Archive for September, 2011

Bambi, by Mary Ann Little

Abstract Snail Shell, by Tai Hardie

3 O’clock, by Jerry Veit

3:00 in the morning, I don’t know what I’m doing; I don’t know where I’m going.

3:00 in the morning.


On this bumpy road with lots of ups and many more downs.

I saw the light, but was too slow to catch the falling star.

Little white lies wearing little black ties. I wish I knew the truth.

I wish I could see farther than the mind can believe. I had a speech, but forgot my lines.


I fell in love with the lady of the lake, some image in the fog I misinterpreted as someone real.

Heat rises to fog my mirrors, and through my rose-colored glasses, I watch white dresses dance, around the burning fire in my eyes.

Throwing flower petals and herbs into the blaze while wishing for love, prosperity, and futility.

Generations seeped in mythology. Lore and legends into celebrations.

Freedom from facts and science may end these bothersome worries and fears. Take the mind and separate it from the body.

The night air and incense smoke.

All is quiet at this witching hour, but the floorboards still creak when all is supposedly asleep.


Heavy now is the world, yet it floats effortlessly in space.

Tired now are the weavers of this quilt. Pictured are all who have walked the many paths of this labyrinth through time. I am here, but my side is not yet finished.


Shall I steal a kiss from the lady of the night, then retreat to the safety of my sheets?

I am a stranger to these lands and merely a traveler that hasn’t begun his journey yet.

To the east, to the west, if I stopped thinking about it could I feel the slight tug towards the direction I am bound for.

One wrong turn into a forgotten world could prove to be fate, but I’m still fishing in a puddle frustrated I do not yet have a catch.


I’m lost among the rich, watching them drink their wine and talk about things that have no interest to me.

I’m lost among the brave, who have daring stories to entertain their guests.

I’m lost among the beautiful, who never had to worry about rejection.

I’m lost among thieves, and this is where I’m noticed.


I tripped and fell into the sky.

I saw a light, but lost my fight.

I can’t believe they rejected me. Falling now I hit the ground at 80 miles and several years too soon.

Running from shadows and hiding from the reach of time. The fickle finger of fate was more of a punch to the face.


When I awake from my unconsciousness I notice something I have never seen before. A large gate closing off a road I have not yet traveled. In time if I wait it will someday open.

This is my passage, through the woods and through greener pastures. Over Caribbean blue seas with a mild breeze.

Smell of food and baked goods along with laughter fills the air, and new age sounds are playing in the wind.

A smiling beauty with my name upon her chest and arms wide open. Children running from play to take notice of my approach.


This is home.

I am home.

Negative Man, by Oluwatosin Awe

Casualties of war

The victims of extreme greed


Unimaginable crimes and horrific acts of murder

Heeding to the call of the other


Abuse of power and negligence of their own kind

Ignoring faces of death and outstretched hands for help


Blatant lies and hidden agendas

Refusal to respond to the tears of their peers


Organized crimes from wicked hearts

Taking joy from brutal acts


Refusal to accept the obvious truth

Walking a path that clearly reads DOOM


Blindly pursuing death

Hopeless and ignorant pawns

Unaware of the destruction awaiting them


How sad your end will be

Slowly but surely, your tears we’ll see.


The La La La, by Terrance Ilion

Young and vibrant

So full of energy, these three

As they were walking, they could not see

The lifeless soul that lies underneath

Retinas detached subliminally.

Caught up in the la la la

Danger was obvious to most but not all

Through bloody eye’s sight was hindered


Caught up in the la la la, which isn’t really reality.

Underneath the pretty leaves and glossy buds,

Lies poor judgment, broken covenants,

But you can’t see retinas detached subliminally.


Even tho the dank was rank, the skunk stunk.

It’s made to be good when deep down they know they should,


The la la la prevents any authentic thought

Through the fog, they could not see retinas detached subliminally.


Kings and Queens they really should be

God given talents up in smoke literally,

Others can taste it, wondering why and how they waste it

Doctors, lawyers, entrepreneurs.


Half-baked mighty and great men and women they should be,

But they can’t see, eyes slanted, caught up in the la la la

Retinas detached subliminally

One Thing Leads to Another, by Deborah Pagelsdorf

All because I wounded my knee

Leaping from a bumble bee

If only I could clearly see

The future misery coming to me

Leaping from a bumble bee

Pulled a muscle in my leg

The future misery coming to me

Get me out of here, I beg

Pulled a muscle in my leg

Which caused the deadly clot

Get me out of here, I beg

You wouldn’t believe what I got

Which caused the deadly clot

Two blood clots in my lung

You wouldn’t believe what I got

Coumadin on my tongue

Two blood clots in my lung

Clotting disorder becoming clear

Coumadin on my tongue

Look into my eyes and see the fear

Two blood clots in my lung

If only I could clearly see

Coumadin on my tongue

All because I wounded my knee

Haunted Memories, by Deborah Pagelsdorf

The memories still haunt me.

He whispered she was just a friend.

My heart aches every day.

He alleged there was nothing going on.

He whispered she was just a friend.

His tender lips touched hers.

He alleged there was nothing going on.

He stroked her breasts with lust in his eyes.

His tender lips touched hers.

I discovered the affectionate note.

He stroked her breasts with lust in his eyes.

I wanted to kill her for the pain she caused.

I discovered the affectionate note.

I stabbed the note, then burned it.

I wanted to kill her for the pain she caused.

If ever I face her again, I will beat her down.

I stabbed the note, then burned it.

My heart aches every day.

If ever I face her again, I will beat her down.

The memories still haunt me.

My Wish, by Ali Whorley

I do not wish bad things upon you.


I do not wish to humiliate you,

to stand before an audience

and be stripped of your dignity,

like you have done to me.


I do not wish you nightmares,

images of me and someone else

invading and tormenting your subconscious mind,

like the nightmares you have given me.


Instead, I wish you nothing.


Nothing bad, nothing good.

I wish to forget you,

When I see you on the street

It will be as if you never existed.


I will not acknowledge you,

give you the satisfaction

of knowing how you hurt me.

For I am free of you now.

My Eye on Being Free, by Jeff Henry

As I turn the door knob I can feel the excitement in my fingertips.  In almost a trance, my eyes fix on the garage knowing what is inside.  The door opens with a couple of squeaks and my first step into the brisk morning air awakens all of my senses simultaneously. The air is crisp and clean feeding my lungs with an almost new sense of life.  I walk across the pavement, my boots clicking on the uneven ground.  My walk speeds to a near-run as I get to the halfway point of thirty feet.  I reach the garage and unlock the door.  I raise the door, with its usual creak and crank sounds, and reveal the beauty of a motorcycle that lies within.

I walk up and swing a leg over it and proceed to back it out into the cool morning air.   I pull out my cell phone to see that it is eight in the morning.  I put my phone into a zippered pocket in my jacket and close it to secure the phone for the ride ahead.  My hand reaches for the start button and, depressing it with my thumb, I fire up my motorcycle.  I can almost taste the pureness of the air as I breathe it in.  It’s like I have been welcomed into a brand new world by all of the spirits of the land around me.

The cylinders begin to warm up and popping notes of the exhaust start to smooth out into a nice, low rumble.  By now the exhaust fumes permeate my nose and the adrenaline starts to rise as my eyes concentrate on the road just a few yards away.  I run my hand up the smooth, chrome handlebar, reaching the clutch lever and pulling it firmly in with my left hand.  Even that seems to feel perfect for the adventure to come.

The chrome on the motor glistens in the morning sun, clean as can be.  The paint appears flawless as the green pearl within the bright yellow dances as the sun’s rays bounce back and forth across it.  The idle of the motor has smoothed out into a nice steady rumble now. Now she is ready to play. The heads are almost too hot to touch. The exhaust note is complete and perfect without any sputter.

I pull in the clutch lever and bring my foot up to the shifter.  My hand grabs a bit of the throttle as my motorcycle comes to life.  My foot depresses the shifter to put it in gear.  As I begin to release the clutch and grab more of the throttle she really comes to life.  I am moving now as my other foot comes to rest on the right peg.  The road that was once yards away is now within inches.  The front tire glides onto the smooth surface of the road as the bike is now screaming loud.  I am now on the road, completely engulfed in the cool morning wind, and I ride into a beautiful summer day.

The Aura of the Pen, by Jeff Henry

     I sink into the soft microfiber of my couch as my body descends into my spot for ideal writing.  It’s in the corner of my sectional, the most comfortable spot.  As I taste the cold Irish stout my eyes search for my paper, then my pen.  I sit for a moment as the Irish music starts to play, enjoying the aura.  I sip the stout again as my fingers encircle my pen. The world around me disappears as my pen begins to tattoo the sheet below it.  The ink seems to flow into the sheet as if to almost mimic the violin playing.  There’s no stopping now as the unison of pen to paper is completely harmonized.  The ink is coming out at an almost alarming speed as pages become art without a though to modification.  The concentration is intense as my conclusion shows itself.  As the last strikes of the pen hit the page my world solidifies itself again as I revel in the artwork in front of me.  It’s perfect and I can’t wait to show it off.  I also cannot wait until the next time that I may have the chance to repeat this experience.