horizon
further than you can see.

You must learn one thing.
The world was made to be free in.

Give up all the other worlds
except the one to which you belong.

Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness 
to learn

anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive

is too small for you.

Thursday, July 24, 2014

love, annie

by Peter Mitchell
First published on fragments of a scroll from the future

i heard a fly buzz when i died
when i woke in light
the sages i used to love
became blathering idiots
annie says listen!
seek the love
that moves the sun
and the other stars!

love, annie

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Sunday, July 20, 2014

Holy Differences

by Tatiana Hamboyan Harrison
First published in the June/July Issue of Friends Journal

Wholly different perspectives
Stand their ground
Trip me up
Put motes in my eyes and
Cotton in my ears.

Where is the common ground?
Where is the shift we need to
See the same?

Yet in the differences rests
Diversity, the
Holy harmony of humanity,
That which turns the 
Wholly different into
Holy differences.

Friday, July 18, 2014

Light of Cats

Love Gives Us Strength: Two Cats
Photography By Tatiana Hamboyan Harrison

Available for purchase on Etsy and Society6 

Both Oreo and Leo (pictured above) are available for adoption at Chesapeake Cats & Dogs

Thursday, July 17, 2014

White Tile

By Elliot

The Student walks
Down crowded halls
Passing faces --
     not people 
Passing Teachers --
     gods on Their own plane
     Above the white tile
Wondering --
Remembering tears
Falling on pages of open books
     -- closed to the mind
Remembering sleep
Knocking on your door
     -- too tired to answer it
Remembers As of the past
Mother and Father
Loved to talk
To Their Friends --
You were a Person then --
The path of life would take You
They were proud
You were Someone
Someone who
Halfway down the path
From tiredness of mind
     and body
-- I tried
     You scream
As You feel Someone
Leaving you
you are No one --
     --No more praise
Nowhere engulfs you
As you lie
A white tile
On the floor of
The Someones
Stepping on you
     and others
As They make Their way
To Somewhere
Matters now
you are lost 
     -- forever
you didn't make 
     The Grade

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Sunday, July 13, 2014

Rommel Drives On Deep Into Egypt

                         -San Francisco Chronicle Headline
                           June 26, 1942

Rommel is dead.
His army has joined the quicksand legions
of history where battle is always
a metal echo saluting a rusty shadow.
His tanks are gone.
How's your ass?

-Richard Brautigan, Rommel Drives On Deep Into Egypt

Thursday, July 10, 2014

Commandments in Glass

by Tim Bishop

I've always wished to build
A house of glass and steel
On a cliff above the sea

To spread my arms
And praise the work - 
The work that came from me

To find a love
I know will last
To remember now
Forget the past

Is there someone out there
Who's felt like that too?
If it's so, I just want you to know
I hear you

I've always wished to
Be set free and praise
That magic number three

Is there someone here
Who feels like that too?
If so, I feel with you

To climb a mountain in an endless sky
To reach the Fountain that makes me high
To feel the way I wish to feel

To reach immortal pinnacles
To break free from these manacles
To be gentle like fire, and harder than steel

   There are commandments in glass
   Made to be broken
   Whispered words
   Meant to be spoken

   An imposing command
   They wish to be giving
   A quiet resistance
   A wish to be living

I've always dreamed of days
Listening to the breeze
Seeping through the majestic trees

Watching the sunrise each day
And seeing it fade in its beautiful way
And living my own destiny