Apotheosis - Poetry

It is awful to be homeless
Shut-in elderly miss meals
Send me money
How I grieve for all injustice
Watch, I'll weep for baby seals
Send me money

What could be more vile or putrid
Than a bigot's shameless hatred?
The mere thought of it just makes me gush with tears.
Woe the poor endangered langur.

Woe crass ignorance and anger:
They have horrified my soul for many years.

Think of grocers' crooked scales,

Cruel Norwegians hunting whales,

And harmless innocents in jails,

Then send me money.

If politicos who pander

Raise your hackles and your dander
Send me money, send me money, send me money.

I have empathy
I care
About the evils in the world
I have sympathy
To spare
For priest-molested boys and girls

I am passionate
I swear
'Bout orphaned Africans with AIDS
I'm undauntable
I dare
The cause of lesbians and gays.

I've got lots and lots more issues,
Best get out your box of tissues.
Send me money, send me money, send me money.
Send me money, send me money, send me money.

They're Only Playing Survivor – by Jonathan Marin

I.
Production's missing inventory
Memos turn inflammatory
H - R files derogatory
Someone missed a bet.
It's poker in the corner suite
As VeePees swerve to dodge the heat
And set each other up as errant driver.
Don't fret
Don't be upset
They're only playing survivor

II.
Balanced on a narrow ledge
Pressed ever closer to the edge
The firm self-dealt itself a hedge
How desperate they get!
Midst waffling, fibs, and caviling
The company's unraveling.
The Chair in vain tries gaveling:
(Who pawned the company jet?)
Don't fret
Don't be upset
They're only playing survivor

BREAK 1
All day they dictate memos
That they study in their limos
Each obliged to read what all the others wrote.
Next morning they're discussed
Each honcho dances as he must

Through a gauntlet of distrust
To escape being saddled as the goat.
Don't fret
Don't be upset
They're only playing survivor
They're only playing survivor

III.
Investments chances naked calls
Controllers' starts to climb the walls
The Boss grabs Audit by the balls:
It ain't over yet.
Sales grabs Plant around the neck
But Plant says Finance caused the wreck
While Legal tags the Boss as chief conniver.
Don't fret
Don't be upset
They're only playing survivor

IV.
The common stock's not worth a dime
They all could end up doing time
Which friend will turn state's evidence at trial?
The new bond issue failed to float
The bankers move to call their note
There's no way left to right the boat
Its time to fashion plausible denial.
Don't fret
Don't be upset
They're only playing survivor

BREAK 2
All day they dictate memos
That they study in their limos
Each pondering what all the others think.
All the filings were illicit

Every one of them's complicit

Criminality's explicit

Now its curtains for the first exec to blink.
Don't fret
Don't be upset
They're only playing survivor
They're only playing survivor

Motel Room Molly – Jonathan Marin

I worried when they called you Motel Room Molly;
Ya know that for a time they really had me psyched.
But now we've it goin', baby, I'm not sorry;
I'll bet you've never met a bed you did not like.

We've taken makin' love up to a new dimension;
Where hormones morph right into electricity.
My limbs and joints are way beyond their full extension;
Defying Newton's Laws and relativity.

CHORUS
Don't come any nearer
I really need the mirror
-- To see.
Positions we are taking
My back is really breaking
-- My knee.

II
I think that we've discovered sev'ral brand new angles;
These twists 'n' turns would stump a team of engineers.
I don't see how were ever gonna get untangled;
By God, we've moved geometry to new frontiers.

We oughta package what you know for high school science;
We'll shoot attendance up to ninety-nine percent.
We'll bolster creativity and self-reliance,
Then publish full reports of kids' experiments.

CHORUS
Don't come any nearer
I really need the mirror
-- To see.
Positions we are taking
My back is really breaking
-- My knee.

III.
You coulda let me know that you were double jointed;
I wish I was a gymnast or an acrobat.
No way without a compass to know where I'm pointed;
Those dents up on the ceiling - say, did we do that?

Imagination's revvin' up with each new tactic;
My spirit's in renewal and my mind is free.
The rest of me is gonna need some chiropractic,
And acupuncture-pins and phys'cal therapy.

CHORUS
Don't come any nearer
I really need the mirror
-- To see.
Positions we are taking
My back is really breaking
-- My knee.

She Knows How – by Jonathan Marin

I
She ain't some glitzy kitten-queen
That runs on coke and vaseline
And turns the innocent obscene
. . . But she knows how - mmm hmm -
To be a woman

II
She don't pick you up then let you down
Or make you out to be a clown
Tell her your troubles -- they don't get around
. . . She knows how - mmm hmm -
To be a woman

BREAK 1
She ain't into the nightlife scene
Or vintage wine or haute cuisine
. . . She just makes you feel human
She don't do drugs or drink to excess
Or do dumb things she just has to confess
. . . She knows how - mmm hmm -
To be a woman

III
She don't turn on to fads and trends
Or pick dumb fights or trash your friends
She'll always let you make amends
. . . She knows how - mmm hmm -
To be a woman

IV
She's game if a quarrel's got to start
She'll hold her ground and play her part
'Cause makin' up's her highest art
. . . Yes, she knows how - mmm hmm -
To be a woman

BREAK 2
She senses when you're under stress
Then a gentle word and a soft caress
And magically you're human.
She's never moody and never mean,
Still fresh as the day she turned eighteen
. . . But she knows how - mmm hmm -
To be a woman

On a United Nations Demographics Report – by Jonathan Marin

The UN's discovered a horrid secret

About how our world

Treats little girls.

The secret's a pustule -- oozing and dirty

A hundred million missing women

Most under thirty.

Most of the missing were killed at birth

But some kept alive

For the den and the dive.

Kept alive to build their worth

Then sold to be whores

Into sewers of AIDS

In numbers exceeding a hundred wars.

Sugar and spice

Clothed in sores.

Sugar and spice

Eaten by lice.

Emptiness – Maria Claudia Faverio

The night exhales its nimbus

like a limerick -

it pokes fun at me.

It unfolds into nothingness,

chaos of black and blue,

dump of clouds,

and solitudes that slink

through the virginal spaces

of the skull.

Words have drained

into these crippled images

like change

into a beggar's hat,

helpless,

indifferent.

I am confused.

I don't remember.

I don't know what to say.

My soul is cramped on vacuity

like a supernova,

ignis fatuus

inebriated with silence.

It empties its solitude

into the black vault of the sky

and stares,

perched on the circumvolutions of anguish

like a sick owl.

Its sunken song

is louder than crash of thunder.

It unlocks the universe.

The defeat of desire – by 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.

Unanswered questions – by Maria Claudia Faverio

Unanswered questions

fester

in amnesic sky

like dead moths,

barren as misers.

What is the use of questioning,

if questions don't beget answers,

but doubt?

Flatness is less disquieting

than height,

towering, towering, towering

without ever reaching

the apocryphal comfort

of the top.

Beyond the illusory horizon

of planeness

are consummation of peace,

encompassing visions,

pillars of innuendoes

shaping themselves

into noesis.

Beyond the horizon

there are no answers

because there are

no questions.

Night delirium – by Maria Claudia Faverio

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 Mermaid’s Song – by John Schiano

Sitting in my weathered chair,

sheltered in the warming sun

on my gray, half-shaded porch,

I look into the tideland.

The sea has quieted today,

lifting meekly, sequined by sunlight.

At land’s end seabirds quarrel over coveted vanities.

The wind, keening in the whiskered dunes,

is salted with their cries.

It is, for me, the mermaid’s song

that haunts me almost everywhere,

though I don’t travel anymore.

I live here now, beside this great uncaring

whose boundary is the grasping waves.

The grass is gilded with October

and sea winds have brought a chill

to my shadowed sleeping porch.

My ancient chair creaks softly

as I pull my sweater closer,

though the sun still brings some warmth.

At times, with care, I walk the shore,

aware of the ocean’s mindless treachery.

When I least expect it

the rising sea might touch me with its numbing fingers

becoming wretched company.

The shade has reached my chair again.

I will move my old gray friend

back into the sunlight

and its warmth.

The Wall – by John Schiano

On a recent journey

through a fierce and wolfish wood,

I came upon a stonework wall

that stood high as my heart.

Crossing brutish nature

and its fearful violence,

the wall reached out to either side

to set the wood apart.

Some unknown mason’s hand

had improvised this keep,

had used an ancient strategy,

to interjoin so carefully,

these motley, jagged stones

the ages to withstand.

Had some savage elemental

provoked such sacrifice?

Or had a form more spectral

inspired this device?

Perhaps a simpler answer stood:

a wall made to deny the wood.

"Three Variations on The First Day of My Life" – by John Schiano

The haggard world spins uncontrolled,

First light defines a truth grown old.

Day brings darkness, dusk a veil

Of dreams that leave one weak and pale.

My heart asks, "Why go on this way?"

Life answers with spontaneous day.

The debut was much less than auspicious,

If you see where I’m coming from.

First warm, then cold and naked in the

Daylight for all to see.

Of course I cried.

My humiliation was an undivine revelation:

Life is the road from warm to cold, and

all we have is the occasional comforter.

III

The night, from sunlight, is dying.

First greens of springtime are vying.

Days of longing rise ahead,

Of summer kisses coveted.

My love awaits me in our bed.

Life is self-justifying.

A Bright New Day – by Paul Nachbar
dedicated to M.B. (always)

I would talk and talk and talk at length
All subjects of dismay
I would rant about these miseries
And somehow hope to sway
Your average thinking feeling self
To thoughts of death, despair, disease;

I would probe the heart of darkness
To nadir of despair
I would reach into your trembling guts
And make you clutch your hair
Turn your face towards some mirror held
And show you no one there;

I would bash the bright naive cliche
To shudder in it's room
I would turn your lipsticked silly smile
To rotten cave of gloom
Behind the rows of product stuff
I indicate your tomb;

But I cannot produce such stuff
The sun it is too bright
It shines like gold through window panes
This morning WAS the night
And love warms up my cold, cold heart
Beyond all chill and fright.

Alone in Gas Light Square – by Lee Price

The trumpet
dripped blue tears,
past the pool table
and out into the street,
down the black and wrinkled cheek
of a New Orleans night.

A lonely sorrow,
like beer spilt on cracked pavement
it trickled
and wound and found its way.

Strange how one can touch another.
How wet things seep so deep,
How blue can soak your soul.

It rained that night in Gas Light Square,
And feeling wet and lonely
I lit another smoke
and stepped inside.

Still-Point – by Thom Hadley

Imagine Light
So white, so intensely bright
When you look away
You see spots
Like stars exploding

This light’s not only in Space-Time’s cosmic fabric;
It is temporarily encapsulated
In this four dimensional Body
Whose fingers nimbly weave
Or are hopelessly entangled
Whose minds eye can clearly see
Or is cocooned in dreams, deception
This mind that can conceive of Eden
Then plot its very annihilation

This corporeal Light caught in your
Parents’ eyes and put in a jar of clay
Shall also be broken some day
When that light escapes to shine again
In Night’s sky or dance upon a sparkling bay
To glance upon the apple’s red or glow a cherry blossom
Shall we honour that one day
It shone from your eyes to another
That it shone from sister to brother
That it was Life, a wife, a father?
Shall we see that it still does shin
In a child’s laughter, or a storm of temper?

Perhaps ‘tis better yet if we recall
As we metamorphosize from one form to another
That, yes, our light did shine
Our love was received by at least
One another.

Homecoming – by Thom Hadley

My Home is wherever
You are
Your Heart is my refuge
Your eyes my solace, my inspiration

When we travel far
Roaming to explore
I am wholly Present
By compliment of your spirit’s
Field of Energy

As mine empowers Yours…
Now, I understand better
That this has always been so
Between us/within Us
As though, indeed,
‘twas meant to Be:
We are Blessed
We are Home

Capsule Political Autobiography of "A Jew" – by Paul Nachbar

Boredom and the Will to Power
Are Things no one denies
Yet Nothing Human can refuse
These beautiful green Eyes.

Sonnet ( 2 minutes 15 seconds) – by Paul Nachbar

My poor guitar- a string has snapped
And now have five instead of six;
I cannot play a decent tune
Without some fancy set of tricks.
My poor guitar- it is deformed
By virtue of this missing part
I play it now this crippled thing
And seek to make a greater art;
I run my fingers on its strings
And think of sad and drastic stuff
Of souls which fell into despair
Angelic minds with shattered wings:
I aim my malformed formed art
An arrow through the human heart.

In A Profoundly Tainted World – by Paul Nachbar

It is alas a world profoundly tainted
Let us blame it on the Catholics
Let us blame it on the Protestants
Let us blame it on the Muslims
Let us blame it on the Hindus
Let us blame it on atheists
Let us blame it on Jews.

It is alas a profoundly tainted world
Let us blame it on the Americans
Let us blame it on the Europeans
Let us blame it on the Asians
Let us blame it on the South Americans
Let us blame it on the Africans.
Let us too blame for what it's worth
Australians and Antarticans.

It is for long a foul and tainted world
Let us blame it on the businessmen
Let us blame it on the laborers
Let us blame it on the immigrants
Let us blame it on inheritors
Let us blame it on the indigent.

It is you know a dark and tainted world
Let us blame it on the democrats
Let us blame it on the monarchists
Let us blame it on republicans
Let us blame it on the communists
Let us blame it on the socialists
Let us blame it on the anarchists
Let us blame it on the nihilists.

It is so long a greatly tainted world
Alas, shall we, so innocent
Go mad and blame it on ourselves?
Alas, shall we, so competent
Go mad and blame it on ourselves?

Us and Them – by Paul Nachbar

Are you really one of us?
Or are you really one of them?
If one of us, then you are good
There is no need to make a fuss
If one of them then let us test
If you are good for us or not
We'll put you through some misery
If you're like us that's good if not
Your whole existence is forgot.

Are you really one of us?
It seems you favor different rules
Perhaps you are just one of them:
We'll check your background and your schools.
If you're like us you must conform
To some unstated social norm
Well, not that we this norm obey
But who is left to cry dismay?
The rules are meant for folks like us.

Are you really one of us?
Or maybe just a charming fraud?
We've known folks who evade the rules
Then cry out to their different Lord.
Well, we're all good- now must discuss
The merits of your private case
Be careful with your every word
And even if you lose your face
It's best to muffle your own cries:
Who cares if all of this is lies?

Are you really one of us?
Or are you really one of them?
We all believe in what we see
We all believe in what we know
Though if we like your charming ways
We'll say in private 'that's not so'
We'll say in private 'oh boohoo'
'We're just as lost as poor old you.'
But what is one to really do?
Don't rock the boat and you'll be fine:
What's yours is yours, what's mine is mine.

Tender Foxes – by Paul Nachbar

note: a Skinner box was or is a tool of American behavioristic psychology, a way of adapting so called "behaviors" via stimulus and response. Am of course applying this in a larger sense, though might change it as a perhaps too obscure reference.

In and out the Skinner Boxes
Leap the sly but tender foxes
From one nation to another
Will this boring world recover?
Societal and business status
Bow before their fine afflatus;
Daring in their quick decision
Unbelief , perhaps religion;
Leaping through the hoops of gender-
Return all nonsense to its sender;
In and out each box of theory
Running quick and never dreary:
In and out the Skinner Boxes
Leap the sly and lovely foxes.

The Enemy – by Paul Nachbar

Let us reduce our enemy
See him not as a creature of two arms, two legs,
A head and facial features, organs, blood, sweat, tears
But as a monster unlike ourselves
Who sinks below our commonality or rises above it
And endangers us by cruel, unfair superiority.

Let us reduce our enemy
See him not as a being with a family, friends, fantasies
And fallabilities
Let us see him through a microscope, upon a slide
Let us see him through the viewers of our rifles
As something not quite human
Something which has no justification
Who deserves no shelter.

Let us reduce our enemy
And emphasize our own warm, good and just humanity
Which of course we cannot quite believe in
Without the 'enemy' who is not part of us.
Let us imagine some happy future for us
Brothers and sisters warring all
Possible only with the elimination of this enemy:
Let us raise a toast to our own happy, healthy lie..

Let us reduce our enemy
As we imagine he would reduce us
Let us attribute to each human description of him
The malignant influence which he secretly obtained
Let us not imagine him in his working day, his loving day
But as the Satan, the conspirer
Against our own natural goodness.

Let us reduce our enemy
Let us not defend him when he is ill or fallen
Let us turn our backs upon him in gentlemanly politeness
Let us teach the ladies to still their human sentiments:
He is not of us, he is alien, he is a threat.
So easy to do, is it not? Oh so easy?
And who could not say here
That this is not the way of the world?

Let us reduce our enemy
And then alas only the wise do know
That we will find another enemy
That we need to find such an enemy
That we will be "creative" with the facts
That we will be "creative" with the silences.
And then alas only the wise will know
How much of this is simply repetition.
Alas, they know, we have met the enemy...
Time and time again .. and that he is us...
And has always been.

Shadow Lives – by Paul Nachbar

Don't rock the boat
You must conform
Must ever heed
The social norm;

Don't cause distress
In folks who judge
Clean up your mess
Life is a drudge.

Don't speak your mind
You must obey
Just still your tongue
Life is that way.

Best to be wise
Fools do jump in
Caution is normal
Rashness is sin.

Best to believe
Best to be good
Clean up your act
Clean up the hood.

Best to obey
Best to play safe
Doom is the fate
Of the angry naif.

Best to think small
Best to blend in
Difference is always
The start of a sin.

Best to be meek
Best to be good
Best not to seek
In the outside world.

Best to be tame
Best not be wild
Best not to speak
Unlike a child.

Algorithm – by Paul Nachbar

Contained herein you'll find
My life, my loves, my works
My war, my peace, my arguments
With all that is termed common sense
And finally my dream, my sleep.

Production Line – by Paul Nachbar

A pohem udderly davoid of what we might reefer to as Shyle and Forum, but does this matter in the perticulars of such a case? In any event, the idealism of the peace, undowdedly offensive in some other context, here does not dispulease, despite the doggerel" - J. Richard Ferretsnoop, Literary Critic-at-Large

You did not want
You could not think
You did not know
You did not choose
You could not feel
You can't refuse.

All just the production line
All just the production line
Stay in step and you'll be fine
All just the production line.

They claim the world
You will not change
They all adhere
Don't you feel strange?
From factory to office clerk
They keep you busy with this work.
From manager to CEO
There is no other place to go.

You could not dream
You could not grasp
You could not be
You merely gasp
I have no time
No time for this
I have no time
No time for that.
You sought control
You could not have
Oh brother
You have dug your grave.

Production line, production
Is it all just production line?
You do your part
You pay your dues
Goods and services
You can't refuse
Just do your part
You can't refuse.

Oh what to do?
Did you go mad?
Or marry mom
Or murder dad?
Or marry dad
Or murder mom?
Just keep in line
Behind the Bomb.

Production line, production line
Be kind to me for I am blind
Production line, production line
You go so fast I lose my mind
Production line, production line
I haven't haven't any time.

I work; you work;
He works; she works;
We work; they work;
It's all just the production line.
Just stay in step and you'll be fine
So fine, so fine, production line.

All The World's A Cage – by Paul Nachbar

All the world's a cage
Though it has many levels
The ones above are seldom fine
The ones below oft devils;

All the world's a cage
We wait in vain for angels
Alas we cling to 'little things'
Amid the many strangers;

All the world's a cage
We're born, then live , then leave it
And you might dream you found The Good
Though no one will believe it;

All the world's a cage
And most are guards or felons
The judge most times to justice blind
Enmeshed with worldly dealings;

All the world's a cage
So don't complain of such
For wisdom is to simply know
Too little from too much;

All the world's a cage
Though skies seem noble visions
On earth the strange parade of man
Below the grave quite common

Capsule Political Autobiography of "A Jew" - Paul Nachbar

Boredom and the Will to Power
Are Things no one denies
Yet Nothing Human can refuse
These beautiful green Eyes.

I Shall Prevail - Paul Nachbar

I did not ever claim to you
That I could do it all alone
I did not ever say to you
That I would fight and never fail
But here I say one true and simple thing:
In all herein that can be done
In all hereof which can be won
I shall one day prevail.

Artists – by Quinn Tyler Jackson

Some end their careers lost in bhang,
Others write until they drop from their years,
Still others retire from it with a bang,
While some make pretty gifts of hacked off ears.

Some you would not know just to see them,
Others you can tell by the hole-pocked pants,
Some you can find in the city's museum,
Though most were never given glory's chance.

And though artists all, they are quite unique,
No two of worth are quite the same, you see,
So to know when you find one, here's the trick:
Look at what they've done for the artistry.

Questions – by John Russell Sweeney

From whence come love; morals; emotions; law

if atom; molecule; proton; quark

is all that ultimately, is of us?

Do electrons think? - a nucleon laugh?

Anaximander once declared:'We came from fish'-

Well, those with surname 'McGill' are blessed -

they need not trouble with ancestral mystery!

They say a promethian bolt, from noble Thor

once came to stir the primal soup -

then, hubble and bubble, toil and trouble:

forth came microbes; trilobites; crustaceans;

ichthyians; amphibians; birds; rodents; monkeys and -

fanfare please - MAN!!

Come, now -

To think that bickering gods of random chaos

could produce delightsome treats as these!

After all,'tis true that broth

is spoilt by too many cooks?

Ah, but just as city,designed by architect, one-

displays consistent, ordered pattern

than a city built by many;

then surely it takes less faith to believe

that from one Divine Womb, Mother Nature was born.

Palace of majestic baroque; a gothic cathedral;

Mona Lisa's soft, enigmatic face;

a Mandelbrot, replicating nature's internal fabric;

- arising from blind, haphazard chance?

Are governments; Law; Economic systems;

the sense of Justice and equity, ultimately spawned

from internal, roiling cauldrons of the quantum world?

Quest yourself as to the Ultimate Reality -

for the answer that one decides upon,

will shape and determine the individual,

then family; community; society; the world; our future!

On Genius – by John Russell Sweeney

The all-too common icon

of the least common amongst all minds;

The shaggy white hair, and the eyes,

solemn and aged, time-weathered,

penetrate with focus of undiminished sharpness,

a sharpness, dividing warp from woof

of the cosmic space-time fabric;

the threads of space and of time, interwoven

by Fiat of greater Mind than he

of broad and wizened, moustachio'd face.

Is genius to be equated with hyperborean labrynths

of inaccessable complexity? - Nay -

for ' to divide and choose between' ,

is the meaning of Intellectus;

thus the power to penetrate through complexity,

to underlying simplicity and from thence,

with tools of that same simplicity,

build upon more solid bedrock

of enlightened understanding and wisdom.

After all, is not the most advanced yet

of information technology,

constructed from the simplest binary

and the smallest cosmological T.O.E.,

be, not the fundamental forces, four,

but instead the simplest Planckian unit?

Yea, and all the ebb and flow of human striving;

as in manipulations of economies,

and in political contrivances;

be traced, in context of human nature,

to simply this; To be as if we are God;

prideful claims to deity, usurped.

Thus purloining of power and resource,

at the price of the weak.

Why must minds of genius build,

with simplicity, unearthed,

towers of exalted, finite reason,

from which to assail

a redundant Deity, as so assumed;

from Whom alone, their powers are given?

Indeed, the summing of this life,

is that man shall reap from what he sows.

Aumniverse – by John Russell Sweeney

I dreamed a dream

and in this dream, I found myself

within an auditorium,

spacious and vast.

People, people everywhere,

in concentric circles, seated facing

centre stage where there, the orchestra,

seated facing lone conductor;

his waving motion of arm and hand,

nobly directing the symphonic dance.

The multifarious instrumental sound

resonating through air, walls and in the ears

of the audience, silent and in awe.

The scene before my visionary eyes,

transforming - the symphony, softer now,

quieter, melting into gentle sea of silence.

The conductor, now a dot, a miniscule dot

of infinitesimal size,

in the centre of, not an auditorium

but a vast and beautiful mandala,

of intricate patterns of every spectral hue.

I now approach this central dot

and there, I enter within, I know not how;

I hear, though not with mortal ear,

total silence, yet of wondrous harmonies

and I see, though not with mortal eye

a multi-dimensional infinitude

of ever-unfolding energy.

So awestruck indeed am I,

to here, behold and deeply penetrate

the supreme and fundamental Tone,

on which the symphonious fabric

of entire and living cosmic mandala,

resonates it's energies and sings. ---

It is the AUM. (OM)

Judicium Dei – John Russell Sweeney

And they sang- Alleluia! they sang;

and her smoke ascendeth up

for aye and for aye.

Tartarus, seductress!

Who, in Gaia's finery adorned,

ignited the flame

of deviant curiosity

with the fruit of enticement

in her hand, so alluring.

Ah, she who spawned

the titans of darkness,

who with stygian hearts;

this world with vice

had blackened.

With the same, must she now

her belly fill,

while that flame,

that very same flame,

shall consume with unending end,

her corpse, once an edifice

of God-defiant pride;

to the paeans of loud acclaim

from the hosts a-gathered

around the empyrian Throne

and from souls a-myriad,

in salvation, clothed.

Sonic Dreams 1– John Russell Sweeney

The multitudinous hiss
of leaves, oscillating in myriad,
to the rise and fall of Aeolian wind that breathes;
while from afar, O'Er hill and dale,
a-ringing carillon of bells a-swinging;
a sound, the amplitude of which
is as undulating as the rolling pastures.
The soft, occasional, interspersing chant
of monks, in Gregorian style, their mellow voice,
interweaving with the doppler'd monotone
of receding aircraft, homeward flying,
to where earth and sky do kiss;
to be absorbed into sonorous hiss
of leaves, oscillating.

Sonic Dreams 2 – John Russell Sweeney

Seated am I;
mine eyes, in contemplation,closed.
The hum of whirling fan blades
in endless revolution behind me.
The monotonic tone thereof,
in stereophonic aura
surrounding me.
Yet, it is more than monotone that I hear,
for my ears perceive also,
harmonic offsprings in varied hues,
engendered by the Father tone;
each cadencing in pentatonic waltz
upon the laddered scale.
So intricate and beautiful, precise;
a sonic microcosm
of the cosmic language,
that, when time was born,
did speak the Seed-Word, Divine -
LET THERE BE...

Is It Day yet? - by Neeraj Shaw

Is it day yet?

I ask my self,

Is it day yet,

Or is the Sun still set?

Tired and emaciated from the 3-day

Bus journey, across over a thousand miles,

Huddled up in a corner of a tent I lay,

Reminiscing my past laughs and smiles.

The chilling, cold breeze stings me,

Me, this infinite darkness scares;

I don't understand, how it could be

That brother kills brother and no one cares.

I see people altercate for space,

I see them, for food, main each other;

I don't know how I fit into this race,

I just know, I must fetch water for mother;

But how, my inner-self could I face,

How could I hurt one like my brother.

But, these brothers do not care for anyone,

All they want is their own fill,

So as usual, I get none

And none gets he who stays still.

Is this what God intended us to be

Or is tolerance in such great paucity;

Maybe Gandhi you can see

Where today is non-violence and humanity.

So, Is it day yet?

Someone tell me.

Is it day yet,

Or is the Sun still set?

Beetle - by Daniel J. Phillips

beetle beetle

on the ground

with your effervescent frown

how I envy your simplicity of life

creeping crawling

slowly passing

time and space are but for sassing

the in all end all

and be all is no concern at all

All - by Daniel J. Phillips

sky sky

tree tree

grass grass

flower flower

here there is no power

only what was and what is

come over and see

come here and listen

Talk not, speak not

Feel the all

Bug on the blade - by Daniel J. Phillips

bug on the blade

jade, auburn, browny

the wind passes

still you cling

you have not moved

how do you feel

nature's production line

Pill bug - by Daniel J. Phillips

pill bug

how did you get your name

did you used to get swallowed a lot

was that your part in the game

or were you but framed

y that which you are named

when touched you curl

just like a pearl

is that the origin

of the mystery

or but another dead end

maybe I should ask my friend

or would he think it but a jest

and toss me a hornet's nest

perhaps it is in a book

of bugs that can be cooked

nay it shall not be

for I shall answer this mimicry

mayhap the bug of pill will answer me

but it seems not inclined

the bribe it was offered

but the thing merely did curl

oh well

think I'll go find a girl

Creatures of the sky - by Daniel J. Phillips

falcon, hawk, eagle

creatures of the sky

if I could but fly

I would be willing to then die

flight for a mere mortal

to achieve unattainable height

gliding on the wind

current of air

ultimate of all dreams

and lowest of despairs

up above the wild so high

how I would like to fly the sky

watching the creatures below

the aviators did constantly bellow

a mouse, a snake, a fish

all could be prey

with their keen eye

and swiftness approaching night

From here I can see - by Daniel J. Phillips

from here I can see

not one thing but plenty

the specter of the past

blinks silently on

the burning lemon going

to the other side of town

the ebony tanker glinters by

from here I can see

this and more

I can see the figures

on the shore

I can see the dehydrated

river moving along

but there is something

I cannot see

it is not under or beneath

it is here and there

it causes the grass to shake

and the trees to ache

it is always here

but not always there

Cyclic Panorama - by Joel Gehrke

Too soon the crescent lady came

To interrupt the sun's warm ray.

She spread her shroud across the sky

And smiled a shining, silver sigh.

The gold haired man is growing old.

His countenance will soon be cold.

To west horizon he will go

Pursued by wind and wintry snow.

Green summer leaves tween earth and sky

Soon will yellow, fall, and die

And lie in a despondent pile.

I see the cycle, and I smile.

I Wish I Were A Little Boy - by Trivik Bhavnani

i wish i were

a little boy

i wish i were

happy

i wish i were

a little boy

i wish i were

not me

Lust amid the dendrites – by Paul Nachbar

Lust amid the dendrites
Passions between standard deviations
Agonies of bar graphs
Madness in its derivations;

Longings deep in neuron-land
Fears surrounding cut-off points
Terror in the norms..abnorms
Ecstasy which, well...disappoints.

Hearts that are aching
Breath held till one turns blue
Sighs beneath the formal logic:
Yes...I have a high IQ.

One Day One Day The Night Will Fall – by Paul Nachbar

One day one day the night will fall
I know - though birds still chirp and sing
Unknowing of their paths I guess
One day one day the night will fall;

One day one day the night will fall
I know - though actors on the screen pretend
Oh do they ever think of this?
One day one day the night will fall;

One day one day the night will fall
As soldiers endlessly dispute
They think that they will one day win?!
One day one day the night will fall;

One day one day the night will fall
Though here in darkness of the screen
I think we said what we both mean?
One day one day the night will fall;

One day one day the night will fall
To what else could we both pretend?
Though here is candlelight, my friend.
A moment that will soften all...
One day one day the night will fall...

The Moon in June – Paul Nachbar

The not-very-good-poet
I’d met in the madhouse
Proclaimed in high
And piercing voice his love
”beneath the moon in June”.

I winced back then
And almost fell
Into some cruel sarcastic turn
Though anyone and everyone
Knew him as
The not-very-good-poet
From the madhouse place.

I sort of laughed
Hearing his accents in my brain
Though I’m sure in his
Mine sounded just as strange:
He screamed amidst indifferent folks
”I am the Vorld’s greatest poet!!”

I sort of grinned
And thought of him
Can just imagine what he thought of me
Though every madman has his day..
That much I give to him and then
What else one really say?

And here among catastrophes
There’s little left of anything
But the moon in June
And the billion or so ways of saying that
Despite the crushing weight of Things
Despite prevailing evidence
One is, yes one really REALLY is
”The Vorld’s Greatest Poet.”

"Invitation" - by Paul Nachbar

Where are you?
Where have you been?
Where are you going?
Where are you not going?
Why not come back to where you belong?
Of course if you don't want to, that's fine too..
you can't please everybody and it's foolish to try.

Mea Sure – Quinn Tyler Jackson

In all my living, in all my breathing,
Ten thousand introspects well considered,
In my promises now undelivered,
What is the answer I have been seeking?

I gave the reign of all my Worth to Thought,
I handed my Self-Esteem to Reason,
Against my Kingdom committed treason,
And now I ask myself, and all for what?

A palace is indeed an empty home,
It's carefully placed stones are not a hearth,
The falling plumb measures depth, but not girth,
And fingers are too awkward for a sum.

In calculations, manipulated,
What null hypothesis am I testing,
Just who is it I am best at besting,
As I become so damn complicated?

Lament of the Architect of Babel – Quinn Tyler Jackson

I wandered from the path He laid,
And placed my gait in youthful pride,
And though His gentle nudge was made
More than once, I took my own stride.

I spoke not His word, but my own,
And found it tickled my ears more,
I delighted at my proud tone,
Thinking I knew what was in store.

I built towers into the sky,
Mortared the stones with my orgeuil,
And didn't stop to ask Him why,
Or where, or when, I seized the day.

And when my tower touched His trim,
And with His Host I readied trade,
I found that I had angered Him
With all this nonsense I had made.

When I came down to loud' declare,
"Look, see what I have done," my mouth
Moved fast, but to an empty stare,
As if none understood this truth.

If I had listened to my heart,
Instead of my ability,
And not have practiced empty art,
No nonsense would spring forth from me.

I could have touched His trim from here,
Not by climbing to His great height,
By bending to the ground in fear,
Lowly, broken, but full in light.

Fifty Squared – Quinn Tyler Jackson

Cannot riddle me under wood
or should or think me into corner
capabilities on two forked arch
recall through recollect, I won't
pretend to fathom.

But if I meet a phantom,
near that burgling fount,
through every even march,
trying to play the ever loner,
lift my, remove my, pull my hood.

Call my ego if it bothers you,
near that burgeoning hill
of hewn hubris unrepentant,
some undoing grass spring,
and maybe genuflect.

But if you project
on lines along the human song,
and find it too pleasant,
not the expected Hell,
fall and follow through.

Paradox me with your tape,
with arguments well-lipped,
so when I hear their denouement,
there will be no doubt
of their brazen brilliance.

But, if by some off chance,
you're figured out
before you say the chant,
consider it a coin flipped
and don't stand all agape.

Coming Full Circle – Quinn Tyler Jackson

I met a lost traveler once,
wandering on the road,
letting his direction fall to Chance,
his steps not all that bold.

When I asked his destination,
he could not tell me where;
of whence, he said, "Consternation!
Don't we all begin there?"

I offered to walk a while with him,
and for some time, we talked
and shared our stories, grand and grim,
as we two lightly walked.

When it came the time to depart
his gentle company,
I knew at once, with sudden start:
that traveler was me.

I do not know where I shall end
this trek along life's path,
or e'en begin to comprehend
the sum of marching's math.

But if I e'er meet him again
along this random way
perhaps I'll know where I have been
and have much more to say.

Polonaise Sauce on Eggs Derelict – Quinn Tyler Jackson

To thine own self
tattoo, for it holds
as knights parade the day
that if thou art
truly tattooed,
you are true
to every spanned clan,
and no clan canst thou then
befall.

Neither a wallower nor
a pretender be, and thou
shalt see, that I have
found the very cause
of crumpets' lunacy.

Affectation? Pooh!
You speak like a green
curl! Do you careen his
benders, as you sprawl
over them?

They doubt is other than
the pain of his bother's breath
and their o'erhasty carriage,
but in the eggs, ham let them
may be, is the rub.

Philosopher's Tone – Quinn Tyler Jackson

I did not come knowing, but learned;
The world was cold to touch, but burned
Me when I reached to its
Gossamer reality. Fits
And starts of understanding flew,
Gentle visitors and rare, through
Me, into me, around me, right
Before me—I sometimes saw light,
And other times, nothing at all,
But always sought with wherewithal
And ever stubborn nonetheless,
Thinking not to the great distress
That would come upon the finding,
Praying, rather, for the blinding.

Purple Rose – Quinn Tyler Jackson

Oh, how she saunters, in her Elfin, delicate way,
towards me with my cafe au lait,
dainty fingers grasping what is my cup,
that elixir that will shut me up.

And lord, what perfect pearly teeth adorn her smile,
that I would sit here yet a little while,
and lose my angst in all that feathery hair,
as I sit and stare.

That wrist, so fragile, and yet strong,
that voice, that dulcimer song,
comes forth, across those unambiguous lips,
saying:

"That'll be a buck fifty."

Test Taker – Quinn Tyler Jackson

He took a Test so that, once and for all,
His magic brain would find some dimension --
A test beyond others' comprehension,
With questions calculated to enthrall.
He figured figures with his Mighty Call,
And called upon all his mind's invention,
Conquering his hidden apprehension,
One at a time, until he had done them all.
And when the Angles of his mind were known
To all the world, he proudly wore his score;
Among the Mighty was he counted then,
And with an ego mightily o'erblown,
He entered past every heavy door,
So much Smarter than he had ever been.

Quatrain – Quinn Tyler Jackson

I battled hubris and it won the fight --
I chased it to the dimming of the light --
Were I as great as all I thought myself,
Surely hubris would have lost that night.

Quatrain2 – Quinn Tyler Jackson

Dust knows no station as it whites the bone,
This man's stature, known to the man alone;
What hollow femur has to dust returned?
This king, that beggar, all the same to hone.

Quatrain3– Quinn Tyler Jackson

Logic, I tried it, and was ever bound
To this or that small truth, but was never found
Any truth larger than the axiom,
But in illogic was my path unbound!

Quatrain4– Quinn Tyler Jackson

I do not recall ever more knowing
Than when I listen to the wind's blowing;
I tried to distill through philosophy,
But heard more truth in the morn cock's crowing.

Quatrain5– Quinn Tyler Jackson

Through reason I formed my strong alliance
To that concept known to Men as Science,
But conjecture, hypothesis, and proof
Were shattered by poetry reliance.

Quatrain6- Quinn Tyler Jackson

I don't believe in sanity, he said,
I believe in wine, poetry and bread,
And if I go dry and hungry, well then,
At least I'll have poetry's binding thread.

Sonnet – Quinn Tyler Jackson

In penning the line, I am now undone,
For I have never penned all came to say,
The words I came to ink forth, flown away
Before I can transcribe so much as one.
In sketching souls, the paper has been torn,
For this, my cryptic pencil, now does weigh
More than simple fingers can find a way
To tend towards the line I see. I learn
By accident that nothing I can write
Or draw can represent the inner thought,
But still I push the tool to its mute chore,
As if through my staring into the light,
Some greater, wordless truth I've somehow sought,
And now must watch in silence evermore.

Poem – Quinn Tyler Jackson

Quo Vadis, My Lover, and Fare Thee Well

Quo vadis, my lover, in such fine dress?
Quo vadis, my lover, at such late hour?

I'm heading for London, so don't distress,
To London I'm heading, so don't turn sour.

To London, my lover, for what, pray tell?
Why London, my lover, and why this late?

Thy promises on sincerest ears fell,
And never upon thee did I berate,

Yet still, when we're loving, I sense thy cold,
So to London I'm heading, bid me well.

Well would I bid thee, were bidding my way,
But thine is the bidding, my love, God Bless.

God shan't have me now that thou hast taken,
And Hell is for those who have greater stain,

But well is for water, and from all this pain,
I could fill a whole well, so fare me well.

100 Watts – Quinn Tyler Jackson

He came seeking
immeasurable light
and found a world
measured against
100 Watt bulbs.

Asked, "How bright
are you?"

He replied, simply,
"I burn my candle
at both ends."

for J – Quinn Tyler Jackson

There is no lighter feather
to tumble
into the well
and forever
we mumble
with full swell
our sweetest oh whatever.

There is no brighter aspire
than a wish
for our release
yet we conspire
our childish
pretty please
and watch it go up in fire.

You told me that forever
and, humble,
I surely fell
for the matter;
that stumble
felt like hell,
when I understood never.

Mind Castles – Quinn Tyler Jackson

I made a castle of my mind;
the stones were held with thought,
the portcullis was lifted when
a Similar drew near,

Yet even though I tried to find
the sum of all I'd wrought,
I had shut out so many men
that no such sum came clear.

No anxious men, no silly folk,
and ne'er a simpleton,
no men who did not know their way,
nor men who knew too well.

And then the weight of my own yoke
fell like a bloody ton:
by keeping Difference at bay,
I'd built myself a Hell.

Misery Chord – Quinn Tyler Jackson

Mercy, show me misery's
chord three fingered like
on the tripod balance until
never west or east or
inter patter of the feet
upon the lawn with weeds
and Morning Glory,
Glory excelsior through
introspection.

Show me undertaking,
standing, not faking for
a moment that you
understand how to listen
when I haven't even yet
dared to pass silence and
utter complete nonsense's
wholly merciful utterance.

Misty record revolving around
a centrifuge, each resolution
another revolution through
interruption and repeated
replete corruption, where no
vines grow, no mist flows on
the chord, unheard word,
under the dew of Bach.

Harpsichord keys, mercy please,
unease, Liszt sting, band playing
beat the cloven hoof on long
ivory, passing through unsavory
too miserly to afford
eighths, sixteenths, thirsty
seconds, thirds, fourths,
for what it's worth playing
under the bough, wine in flask
and reading books full of

Mercy.

On Yahoo Group Ads - Quinn Tyler Jackson

The ads that piss me off the most:

The ones that suggest, like a ghost,

I spy on others, but unseen

Those tiny cameras, those I mean.

Expect the unexpected, pish!

As if this spying were my wish

To put an eye in someone's room

And then apply the proper zoom.

Big Brother doesn't scare me, friend,

A simple vote will his ways mend,

It's the effing dolt with his cam,

And all this effing Yahoo spam.

I want to scratch my ass in peace,

So turn that cam off, if you please;

If I bend over, give a show,

Parts of me you don't want to know!

So for voyeurs who buy these Eyes,

And for all the wanna-be spies,

I bend my fingers into word:

You know the one: I flip the bird.

On Yahoo Group Ads1 - Quinn Tyler Jackson

I hope thou won't find me unkind

If I don't care what's in thy mind,

Thine ifs, thine ands, thine ors, thy buts,

The clutters or thy so well-puts ....

It's not that I am cold at heart

To know thy most intimate part,

It's just that I am overgrown

With all the weeds of thoughts mine own.

They occupy me day and night,

So what care have I of thy plight?

I shan't ask to know all thy pain,

What thou find'st glorious or plain,

If thou decid'st to open up,

I'll surely my ear offer up,

But 't would be my Damnation

To offer such invitation,

For I would hear, if I would pry,

Thy where, thy how, thy when, thy why,

And these are surely better spent

On someone of more social bent.

So please do not think that I scoff

As I so gingerly stand off,

It's nothing personal, you see,

Or that I am ignoring thee ...

Were I to become so engaged

That at thy pains I were enraged

I'd clutter up my own full shelf

And have no time to know myself.

On Yahoo Group Ads2 - Quinn Tyler Jackson

Oh, don't worry that you have fallen short,

Either by six inches or a third yard,

Just try our product, just a little squirt,

You will grow in bounds and be ever hard.

You cannot afford it? Well, don't relent,

You're pre-guaranteed the Beggar's Visa,

And all of this at twenty-six percent,

Compounded daily, what could be easya?

You don't like credit? Just feel free to say!

We have a way you won't feel all the sting:

Auction off half your liver on E-Bay,

There's surely someone who needs half that thing.

Once you buy into our sweet wonder fix,

What shall you do with this stiff, new found tool?

Use our minicam to take lots of pics,

And post them on the Net for all to drool.

If you get lonely with this lengthy stiff,

No worries there, there is a site for that,

You shall find some use for this modern gif',

In your own new home, in your VR hat.

There ain't nothing we cannot do for you,

So don't delay, pay us a visit now,

And we will change you, my friend, through and through,

All no cash down, pay tomorrow -- and how!

On Yahoo Group Ads3 - Quinn Tyler Jackson

only hope they aren't actually selling millions of these damned cameras.

What in tarnation are people thinking,

That when they leave home, their socks all stinking,

And go to work in their beat up old bug,

Some young vixen will jump on their old rug?

That she'll wander into their empty house,

In a string bikini or see-through blouse,

Smile for a camera she knows nothing of,

And offer some total stranger her love?

And when the poor sap returns to his home,

He'll turn on his VCR, all alone,

And watch what this fine beauty did for him:

It just doesn't happen, nil chance, not slim.

Clone Me - Quinn Tyler Jackson

Clone me, clone me, I just can't stand to die,
Though I was brought to form by chance,
I just can't let Luck roll its bouncing die
And risk my child to circumstance.

Clone me, clone me, I want to see my face,
Not just in cold looking glasses,
But in the whole potential human race,
In every face amidst the masses.

Clone me, clone me, and quash this dismal fear,
That I should pass away one day,
And none should note that I did disappear --
If there are more of me, I stay.

Clone me, clone me, the world can't do without
A brain like this, a face like mine,
And this weak vessel here is running out
Of its encoded breathing time.

Clone me, lest you should lose the likes of me
But with just another Baker's dozen
Or so, that fate would never have to be --
Put my Me in Science's oven.

On Yahoo Group Ads4 - Quinn Tyler Jackson

My sweet pass-times are supported

By ads and spammy residue,

And if profits are reported,

I shall my pass-times continue.

But if the sales of junk fall off,

And no one buys the trash they hock,

My pass-times lose their sponsors -- POOF! --

So God Bless spam and buy their stock!

Playing the devils advocate - Mark Norman

All those little cameras,
a voyeuristic delight, will
you deny this base instinct
or plead it an Orwellian plight.

Did you read sister's diary,
browse Daddy's dresser drawer
or perhaps eavesdrop on a conversation
through any closed door.

Maybe that little spark
of seeing without being known
is reflected in the high rise
glints from telescopes unknown.

The "Invisible Man" was quite a hit.
As well as the telescope in "10".
Lets not forget "Sienfeld"
or the guy across the street in "Friends"

There is a little voyeur in all of us.
It is embarrassing a bit
It's fueled by base emotions,
though quite common, you'll have to admit.

On Yahoo Group Ads5 - Quinn Tyler Jackson

But at least when I go camera-less,

I give the object of my quick eye

A fighting chance to modestly undress

Without the chance that I might spy,

For all the modest person has to do

Just this, and nothing really more:

Pull the blinds shut, draw the drapes, not see-through,

Or close the swinging bedroom door.

But if I mount this bold technology

In some unfair, forbidden place,

That's *more* than a "peek" -- honestly --

That's a bold faced spying disgrace.

A side-look here, a quick glance there, pshaw,

Or e'en perhaps an eves to drop,

But not a bloody mini-camera

Bought from the Amateur Spook Shop.

The Greatest Puzzle- Quinn Tyler Jackson

Some will work on series,
And such cold mysteries,
Hoping that some number
They will thus uncover,

While others play at graphs
And obscure empty maths
Not for the consequence
Or for great recompense

But for the thrill of solve,
As if it will absolve,
To do what others can't,
Thus makes them a Giant.

It makes their blood flow fast
To be the very best
At piecing pieces so,
At being in the know.

I don't much care for sport
Or giants of that sort
Here is my mission: Solve
The Human Condition.

Couldn't Resist - Quinn Tyler Jackson

Because I took a different route,
Some think me the lesser,
But here's the rub, a great big toot:
I'm now a Professor.

I dreamed it as a suckling child,
To fill an ivy hall
With words of teaching, theories wild,
Of findings big and small.

And as of now, despite my quirks,
I've landed such a post,
And my detractors, mindless jerks,
Can fade like Hamlet's ghost.

cOde to aMuse - Quinn Tyler Jackson

O, upon thy quick silvered filament,
Whose BASIC charm and grace, and Perl for smile,
Upon thy phospor'd tints I find content,
And rest my recursive function a while:

Sing songs, and sing them ever so gently,
That in thy sweet, encapsulated tone,
All pointers, dereferenced in the C,
Find me not ever again so alone.

And if my drive should fumble in its spin,
Let thine arm fall gently on the matter,
For somewhere its wry revolution,
There is yet some good data on my platter.

Good thanks to thee, whom I have tendered so,
Caressing keys into the still of night,
Thine images and symbols, all burnt through,
In my fond mind's eye, e'en after the light.

Thy paradigm and diagram have found
A place within my gentle memory,
And though the random access doth abound,
Know this, my Muse, thy cOde be sure with me.

Artists - Quinn Tyler Jackson

Some end their careers lost in bhang,
Others write until they drop from their years,
Still others retire from it with a bang,
While some make pretty gifts of hacked off ears.

Some you would not know just to see them,
Others you can tell by the hole-pocked pants,
Some you can find in the city's museum,
Though most were never given glory's chance.

And though artists all, they are quite unique,
No two of worth are quite the same, you see,
So to know when you find one, here's the trick:
Look at what they've done for the artistry.

To a June Graduate – Jonathan Marin

If all you build
Through years of care and patient toil,
Falls in a careless moment, smashed to shards...
If loyal friends,
You've leant upon for warmth and love
Turn in a bitter instant cold and hard...
If you should need a respite from adventure
-- A time to grieve the loss and heal the blow --
There's comfort here,
And cushion for your sorrow:
Wherever you've been,
Whatever you've done,
We'll love you still.

Boardwalk Afternoon – Jonathan Marin

Sea mist,
Slow sun.
Hot beach,
Dull sand.
Figures,
Outlines,
Vendor voices.
Towels,
Trowels,
Plastic pails.
Colors slack,
Clotted heat,
Faded air.

The Ocean – Rachel Raleigh

Surrounded by the blue
I miss the clarity of the emptiness
It's easy to forget
When you're alone

Look down - really you're looking inside
A giant mirror to your soul - see yourself
Watch the tears drop
And the rings expand on themselves

A model of the universe
Right in front of your eyes
This world really isn't so big
Just one person

Liberate yourself
Realize that you're never alone
Let it all out and scream
The stars will listen to your cry

The waves wish you well
As you say goodbye
And drop your chains
It's time to let them go

Freak Out (That's The Way It Goes) – A. J. Nordström

with crazy hair in crazy times
mc boots and ringed bony nicotine fingers
he’s bleeding poems with no rhyme
punching dark lines with a theater voice that lingers
and we came to play, in dead silent rows
to hear him say: that’s the way it goes

we were stars on his night sky
orbs of phosphorus, fluorescent by brilliancy
a black candle burning shy
in the twilight where we’re closing our eyes to see
where shadows play, galanty shows
still hear him say: that’s the way it goes

freak out
freak out
freak out

Back to Basics – by Paul Nachbar

One average-sized
Naked man
Usually in clothing;
Humanity
With its artifacts;
Nature
And
God.

Darling Dana – F. Elliot Siemon

Your Sunday morning vibes
Were too much to handle.
Unique among the tribes
You have lit my candle.

Mind tapes are wonderful
Too wonderful they seem.
To your dream be faithful
Yet, surely live your dream.

Oh, are paths are winding
And they may never meet,
But with life so grinding
Let us yield to the heat

It's Summer anyway.
Who knows when paths diverge.
Like closing of a play
Or to a funeral dirge

Life is short, lonely girl.
Among kindred feather,
What's life without a whirl-
And at least to have something together.

My mind has tried – F. Elliot Siemon

My mind has tried to think poetry but comes up dry.
Perhaps the summer heat and humidity of July.

Maybe the outdoor activities of warm weather,
Or drying of the sun turning my skin to leather.

But whatever a poet does from the beach to lair,
Be certain, bank on it; there's a poem in there somewhere.

Signage Future - F. Elliot Siemon

Those ugly signs all along the way,
On walls, or growing on a stem.
They direct our lives day by day.
How nice it would be to change them.

It would be much more considerate;
To me, much more of a lark,
To change them to something more literate;
Consider: Never Never Park.

Whether in ghettos or at Yale,
To see signage more of an art;
Perhaps: Smoke, But Thou Shant Exhale;
Or: Loiter, Only In Thine Heart.

But to me one I'd like to see the most,
By road construction, to be sure,
Something much more of a boast,
Orange arrows saying: Free Tour.

Whisper – Craig Harvey

Whisper down the backside;
carry on the dream;
quarter time to train the mind’s
prolific ponderings.

Wake me when it’s over;
carry on the dream;
value most the others’ least
in vain imaginings.

Whisper up the backside;
carry on the dream;
hold me firmly to your breasts
while I am pondering.

Whisper in the middle;
carry on the dream;
catch me while I’m falling
or just imagining.

To the ends of time… – Ryan Crooks

To the ends of time I will love you my friend
You're gone; Tearful nights I have to spend

Friendship cannot be found in such kind
You listened, you cared, always on my mind

In dreams your smiles and tears replayed
Loving you so much, wished I could have stayed

But we have parted ways, for how long I know not
Its a shame, remembering now what I was taught

Things come and things go, its only life
Why worry over such pointless strife?

Happiness is ephemeral, nothing lasts
We all wish our futures came from our pasts

But if such is fact, then why must I send
All of my love, everything I felt for a friend

"A Poetic Infinite Loop" – Paul Kisak

Read this poem

when all alone

it is a poem

and that is known

it rhymes in time

and that is fine

when you are done

redo the fun.

Fresh Underwear – Mark Norman

Peaches, pears, and fresh underwear
the non-sequitur laughter shared.
Children of happiness when the laughter starts.
Funny bone, funny bone, too soon torn apart.

Wives, sons, and 401's
with tears, beers, and Russian roulette guns,
the mundane knocks and laughter drops,
soon the shunts, pumps, and defibrillator shocks.

Jell-O, pillows, and Depends,
the sequitur terror from within.
Child of mind, certificate signed,
feed me, change me, in the end
peaches, pears and fresh underwear
so that I can laugh once again.

A Bug's Life – Mark Norman

Just buzzing along
Such a short life span
I'm fighting for survival
Just like you, called man

Soon to be a yellow bug splat
And traveling much faster
Yep, dead on a windshield
Welcome to the here-after

It can blind side you anytime
Life is just like that
Alive one moment
Next you're a splat

Just another little nuisance
A splotch in His view
Baptized and damned
Before the wiper blades smear you

Never to break through
To the region behind
A windshield called Faith
With my soft body, but hard mind

That truck called religion
Supposedly carries the blood of salvation
Man pretends with his wine
For us, man is our libation

I plan my bug's life
Long and quite decadent
Before wiper blade judgment
My message will be sent

Delivered in person
A big, ugly, loud splat
He'll sit up to take notice
"Jesus Christ, who was that?"

patter pitter pat – Trivik Bhavnani

patter pitter pat
pat pat
pat pat pat

go on then throw up
atta boy
every last dram

every last one of them
i love
every moment

those yet to come
and those yet to come
yet again

squish the fly
slap the dog
weep

kiss the girl
loosey loo

smile

greedy
greedy
greedy

Persian Pundits and Siamese Sages – C.L. Frost

A mathematically mischievious cat, Mephistopheles,
Could square the hypoteneuse and meiow hypotheses
About the world's origin in 3 seconds round or flat
While Socrates, no simple syllogist, was customarily curious
How dogs could yap and yip in yelps sufficiently furious
To appall any meditatively mannerly, self respecting cat

Now, Socrates – C.L. Frost

Now, Socrates was a wise old cat,
Could elude prying humans, out-think any rat;
More pensive than bloodhounds of brooding brow,
He'd paw his whiskers like a white moustache,
Meiow every doubt in a high what or how.

Now Ceasar, however much he'd try to fool us,
Was a lounging Tom, not conquering Julius;
Though, when dreaming of mouse-lands in a milk sea,
He paraded, tail bannerlike and ears high
And ruled his rodent realm with gourmet glee

S'more poems (sans marshmallows and graham crackers) – C.L. Frost

S'more doggeral from
the list jester.....

Feel free
to pubish
any of this
nonsense in
Apotheosis
(or to delete
it summarily
as garbage,
rash trash,
rubbish,
a littering of letters,
refuse to refuse....
(OK, we're probably past the darn ad by now...)
So:

Werewolf – C.L. Frost

Were wolf here,
Was wolf bare?
Do we care,
Werewolf is here?

If wolf were bear,
We would care.
Were wolf bare,
Spare, minus hair,
He wouldn't dare
And we'd not care...
If bare wolf were bear
And here, not there,
And bare grew hair,
Then we'd beware
The daring werebear
Who was once bare.

Venus begat Penis – C.L. Frost

Venus begat Penis,
Brat of uncertain genus.
Aphrodite stripped of nightie
Was such a sight; she
Lured gods and guzzler when unclad.
Any Dick could be the Dad.
But that his mama was a hussy
Never bothered Priapussy.
He'd stand firm, almost upright,
However Mama worked the night.
The only sign of mother's game:
The unsureness of surname.

Priapus, had he had his pick,
Would rather be a dapper Dick
Than a cute and cuddly Cupid -
Flabby, fumbling and too stupid.
Cupid's arrows hummed and hissed,
Strayed away and often missed.
The boy blimp, if only faster,
Might study with a shooting master.
But, alas, he was too daft
To learn from those who knew their craft.
And his magic arrows, forevermore,
Would seek the pure but find the whore.