It May Be the Middle of Nowhere (But it’s Home)-Jonathan Marin
Ailanthus-Jonathan Marin
Sleepin' on the Sofa...Again-Jonathan Marin
Halfway-Jonathan Marin
Awareness-Mark Norman
The Alchemist in my Bathroom-Mark Norman
Wicked Girl-Mark Norman
Night Delirium-Faverio Maria Claudia
The Defeat of Desire-Maria Claudia Faverio
Loneliness-Maria Claudia Faverio
Good Riddance-Elliot Siemon
Peaks-Elliot Siemon
Offspring’s Revenge-Elliot Siemon
Pueraria Thunbergiana-Elliot Siemon
Why Should it Be?-Paul Nachbar
Somebody's-Paul Nachbar
The People Processor-Paul Nachbar
Is it?-Paul Nachbar
What Good or Service?-Paul Nachbar
A World Of Experts Some Impressions-Paul Nachbar
Leaf Taking-Stephen Harrod Buhner
A Christmas Carol-S.L. MacNiven
Pygmalion & Galatea-S.L. MacNiven
I Try-Quinn Tyler Jackson
Quatrain for Poets-Quinn Tyler Jackson
Defender-Quinn Tyler Jackson
Another Bloody Year Has Passed-Quinn Tyler Jackson
Some Rubaiyaat-Quinn Tyler Jackson 
Jester's Sonnet-Quinn Tyler Jackson
The Struggle for Substance-Thomas A. Smith Jr.
Un Opus Consacri A Ma Douleur-Thomas A. Smith Jr.
God is a Verb-Dusk Wilson-Weaver
Symbol Over Substance-Paul F. Kisak
The Mirror With No Reflection-Paul F. Kisak
The Line-Paul F. Kisak
Beauty-Paul F. Kisak
Angst Existential-Paul F. Kisak
A Grace Odyssey-Barry Howard

It May Be the Middle of Nowhere (But it’s Home) 
Jonathan Marin

Our town's a little hard to find;
The school's no temple of the mind;
Church on Sunday's our idea of kicks.
We don't care that Rand McNally
Hasn't heard about our Valley,
Or that folks from out the backwoods call us hicks.

CHORUS.

It may be the middle of nowhere, but it's home...
Where even the hogs get bored on Saturday Night.
It may be the middle of nowhere, but it's home...
Don't knock it... if you can't find it.

II.
It missed us last time it snowed;
We still don't have an Area Code;
Those sorts o' things don't bother us a bit.
'Cause since we drew a borderline
And gave the place a name –
We've got onto the wait list for a zip.

III.
Our state senator campaigned up here
Just this last election year;
Some folks came out to cheer and some threw rocks.
Feelin's were a-runnin' high
And people here still wonder why
They never did pick up our ballot box.

BREAK.

They say a plague passed through our town –
Found no-one to infect.
Bell Telephone ain't heard of us-
Ya cain't call here collect.
Our electric only alternates –
It cain't find us direct:
Ya see, our latitude and longitude –
They do not intersect!

CHORUS.

It may be the middle of nowhere, but it's home...
Where the prostitutes play scrabble New Year's Eve.
It may be the middle of nowhere, but it's home...
Don't knock it... if you can't find it.

IV.
A homing pigeon was our mascot
Dressed up in a tux and ascot,
Doggone thing could never find his way.
Our town flower is the pumpkin seed
It used to be a Tumbleweed,
'Til one day he just up and blew away,

V
We used to have a radio set
There was a station we could get
It broadcast from a town not far away.
Now that set's up in the attic
'Cause all we can get is static
Since that town closed down for good last Founder's Day.

CHORUS.

It may be the middle of nowhere, but it's home...
Where even the hogs get bored on Saturday Night.
It may be the middle of nowhere, but it's home...
Don't knock it... if you cain't find it.

Ailanthus
Jonathan Marin

Please take a moment and think about the Ailanthus.

No-one plans it.
No-one plants it.
No-one waters,
Or prunes,
Or sprays it,
Or gives it plant food or weed killer or even manure.
It squeezes between tall buildings,
Through sidewalk gratings,
And cracks in concrete,
And in angles of fences where mowers can't reach it.

It survives
Unassisted, and thrives.
It stands up to road salt,
And car fumes,
And dog piss,
And the hardened indifference of big-city life.
Only let it be:
And it will sink deep roots,
And form stout branches,
And cast a shade as good as that of any planted tree.

The Ailanthus is all unwanted children
And the adults they become.
It's those who got adopted
And those who never did.
It's those who learn their origins
And those who never will.

It's the kids who glut the System
And call it Home:
In nurseries,
In orphanages,
And in foster homes,
Waiting for chance to graft them onto someone's family tree.

The Ailanthus,
Laughing at rejection,
Sings out:
"I was born a bastard,
What's your excuse?",
Then turns its leaves to the sun,
And grows.

Please take a moment and think about the Ailanthus.

Sleepin' on the Sofa...Again
Jonathan Marin 

I. 
I buy the food; I pay the rent;
I keep her in nice clothes.
But God made woman
With a headache, I suppose.
Ya know this ain't the first time
That the bedroom door's been closed.
Ain't no doubt I'm sleepin' on the sofa again, tonight.
Ain't no doubt I'm sleepin' on the sofa tonight. 


II. 

She's always startin' dinner
Or it's time for her fav'rite show
Then asks "Why don't we talk no more?"
And it's my fault, don't ya know!
If it wasn't for the children
I'd have left her long ago.
Looks like it's liver for dinner, or maybe it's chicken pot pie.
Ain't no doubt I'm sleepin' on the sofa again, tonight.
Ain't no doubt I'm sleepin' on the sofa tonight. 


III. 

She loves to squander money
Then whine 'bout how we're strapped.
The kids and neighbors all agree
She's played me for a sap.
I dream about the day
I'll draw the line and skip this trap.
Could be I muddied the carpet, or left the damn toilet seat up.
Anyway, I'm sleepin' on the sofa again. 


BREAK: 

Been talkin' to a lawyer
When I can I'm gonna run.
You can bet I'll be beddin' down like it's never been done.
Crowing like a rooster I'll embrace each morning sun.
Don't care if I never see a sofa
Again as long as I live.
Don't care if I never see a sofa
"Say, Miss, have you got a bed?"
Don't care if I never see a sofa again. 


IV. 

She's cheerful down at breakfast,
Asks me why I'm such a grouch.
Then says I need to exercise -
I shuffle and I slouch.
I swear I'll end up hunchbacked
Just from sleepin' on that couch!
Maybe I'll just skip the damn sofa,
And stretch myself out on the floor
Maybe I'll just stretch myself out on the floor. 


V. 

Next time I'll nix the sofa
And check into a motel.
I'll call her from the room phone,
And I'll really give her hell.
I'll tell her "Have a nice life"
And I'll wish the children well.
Every night that I sleep on that sofa 
I swear that it's the very last time,
Still there ain't no doubt I'm sleepin' on the sofa again, tonight.
Ain't no doubt I'm sleepin' on the sofa again. 

Halfway
Jonathan Marin
 
I.
Oh I had an unusual visitor last night
It was Saint Peter - I wakened in the darkness cold with fright
"Can this be the end?" I cried?
He said "Relax, you haven't died
But I'm down here with a message, son
You've come halfway".
II.
Well I said to him "Pete, could it be that you are wrong?
I'm eatin' right - I'm workin' out - I'm lean and fit and strong."
He smiled and sadly shook his head
Then he oh so gently said:
"Half a lifetime, half a lifetime,
Half a lifetime ain't so long."
CHORUS: 
Halfway ... Halfway!
For every day you've lived
You get just one more day.
To measure what's to come,
Count the time already gone.
It's a matter to reflect upon;
You've come halfway.

BREAK.
Do you lie to the mirror: smoothing creases, hiding gray?
Thinkin' creams and dies and chemicals will buy a single day
Tend to lots o' little things lettin' all the big ones wait,
And - Surprise! They'll still be waitin' when you're standing at my gate

CHORUS:
Halfway ... Halfway!
For every day you've lived
You get just one more day.
To measure what's to come,
Count the time already gone.
It's a matter to reflect upon;
You've come halfway.

III.
Is time flowing past you like water through a sieve?
Have you gotten half a life's worth of what life has to give?
You can get your ass in gear,
You can pretend I wasn't here
Either way the time you're wasting's
All the time you've left to live
IV.
Folks will claw at your time - they will push and they will pull.
You can slide right to the end, living other peoples' bull.
Jump into doin'g all you've planned 
Your life is still yours to command
'Cause for the things that really matter, son,
Your cup's still halfway full.

CHORUS:
Halfway ... Halfway!
For every day you've lived
You get just one more day.
To measure what's to come,
Count the time already gone.
It's a matter to reflect upon;
You've come halfway.

Awareness
Mark Norman

I stand beneath this open night sky.
One man. One of five billion.
Yet, I feel my significance, because of awareness.
The gift. I look at my hands and I see God's hands.

The Alchemist in my Bathroom
Mark Norman

She's an alchemist, my wife, working in her laboratory, our bathroom.
Blending, mixing, heating, and cooling her intoxicating scents and spirituous liquors. Mountain spring waters, are the menstruum of elixirs.
Transmogrification, metamorphosing, tinctures for imbuing, infusing, and permeating. Ointments and salves to anoint and suffuse.
Oils and placenta from the ocean's most exotic beasts.
Polymers, extracts, lye, and acids.
Extracted medicinal essences from the driest desert fauna, plus witch hazel, angelica, and thyme. Ester, saline, and talc.
Concoctions of manganese violet, titanium dioxide, and chromium hydroxide green.
And scattered about, talismaic amulets to conjure
the enchanting sorcery of charm and beauty.
Practicing her divination of hidden knowledge and legerdemain.
Dare I tap the door to say "Come on honey, we're late," again.

Wicked Girl
Mark Norman

She still calls to me, after all this time.
Teasing, taunting, hinting of that familiar warmth and humor.
Promising, to color my world that rosy hue I love.
When no one else was there, she was,
to hold me and cover me with her intoxicating kisses.
We smiled and laughed together at the world in trouble.
But still, I ache from her dark side and poisonous kisses.
When she became too venomous, I forced her to leave.
My world collapsed into darkness.
In that darkness I knew I would not follow her in that slow spiraling suicide.
She was for me, such a wicked and nasty girl.
God, I miss her so very much.

Night Delirium
Faverio Maria Claudia

Clouds, not the ordinary moon,
manifest and lonely
in the dense scopes of dark,
clouds accompany the polymathic delirium
of this night.

Aggravated by the black vacuum
of the sky,
pallid perceptions of distances
crumble to blindness
like a tired eye,
and madness of colours
effaces itself
in the intricate evasions
of imagination.

The untuned reticences
of desire
transfix the ego
like a fake light,
enhancing its delirium,
while palaver of lips
discovers the sacred spaces
of silence.

Cautiously,
like old tune or voice,
the black load of fear
becomes tangible
in the capricious colours
of morning,
in the Phoenician sky
spreading over a reality
uncertain as faith.

There is a sense of panic
in the renewal of life.
The outrage of the years
is a swan song,
a remote surprise.

The Defeat of Desire
Maria Claudia Faverio

The epic of desire
has faded to a faint
utterance,
a confusion of syllables
unable to join
into trickery of words.

Speaking their parts
as in a trance of thought,
the personae of life
stand on the stage
and stare,
waiting for the grand finale
that doesn't come.

They are tired.
They are not in search
of an author,
but of a prompter.
They don't remember the words,
they don't know why
they are dressed as Pierrots,
make-up blurred by real tears
and sweats of life
and fiction
and life again.

But the prompter
doesn't speak the word,
and they ramble on
like drunken sailors,
laughing at themselves
in the tacit hysteria
of despair.

And the grand finale doesn't come.
Not even a shabby finale.
The perfection of the circle
is the consummation
of sufferance,
the consumption of hope.
The prompter is dead
as the personae.

Loneliness
Maria Claudia Faverio

The hours feat on torpor
in the empty theatre
of my mind,
lame shadows
mocking the frosty movements
of the clock.

They are fatigued with indolence,
veterans of survival
and yet unable to outwit
the deft opacities
of the tedium of life.

Their loneliness accumulates emptiness,
years seeping away
through the weary fingers
of dissatisfaction.

Locked in the threshing circle
of time,
they bravely drain the darkness,
waiting for a miracle,
a concatenation of events
in blue halls of visions.

The fake light
of the subtracting night
will see them
rot into soil,
megalith-still
under a sky
without stars.

Good Riddance
Elliot Siemon

The room mate is leaving,
Leaving lessons in inhumanity.
No more of his thieving,
rresponsibility and vanity.

A monster ever more,
Forever stomping the face of the Earth.
Contrarian to the core,
Paranoid, insolent, cursed be his birth.

Banal and unhappy,
Demagogue, pugnacious, forever single.
Self centered, liar, crappy,
Such a walking disaster feet ever carried.

Breakfast of apple pie,
Lunch of donuts, buns or other desserts,
Supper ice cream, no lie,
Resisting joining us natural food converts.

Never a fond farewell,
A classic ne'er-do-well who thinks he's smart.
A thief fit for a cell,
Pathological liar without a heart.

No character, conscience,
Devoid of ethics with so few good points.
Items lost forever hence,
A pain, like arthritis in all your joints.

No "good byes", this fellow,
Burned bridges and forever he shall roam,
Save one virtue to bestow,
The inspiration for such a damn, damning poem.

Peaks 
Elliot Siemon

Rivers of hope cascade mountains of dreams,
Glaciers of tears fill valleys so deep,
My eyes tear to where the ghostly peak gleams,
Praying only from where hearts may leap.

Heaven for the condor, hell for the lamb,
Rarified dreams above life's sweet gels,
In holy temples of eagle and ram,
Whisper, soliloquy of angels.

Where snow white peaks kiss the wild blue yonder,
Unearthly, cold, forbidding and bare,
Leaving (only) your meditations to wander,
And for no other reason: it's there.

Offspring’s Revenge 
Elliot Siemon

We all wonder at our life’s path
And play: wouldn’t it have been better if.
Looking at other’s affluent life style,
the beautiful people, leisure and mansions on the sea cliff.
But all we can feel is our parent’s wrath.
""Lazy good for nothing bum,""
Or they may say, ""You gotta learn to work.""
But gone are the days of having to weed the garden and chop fire wood,
yet they complain of their ill begotten ""jerk""...
Complain they will, ‘‘til the world to come.
That just wasn’t done with my kids,
It’s all the attitude of the parents,
So we made chores and duties fun;
work was part of life and we avoided the typical parental rants,
that my philosophy forbids.
Reading (""Cherrios; Wheaties"", etc.) began before two,
Crayon the ‘‘frig with ""mom, dad, cat, rat, dog"".
And while making them something to eat,
we played word games on the ‘‘frig door; tomato, toe, hog and hotdog,
Success track... and success was due...

Pueraria Thunbergiana
Elliot Siemon

Why Should it Be? 
Paul Nachbar

Why should it be something other 
Than a dog's life?
Just thank something
You are a leader not a follower In the pack.

Course when you are number two
Or three it kind of hurts like hell
Knowing that the best bits of beef
Will only go to number one;

But when you are number ten
Or one hundred or ten thousand
Three hundred and fifty seven
Who gets to hope for 'getting' anything?

Here best to be oh leader
Somewhat humorous, unconscious
Of the way things are for numbers
Far far higher than yourself;

Hey maybe you tried hard or maybe
You had come from stock that was
Always like number five thousand
Fifty three before yourself;

Or maybe heck you just were lucky
And for some reason just ran faster
Yeah best to smile here nicely
And to give the other doggies hope;

Hell, I guess you choose to run
And run another member of the team
You could always <smile refuse
So why not show your individual style?

But hey you number one or two or three
Not too much damned style now
Ain't much room here for variety-
Point being just to get from A to B Before hell freezes over.

Somebody's 
Paul Nachbar

Somebody's father
Somebody's uncle
Somebody's brother
Somebody's son
Somebody's cousin
Somebody's granddad
Somebody's husband
Somebody's nephew
Somebody's mother
Somebody's aunt
Somebody's sister
Somebody's daughter
Somebody's cousin
Somebody's grandma
Somebody's wife
Somebody's niece

The People Processor 
Paul Nachbar

The people processor
Takes your life and
Takes your things and
Takes your heart
And takes your mind
You do not even know
That this is happening
You think you chose it
You think that it is
Just evolved or that
You had elected it.

The people processor
Gives you food and
Gives you shelter
And gives you clothes
And gives you things...

What, did this hurt you? Hush, you are too sensitive!

The people processor
Ah must be I know it's true
And you can't be
Who you are too.
Just think about the goo
It makes of you perhaps
As the cement for
Building other things
Which maybe Form some higher use.

Is it? 
Paul Nachbar

Is it too sad?
Beware! It will make us too sad.
Is it too afraid?
Beware! It will make us too afraid.
Is it too dangerous?
Beware! It will endanger all of us.
Is it too strange?
Beware! It will make us too strange.

--------- Well, go ahead! Why aren't you saying anything?

What Good or Service? 
Paul Nachbar

What goods or services do the poets give
To all of those who work and live
Inside a world which seems to say:
"Provide what's useful in my working day!";
Whose memory is but a sieve
For things too dark, too new, too bright:
"So serve my purpose or just go away!
Or sit in poets corners out of sight?"

What wants or needs do the poets serve
To all of those whose brawn and nerve
Builds pyramids bold upon the solid ground:
"What secrets of the cosmos have you found?";
Who care not for what all "deserve"
In what is mostly "lose" or "win":
"Here, fortunes of commodities abound!
Your verse just bland, or madness or a sin";

What worth or value do the poets make
Besides to spread their sigh at each "mistake"
A stain of darkness on our moral map:
"Ah here below, my friend, it's mainly crap!"
Who cares not for what's real or fake
In what is mostly matters of a better deal:
"Your abstruse work just makes me nap
A fluff of nothing on my lunchtime meal";

I'd say, to answer all of these
Deep questions tall as Piranees
Beneath the movies, photographs,
The news, the novels and the charts and graphs:
The fluff of essays and commercial fizz
"I'm paid for this and know my biz:
I do not need enormous fees To know I mainly write what really is";

A World Of Experts Some Impressions (On My Way to Lunch) 
Paul Nachbar

The compromises, the sadness, the routines,
The emptiness, the nothing much, the drab,
The lists of things to do, the schedules,
The footnotes, the structures and functions,
The eyebrows raised, the crooked smiles, the sighs,
The pass-the-buck replies, the soft white lies,
The rules about the public and the private spaces,
The busyness, the forms, the values, the assumptions,
The goals, the objectives, the motivation sessions,
The charts, the diagrams, the scales, the rules,
The pyramid charts, the roles, the functions
And the cubicles, the lessons learned, the new techniques,
The lack of faith in 'miracles', the costs and benefits,
The shaking heads, the shaking hands, the formulas,
The logos, the programs writ, those jokes hysterical,
The contracts signed, the pro and con, the vestibules,
Behaviors here acceptable, the potted plants
The scentless words, the alphas and numericals,
The printed sheets, the work of teams, the integrals
The how-to books, the numbered sheets, the manuals Sad language in a world of mostly practicals..

Leaf Taking
Stephen Harrod Buhner

Earth leaves we remain,
stones, not plants, not green,
lonely pebbles scattered
on an empty street,

A Christmas Carol 
S.L. MacNiven

'Twas some two thousand years ago,
A child was born - they'd have it so,
Whose purpose on this planet blue,
Was to die for sins construed,
Whether a story veritable,
Or but a tragic parable,
Christmas day has undergone,
Marketing and Christmas songs,
Neon, posters, and T.V.,
Jingles for the family,
"Coca Cola" set the pace,
Gave Nicolaus a brand new face,
Red and White with a Ho! Ho! Ho!
"Give poor Rudolph another go!",
As in another fine cartoon,
Scrooge is shown a miser's doom,
Of course he changes in his ways,
And learns to spend on Christmas Day,
Hurrah! Hurrah! And be he blessed,
That opens up his golden chest,
He knows if you are sleeping,
He knows if your awake,
He's got statistics on you now,
So buy for goodness sake!
So this is how it's all become,
"Buy Wrigley's Spearmint chewing gum"
To publish this I had to do it,
You know my sponsors also chew it,
And if my message is not clear,
Budweiser's an outstanding beer,
Forget the sadness of this time,
Forget the elevated crime,
Forget the roads and all the deaths,
Drunk with a merry Christmas breath,
And if you make it through the night,
Aspirin is morning light!
The world for all communication's
Hostile to real celebration,
For celebration in itself,
Needs neither presents, cards nor wealth,
But simple human warmth and feeling,
Not Santa breaking through the ceiling!
So let's raise a toast in old Dimple,
And keep the speeches short and simple,
For no one gives a flying duck,
Unless you've got a few spare bucks,
But Merry Christmas to ye all!
From all of us now here,
From the marketing dept.
A very happy business year!!!

Pygmalion & Galatea 
S.L. MacNiven

Pygmalion, a stately king
Had traveled far and wide,
But never had he found a lass,
To be his perfect bride,
He’d seen the best of Persia,
And India as well,
Of Greece he told his confidants
There wasn't much to tell,
Day for day his sadness grew,
As hope seemed endless night,
Until one starry early morn
He saw a wond’rous sight,
Clad in silver there she stood,
Her eyes as emeralds shone,
Hair that flowed as liquid silk,
Her voice ethereal song,
Afore the dream’d passed away
He asked her of her name,
"Galatea" she replied,
Whereupon the vision waned……
Inspired now with hope renewed
He scoured through the land,
To find an artist talented
Blessed with a skillful hand……
Money then as money now
Worked miracles itself,
The artist soon located,
With but a fraction of his wealth……
The sculptor set himself at once
To Pygmalion’s new work,
And what a task it proved to be,
He almost went berserk!
He sculptured night he sculptured day,
He barely paused to rest,
With chisel poised and ready,
Her arms, her legs, her breasts……
Sweat formed on his forehead,
Congealed with marble dust,
Nothing quelled his passion,
Nor his artistic lust……
The days passed by the seasons too,
As he chipped away the stone,
And when he’d finally finished,
He was happy to go home!
Now Pygmalion beheld the work,
His heart beat hard and fast,
His dream had formed in living stone,
He’d found her at long last……
And there she stood before him,
Exquisite and refined,
Proportioned to exactitude,
Subtle and sublime……
Delicate those features,
Rich in geometry,
A paradigm of woman,
A matchless fantasy……
"Speak you graven beauty!"
Pygmalion cried in vain,
And kissed her frozen lips,
With the fire of his pain……
High on Mount Olympus,
Aphrodite saw the scene,
And decided there and then
That she would intervene……
He lived and slept beside her,
Denied all food and wine,
Refused his kingly duties,
Lost track of father time……
Emaciated and replete
Of life and energy,
Somnus brought unconsciousness,
Morpheus brought dreams,
And when he woke one sunny morn
He dared not trust his eyes,
From the marble beauty,
Had emerged a living bride……
Now Pygmalion was jubilant
For twelve months and a week,
His bride it’s true was wonderful,
So soft, so fair, so meek……
He showed her then his kingdom,
Took her as his bride,
As to her thirst for knowledge,
Nothing was denied……
But that was the beginning,
And as joyous as it looked,
She couldn’t clean or wash or sew,
She couldn’t even cook!
Soon she wanted equal rights,
For stupid she was not,
Her beauty was an asset
But that wasn’t where it stopped!
Soft and Meek had fled the land,
Ambition took their place,
Career came two weeks later,
Now chiseled in her face……
Soon she ran for Governor,
And duly won the seat,
Pygmalion’s commissioned work
Was simply not to beat……
She sent him to his kingly throne,
Where day for day he slaved,
If they were to have children,
The money must be saved!
He soon saw perfection’s product,
And wished for some defect,
But her perfect form had been well matched
With a perfect intellect……
Soon nagged to death his epitaph
Stands a tribute to his life:
"Dream of the perfect woman
but make her not thy wife"

I Try 
Quinn Tyler Jackson

I try to bend my mind a bit.
And snap off at the seems;
I try to live my life a bit
And snap off at the dreams.
I try to recollect the past
And to the future drift
I try to make here and now last
And stumble on the rift.
I try to set it straight with words
But make it worse with those;
I try to fly like morning birds
But trip over my toes.
I try to clear the air with all
And end up making fumes;
I try to break down every wall
And end up building tombs.
With all I try and try to do,
I rarely meet my goal,
But when I speak my love for you,
I do it with my soul.
And when I put my soul behind
The force of my attempt,
And forget the words of my mind,
Those mutt'rings so unkempt,
'T is only then that I succeed
At what I wish to say;
For you have made my soul complete
In all this hectic fray.
So if I stumble on life's path
Think me not awkward, dear;
I do not fumble to find breath
When you are standing near.
Just look beyond my tripping feet
And you will hear a song;
Just listen to my soul's true mete,
It shall not do you wrong.
When my mistakes come flying fast,
Ignore those if you can;
And feel the heat of my heart's blast,
Though I am a flawed man.
And if beyond my many flaws
You manage to espy,
You will grasp the whole Grand Because
And never wonder why.

Quatrain for Poets 
Quinn Tyler Jackson

"What is the goal of poetry" I said
To ghosts of poets living in my head –
And one replied without a second thought:
"To stain others' souls with the blood we've bled."

Defender 
Quinn Tyler Jackson

It made me feel a mighty man to speak
For those who had no voice,
And though I stood and spoke for all the weak,
They did not have a choice;
So though they found an advocate in me,
They did no ballot cast,
And as I went on my defending spree,
Building my self up, fast
In my mission, they did not really ask
To have a voice to say.
But I was fiery to the heavy task
Through all the night and day,
So what did it matter that I alone
Had taken the onus
On without a formal invitation?
It was not my hubris,
After all, that led me to their just cause;
What if I rushed to quick Defense,
without a brief moment of pause
To ask if they were sick?

Another Bloody Year Has Passed
Quinn Tyler Jackson

Another bloody year has passed,
Where did the last one go,
And if the last had been my last,
What would I have to show?

It started like any other
And then I quit my job
To sell my brainpow'r by the hour,
An educated slob.

Awards racked up beside my name
Honors on my CV,
For accomplishments rather tame
Nothing worth infamy.

And then that day when hell broke loose
Upon all earth at once,
An end to peace, an end to truce,
A hero from dunce.

I watched it all and cried aloud,
All in my stupid way;
Not a year of which to be proud
If sense will have its say.

But all in all, another year,
No different from the rest,
From day to day will turn Time's Gear,
And what was done is Past.

If anything I've learned at all,
It's that time will tick tock,
Like a cuckcoo clock on the wall,
And in time we'll take stock.

If anything I wish would come,
'T is surely some release
From the debts of Yesteryear's sum,
And some genuine Peace.

So I count my deeds, add the pains,
Addition with some grief,
Consider the losses and gains,
And pray for some relief.

I don't fool myself, don't fear,
I've seen it all before:
If it won't come in the next year,
I'll pray it all once more.

Some Rubaiyaat
Quinn Tyler Jackson 

I
I met an artist in the chilly woods,
And tried hard to pry
the should nots and shoulds,
"Should I say it this or that way, you think?"
He replied, "Just write, not would nots or woulds."

II
I asked Omar for what my dues they pay:
"They pay to keep alive another day!"
I asked him then just what that day will bring:
"Another day of dues and toil, they say...."

III
When I recall Sour Yesterday's abuse,
I sometimes curse-spit,
"Damn it, what's the use?"
But Omar then reminds me with a grin:
"To read Tomorrow, Yesterday peruse!"

IV
Old Omar seemed a bit beside himself,
His verse all jigged around the page,
itself Quite odd enough a think I asked my "Why?"
"I found some Appolinaire on my shelf."

V
I asked Omar what good can come of words:
"What greater meaning can poets give birds?
"We can describe a thing, and still be blind –
"But we learn something by seeking the words...."

VI
If any pleasure I shall find in death,
When my time comes, tomorrow, or far off –
"I knew nothing, nothing, nothing at all!"
To holler with all of my dying breath.

VII
With mathematics, try the moon to size,
Not just its girth or what you see with eyes,
And you may find the measure in your flask
Of wine comes closer than these futile tries.

VIII
When I awoke, I saw two choices there –
I picked the one I had courage to dare,
And when the day was over, then I thought:
Shall I now for the other one prepare?

Jester's Sonnet 
Quinn Tyler Jackson

I was a fool, and still indeed am one,
Smugly juggling Fate, Chance, and Happenstance,
With bells on my boots in my silly dance,
At every stress, pulled at my thread, undone.
I thought my idiot grin would have won
Me a prize by now, that my circumstance
Would earn me a jester's crown, a knight's lance,
And audience with the King in the Sun.
I put up my cape and hoped for a wind
That would pull me quick' along on my wheel,
But now the wind isn't blowing that way,
So I sit, unmoving, wheel all unspinned,
Trying to amuse Time for my next meal,
Finding that Time has no desire to play.

The Struggle for Substance
Tommy Smith

Disheveled, disheartened and distraught
indecisive melodies sprawling out in many directions
arpeggiated fiddle-faddle, mawkish chromatic intricacies
enclosures seeking closure.

Uncreative, unproductive but definitely unrepentant
exercising scales, exorcising dry theory
accompaniment into the abysmal labyrinthine
passages of complacent 4/4.

Will Salieri ever hope to exceed his meager abilities?
A semi-synthetic scalar between his passion and prowess
It doesn't matter anyway
Thanks to the Big Bang he forgot
to hit the record button.

Un Opus Consacri A Ma Douleur 
Tommy Smith

It begins anew at the dawn of each day,
be it a throbbing pain in the neck or vertigo
which banishes me to the labyrinthine passages of Cretan,
The incessant sneezing and wheezing juxtaposed
with headaches spawned from the deepest pits of Tartarus
An otorhinolaryngological anomaly am I!
The cacophonous bronchial noises oft begin pianissimo,
adagio, teasing a melody praising the satyr that sired the satire
the small quivering tone suddenly bursts into a polyphonous roar
the pain grows worse..da capo...da capo.
La douleur n'est pas toujours physique!
Indeed the cranium often pangs from the inside out
when I beseech my muse or opt to tackle the greater mystery:
Ou est le traitement?

God is a Verb 
Dusk Wilson-Weaver

In this confusing, contentious, contradictory
Con’s game of a world
If your head don’t spin off of your shoulders
It might nonetheless whirl
Till you wonder where UP went
And where it has gone with your girl
And you feel all that’s real is a most shady deal
Among old Murphy, the Grim Reaper
And all those Revenuers
But there are four precious things that I know
Without tuning in TV or my radio
Without subscribing to the paper or to them UFOs
And listen, here they are, the four that I know:
That God is a verb and my neighbor’s Larry Erb
Okra’s coming in and there’s a sofa on the curb
Everything’s delightful and I’m done with being sore
So death and taxes, fortune and fame
Don’t trouble me no more
I’ve got a friend with mementos on his wall
There are two invitations to an Inaugural Ball
And two million-dollar offers for endorsement, that’s all
Yeah, framed along with others and hung upon his wall
And I’m glad that my friend said to me
Dusk, none of this matters, it’s a fruitless tree
It’s never been important and it’s never gonna be
So let’s sing another song about trains and being free
‘Cause God is a verb and your neighbor’s Larry Erb
Okra’s coming in and there’’s a sofa on the curb
While my million dollar offers and the Inaugural Ball
Remind my precious children that fortune and fame
Don’t really matter at all
Well, another friend got a problem in his brain
And after fifteen years it staked a final claim
But when we gathered ‘round to see him on that Train
It’s how well he always lived that we sang in our refrain
For he lived with the wholeness of his heart
He made us all feel special right from the very start
He gave to us freely in giving more than his part
He gave love and lived as if it were an Art
And God is a verb and my neighbor’s Larry Erb
Okra’s coming in and there’s a sofa on the curb
Everything’s delightful and I’m done with being sore
So death and taxes, fortune and fame
Don’t trouble me no more

Symbol Over Substance 
Paul F. Kisak

Symbolism takes a shortcut through thought
and attempts to provoke premature action.
Trilemmas fester and stagnate
while dogma and propaganda stir the pot;
revealing a holy war as the ultimate oxymoron.
'Tis best to look away and reserve glia
for better things that tend to vivify free and original thought.
What separates ritual from motive?
Is not ritual to placate and still the mystery in our soul;
the constant yearning to understand or appeal
to that which is greater than ourselves.
Communication and understanding succumb
to the diurnal onslaught of mind numbing symbols
as if to seduce the actors to that of a bureaucratic crop.
If a crop we be;
then there is a harvest.

The Mirror With No Reflection 
Paul F. Kisak

Beyond us means so much.
Beyond ourselves lies the greater good,
the muse, the fear and the motivation.
If beyond ourselves is but a misguided predicate,
we have only ourselves and the loneliness this can evoke.
And such is the turmoil; beyond and within,
both limits that tug at reality with a disconcerting passion.
But need it be a relentless passion?
If not, then is the husband of the balance meditation or mediation?
The choice is ours.
When alone; we create that which is not us.
I search for the mirror with no reflection.

The Line 
Paul F. Kisak

War - front
Peace - rear
Stripes for rank
Fields of battle
Football at the scrimmage
Home run outfield
The goal
In the sand
Cross it and you'll see
Divides traffic
Makes the queue
To write upon
To draw with
A beginning and an end
To curve or not is not the plot
Ballistic boost yields orbit
A centripetal line to be sure
En passant, nes pa?
Line up
Form a line
Out of line
If the line is to conform,
and to battle, and to achieve,
Then what is the point(.)

Beauty 
Paul F. Kisak

Beauty abounds.
We see but grow blind.
We feel but grow numb.
We smell but ignore.
We witness poorly.
Beauty is forgiving.

Angst Existential 
Paul F. Kisak

the subtle, still, silence that makes our souls scream from shock
has me searching there is a shame to sanity that embraces hypocrisy;
I dance the edge of a falling feather - failing to think my next step
time moves on with no care for my worries;
why should I then honor its passage if it does not exist, as I know I do.
my consciousness steadies the course of balanced madness,
the quest tires me, its product deep; too deep;
a chasm within an abyssal imbroglio with no end to entropy
action without thought can be sweet sanity symbol without
substance;
knowing my thoughts fly faster than my fingers or tongue;
the expression wastes time in the dance;
a gambit lost to logic; a tempo lost in the tempest of time
but a thought not expressed is a waste unto the whole the time
to compose and present gives share to its value.

A Grace Odyssey
Barry Howard