Apotheosis - Poetry

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Ode to the Geese - by Paul Kisak
For Artists Who Won't Bend by Quinn Tyler Jackson
To A Corpulent Codger by C.L. Frost
Cinnamon Hill by Paul Kisak
Forest's Aerial Anomalies by Paul Roe
Understanding the Wind by Quinn Tyler Jackson
Self-Aware by Thom Hadley
Fog Rolls Off The Bay by Michael Zerger
No Dogs or Geniuses Need Apply by Paul Nachbar
Wild Thing by Paul Kisak
Living In The Past by Rachel RaleighImpressions by Jacquelyn Naquin Mid-House, Mind It by C.L. Frost
The Silver Sphere by Paul Roe
The Lost Fledgling by Allen Blocker
Readying Tea by Quinn Tyler Jackson
My Ego Is A Dried Up Prune (Alas!) by Jonathan Marin
S.C.I. by Paul Kisak
Mental Health Poem/Caveat Emptor by Paul Nachbar
Shifting Games by Paul Roe
Theology by Paul Nachbar
On Reading the Latest Apotheosis by Quinn Tyler Jackson
The Morning Battle by Paul Roe
Or another silly one, for kitties of all ages by C.L. Frost
Tempus Semper Fugit by Paul Kisak
At the Zoo by Paul Nachbar
Lost, But Ever-Present by Allen Blocker
The View by Thom Hadley
Reality by Paul Nachbar
Reality Check by C.L. Frost
Journey to the Castle by Paul Roe
Honest, Awful, Empty, Haughty, Simple by Quinn Tyler Jackson
A 9/11 Tribute by Paul Roe
Prayer At Age 44 by Paul Nachbar
Them to Me by Paul Kisak
People are People by Paul Nachbar
"Selectively Electric", "Shock Schlock", but never, "Times New Roman"; never "Poorfection" by C.L. Frost
Filosophical Poem by Paul Nachbar
The Scent of Heaven by Paul Kisak
On The Beach (Ghazal) by Allen Blocker

Forest's Aerial Anomalies
by Paul Roe

A plum tree dashes to 10,000 feet
And flashes its fruit like a UFO,
Like AA flak,
Like bubbles popping,
Then returns.

A tulip flits to 10,000 feet
And fans its petals like a peacock,
Spins like a pinwheel,
Then returns.

A gold nugget blazes to 25,000 feet
And sparkles when it churns,
Makes gold bubbles when it spins,
Is a gold star among silver,
Then returns

A cherry blossom flits to 10,000 feet,
Spark-showers its petals,
Spins like a quiet motor,
Then returns.

Each tree takes a trip-
Each shines queerly;
Each returns;

Each creature finds a perch-
Follows closely
The trees as they burn;

Each rock flies- they create a haze-like
Meteor shower that curtains the earth.

The Silver Sphere
by Paul Roe

Silver sand stretched endlessly,
Enough to make a sphere
With a one mile radius
When piled up and melted down.

Magma-air rose endlessly
From the scalding sands,
Enough to buoy the sphere
And float it around the earth.

Fireflies glimmered endlessly
Enough to be the lamps
Of an elfin city
Shadowed by the passing sphere.

Oceans glowed beneath the sphere-
Beguiled fish in procession
Followed the slow radiance
Until it reached the shore.

Then billowing woodland tracts
Tinted the silver sphere
With an autumn flourish
While the sun blushed it red.

The Lost Fledgling
By Allen Blocker

Oh you poor fledgling why did you leave your nest
You already knew that you lacked strength
Although you have great desire, your wings did not fully grow
You never even passed your first flying test
So there you are flying with the flock
Zigging and zagging, stopping and starting, and even turning loops
Yet you tire very easily
This trip simply did not prove you too smart
At times you swerve with the flock like an expert
However your speed tends to falter
You wander how long do you have to keep flying
You fall behind
However this time you are safe because the flock halts
Thank goodness there are trees
They start again with the celerity of a strong gust
You fall back; you trail
The wind stiffens
They are gone for good.
Now where do you stand?

Shifting Games
by Paul Roe

A blue slab,
A yellow ball,
And a cloud
Play shifting games overhead,

Turning fields from stadiums to tombs
When the cloud covers the ball,

Turning despair to hope
When the slab absorbs the cloud.

The slab darkens at night.
The ball bounces over each day.
But the fractal-cloud ensures
That nothing will be the same.

The Morning Battle
by Paul Roe

By dawn, the grass blades
Evolved dewdrop spines
Along their edges,
Like a courtship display
Of studs in a line-
Unlike berry clusters on hedges.

By midmorning, sprites
Set up their cannons
In opposing meadows
And prepared to fight,
Loading their guns
With scores of opaque globes.

Images swirled inside
The spheres fired at foes-
They splashed watery scenes
And translucent tides
On targeted groves
And glossed them with a gleam.

By noon, cannonballs
Had shrunk to peas,
So the sprites wielded
Reeds and straws.
Cannons were obsolete
Without balls, and were no longer fielded.

Vapor music rose
Like layered waves
Of organ music
Piping proud odes
For all the fair fays
And the winning sprite's weapon-tactics.

Journey to the Castle
by Paul Roe

On my hand, perch marks from tearing teeth
Seem fit for bats
On my foot, fang holes from a pouncing scratch
Seem where hope was drained

A shaggy cluster of stars
Hangs above the castle's black walls
On my thigh, a smattering of gnat nips
Smolders like a constellation

On my left calf, a bear trap's cuts
Welt to form an arching canopy of autumn shades

A thin and pale path
Leads to the castle door

A 9/11 Tribute
by Paul Roe

There is less shade in Manhattan now
And it has nothing to do with trees-
The sun peeks in and spots you now
Where once its view was screened.

Bright Yellow, lift my spirits up,
So dark with sick chagrin-
Thousands of leaves have fallen down
So that you might peek in.

Understanding the Wind
by Quinn Tyler Jackson

I asked him if he understood
Just what it means to know the wind --
Not to find some dead metaphor,
But to feel wind and be with it,
Not to translate it for readers,
But to really know the zephyr --
And he said I didn't make sense.

My tongue would not wag out the words,
As I recalled the words of those
Who, having decided to speak
To me of my effect on them,
Found themselves trembling when they read
A short of mine in the deep night:
They knew wind and felt it blowing

At their mind's portcullis. Why then,
Had they risked humiliation,
To tell me of this shattering,
To open up to a stranger,
If I had not captured the wind
And forced it between my art's lines?
Those readers also knew that wind.

On Reading the Latest Apotheosis
by Quinn Tyler Jackson

I congratulate all the poets there,
And the two editors who placed the page,
For this issue of our words, passing fair,
Sometimes in joy, contemplation, and rage.

I navigate the words upon the screen,
And thank the poets who have shared their heart,
And happily ask, "What did she/he mean?"
As I partake in this so solemn art.

Honest, Awful, Empty, Haughty, Simple
by Quinn Tyler Jackson

Honest men of honest means earning honest bread,
Bending all their honest strength to honest timing,
Stuffing their honest wage into an honest bed,
Waking at an honest hour to honest chiming.

Awful men of awful deeds to their awful chores,
Passing awful judgment with their awful chaffing,
Picking the awfully stubborn locks of awful doors,
Stealing awfully often other's gains and laughing.

Empty men with empty smiles, chanting empty verse,
Passing through their empty days in empty dreaming,
Throwing down empty cards to win an empty purse,
Closing off their empty ears from empty screaming.

Haughty men with haughty grins, pounding haughty chests,
Burning all their haughty days in haughty scheming,
Pulling their haughty winnings to their haughty breasts,
Staring in their haughty scope with haughty gleaming.

Simple men with simple minds pass their simple day,
Doling simple advice with simple-minded sting,
Keeping their simple records of the only way,
Hoping simply that it will be a Simple Thing.

Readying Tea
by Quinn Tyler Jackson

I am honored, stated simply,
To have touched a Thinker's heart,
Not with Logic, or with Haughty
Reason, but with solemn art.

Though your days are passing quickly,
Allow me to pretend,
That once you've passed, that we'll take tea,
As I would with a friend.

I'll boil water 'til it whistles,
And pour the cup with care,
With honey and lemon,
Though gentle turns of spoon forbear.

But since life has many thistles,
Do not forget the fact
That I may before you may pass on
Through some fickle Fate act.

So, though I pour the tea for you,
As you prepare for yours,
Keep your kettle ready,
Should I pass first those lofty doors.

As elevenses often do,
The twelfth chime will arrive,
So join me at my tea
And say, "'T was good to be alive."

For Artists Who Won't Bend
by Quinn Tyler Jackson

I do not write poems so that you will like
Or praise or laud me with a fine laurel;
I do not follow trends of what is good,
Or bend my words for some empty acclaim.

I will not soften to be at the mike,
Or to avoid some esthetic quarrel;
My fiction is not altered to the mood
Of those who would add "Author" to my name.

To pull void loads, I will not break my back,
For empty recompense I will not toil;
There is nothing in me that wants the "Should,"
So do not list to me the Rules of Game.

For if I were that simple path to take,
I would not glory at the gathered spoil,
And couldn't stand Art with a heart of wood:
Life will bend me, anything else is Shame.

Self-Aware
by Thom Hadley

it's so hard

to reach beyond

the concept of materialistic space-time constructs;

our view of the world of existence,

of life itself,

is based upon "self" awareness...

when we can achieve "other-awareness" as our own reference,

we can defeat frustration...

we cannot "receive" that which satisfies us unless we satisfy

"others"...

when we seek harmony, we seek immediately to blend with the

other, to create a new being which consists of two (or more)

Beings

simultaneously,

thereby creating a larger, sentient Being that,

absent a component Human,

could not exist...

Being is awareness, despite the size, or individuality, of its components...

The View
by Thom Hadley

when "I" am "not-I"
these Olympic, olde mountains Be "We";
we are not singularities...
mountains: my bones.
sky: my mind.
stars: my soul.
forever: my day.

Fog Rolls Off The Bay
by Michael Zerger

Fog rolls off the bay
How can hot sake warm me
When I sit alone?

No Dogs or Geniuses Need Apply
by Paul Nachbar

Geniuses not wanted here:
Your sufferings are all in vain
The world itself cannot be changed
And who are you to so complain?

Geniuses not wanted here:
We like the truths we can digest
We give you fame after you die
And have no use for so-called "best".

Geniuses not wanted here:
We like things simple, sure, concrete
Like tunes that mutter in your mind
And speed the pace of marching feet.

Geniuses not wanted here:
Why all this madness so complex?
It shows some fault with chemicals
Or else bad attitudes towards sex.

Geniuses not wanted here:
We like to keep things as they are
So travel with us or just leave
We're certain you will not get far.

Geniuses not wanted here:
Or stuff we cannot understand
These notions well, they could be true
But best if they were simply banned.

Geniuses not wanted here:
You know there's no one at your side
We made quite sure that most did well
Though hope in some way clearly died.

Geniuses not wanted here:
So find some place on Neptune, Mars
We like the hum of smooth machines
The wail of primitive guitars.

Geniuses not wanted here
Who do not serve their masters well
And we aren't apt to write this down,
How we give folks like yourself hell.

Geniuses not wanted here:
The compact of each social group
Which meets in boardrooms quite ornate
Or else on humble building stoop.

Geniuses not wanted here:
So there, now read between the lines
We keep you fed, so don't complain
We have done worse at other times.

Geniuses not wanted here:
You make us think of blood we've spilt
Far best to democratically
Assign to you collective guilt.

Geniuses not wanted here:
For in this court you have no power
Of course we muttered no such thing
Which turned your milk of kindness sour.

Geniuses not wanted here:
How cute it is that you protest
The simple bovine suffering
That's so accepted by the rest.

Geniuses not wanted here:
From sea to dull or shining sea
It's best for most folks that we know
So ask your God to comfort thee.

Geniuses not wanted here:
Why do you all these cries repeat?
Know that in all our manuals
Are recipes for your defeat.

Geniuses not wanted here:
Unless perhaps we make you tame
Be sure in every accident
That all are certain you're to blame.

Geniuses not wanted here:
Why use this word for your fine stuff?
We work here against poverty
Of other things we've had enough.

Geniuses not wanted here:
We like the humble, passive, cute
And dread the dire sarcastic word
Or observation too acute.

Geniuses not wanted here:
So talk of this with your fine shrink
We'll drown the words of love and fire
In tons of academic ink.

Geniuses not wanted here:
We like those things all voted real,
We like to play our rigged games,
We like to dole, or duel or deal.

Geniuses not wanted here:
And so, fine fellow, please calm down
It is the right of everyone
To do his best to drag you down.

Geniuses not wanted here:
What, would you have some dark recourse?
It is a house that's built of glass
We do not like your simple force.

Geniuses not wanted here:
We like the gesture sweet and small
Which says we all are different
Though we are a collective all.

Geniuses not wanted here:
We seek those things within the norm
So bite your ever wagging tongue
And do your duty to conform.

At the Zoo
by Paul Nachbar

Oh the badness
Oh the madness
Oh the sadness
Sadness sadness
Of the animals
at the zoo..

Oh the badness
Oh the madness
Oh the sadness
Sadness sadness
Of the zookeepers
at the zoo..

They are human
They are human
They are human
They are human
They are ...
human too.

Lost, But Ever-Present
by Allen Blocker

How do we know if we can ever survive
In this world only the wealthy will thrive
Maybe we can if we know each other
Maybe we can if we try to love one another

In this world people appear to search
They appear lost and lonely and they lurch
Yet when things appear on the downswing and lost
People mount a challenge and rise up at all cost....

People are People
by Paul Nachbar

They discovered after many years
When such an idea was not so popular
That people are people
And a few were glad
And a few were ashamed.

They discovered after many years
Of measuring their attributes and abilities
Against some standard of performance
That people are people
And a few just sighed
And a few were frustrated

They discovered after many years
Or researching and thinking,
Theorizing, expostulating,
Categorizing and evaluating
That people are people.
And a few were astonished
And a few just relaxed.

They discovered after many years
Of trying to get to the roots of things,
Of analyzing layers and levels
And stratum and deviations
From the predictions of theories
That people are people
And a few were amazed
And a few were ashamed.

They discovered after many years
Of thinking themselves scientists
In pursuit of some grail of knowledge
Or some difficult, complex map
Of the range and domain
Of human behavior
That people are people
And a few just laughed
And a few sort of wished
They'd realized that before.

They discovered after many years
When the lawyers and the lawmakers
Had thought some people to be people
And others a cluster of ideas
Both wrong and right
And others either inferior or superior
Variants on the species
That people were people
And some were dumbfounded
Whereas others just sighed.

They discovered after many years
Of consulting their wizards, sorcerers,
Experts, advisors, consultants and advocates
Who had shifted funds from one group to another,
From one cause to another,
From one class to another,
Or sent in tanks and dropped bombs
Or massacred millions
In the name of some fantasy of
The experts, advisors, consultants
Wizards, sorcerers and advocates
That people were people
And some sighed for peace
While others mourned their rage.

They discovered after years
Of endless production of a literature
On paper which produced
Libraries of data
And a devotion of their endless curiousity
About the species to the point
Of collecting and dissecting the
Brains of thousands
That people are people
And some praised God in relief
And some did not.

They discovered after many years
Of endless efforts at
Fixing or maintaining or changing
Or reversing the course
Of the human species
On the tracks it was taught to run upon,
In the mazes it was taught to navigate
In the institutions that it was taught to obey
Sometimes at all costs
That people are people
And some laughed
And others wept.

And the bars of the prisons were torn down,
And the locked doors of the hospitals
were torn off by their hinges
And the walls between the this type and the that sort
Were broken to pieces
And the fences between this school and that school
Were leveled completely
And the power of the fist, the rock or the bomb
Was shattered by the simple knowledge
That people are people.
Before, behind, beneath, above, beside
Any other proposition
Which the heart or mind might originate.
In any place or time.

Living In The Past
by Rachel Raleigh

I'm living in the past
But I dream of the future
So this is what it's like
To be swept into reality's wake

Delusions of grandeur
Fly through my head like butterflies
But they are only illusions
And they sting like wasps

My mind seems to wander
Running away from the truth
But I don't worry-
It can't be too far off

I've lost myself in the
Sea of forgotten dreams
And failed attempts at fame
But I've found peace

As I wait in this purgatory
I can't help but wonder just where
The present has gone and
Is it laughing in my face?

To A Corpulent Codger
by C.L. Frost

I love the sheen of your toupee,
The twinkle in your glasses,
Your prickling, bristly warty chin,
Your pillowed welcoming masses,
Your crinkles in blotched vellum skin,
The tap of your time-splintered cane.
So, though some may think me quite insane,
Crazed romantic with a comic antic -

Vintage coupe, rusty Chevrolet -
Croon to me in a codger's croak
Drive me, ride me while a cloak
Of wind whisks your toupee;
Prickle path, black rose bouquet -
I'm thoroughly taken in

Mid-House, Mind It
by C.L. Frost

I'm a fixer-upper, a house with rot,
Call all workmen to my weedy lot:
Find a plumber to unclog my guts
Stopped up by clumping "if"s and "but"s;
An electric guy to rewire
My rowdy veins, fiberglass the wayward fire;
A carpenter to drill windows through
Worm-whittled wood encasing musty views.

"Selectively Electric", "Shock Schlock", but never, "Times New Roman"; never "Poorfection"
by C.L. Frost

My cats, indeed, are quite eclectic:
One fur's flies up, sparked electric;
He looms luminous, tall and large,
Bloated by electric charge.
One's hair falls fast, limp and flat;
He cringes, small, by the electric cat.

One lunges at imagined moths,
Chases cords and swinging cloths,
Carols coloratura when he's curious,
Caterwauls when he frowns furious,
While tuxedoed Tom, though electrified,
Merely muses mute, always dignified.

Or another silly one, for kitties of all ages
by C.L. Frost

Are purrs music or monotonous?
The worldly cats have all gotten us
To meet this murmerer as a chum.
But for some, too "Humbug" and humdrum,
Purrs rumble like a run-down motor's hum.

I fall asleep with cats and fear
Waking with a mower groaning in my ear.

Impressions
by Jacquelyn Naquin

Colors flow freely
Aquatic, spirited
Speaking of truth.

The voice is silent
As gentle as air
But rumbles with strength
Of heaven or hell.

Truth is now!
Consequences branch...
Action or inaction.

It is full
Believe!!!

Cinnamon Hill
by Paul Kisak

I've kissed the oceans lips of foam
and traveled roads of rocky loam.
I've climbed mountain peaks of spiky stone
and ventured into caves alone.
I've floated in balloons aloft
and flown above the clouds so soft.
I've seen the lonely side of roam
and nothing rivals my dear home.

S.C.I.
by Paul Kisak

In a world not seen

and a place never shown;

lies the truth many seek

and the facts all alone.

A small cadre has access

to this well guarded place;

this is how it shall be

So that power saves face.

These secrets protected

have a life all their own;

only circumstances and power

change the access and tone.

Time and again

history has shown;

that secrets divide

with import o’erblown.

In a world hardly seen

and a place rarely shown;

lies the truth many seek

and less facts all alone.

Tempus Semper Fugit
by Paul Kisak

I once traveled faster than light.

It felt like stillness, 'twas dark as night.

I saw no angels or holy glow;

No passage of time that I could show.

But when I arrived before I left,

Déjà vu kept my mind, completely bereft.

This confused and confounded my reality so;

That I did it again to undo the woe.

Them to Me
by Paul Kisak

The flow of letting go,

Is hard for one to know.

It's a manner of imprint,

Unique as fingerprint.

Past events must replay,

Ad nauseum 'til they fray.

Once on display,

A stray path is the way.

Surrender to life,

Reduces the strife.

Simple and clean,

Helps self become lean.

Wild Thing
by Paul Kisak

The wild thing is cautious.

The wild thing is free.

The wild thing is illusive.

Like the wild thing in me.

When wild things gather,

it is to hunt, breed or fight

When wild things repose,

it is to preen in delight.

The wild thing reacts,

on instinct and stealth.

The wild thing stays strong,

it cares for its health.

The wild thing has senses,

that surpass what is seen.

The wild thing has motive,

to stay lean and mean.

The wild thing’s not anxious,

it’s actions aren’t planned.

It simply reacts,

to the matter at hand.

To catch the wild thing,

is a sport to some.

To master the wild thing,

for me; yet to come.

Since I am a wild thing,

You know where I’ll be;

In the mountains and the valleys,

where wild things are free.

Mental Health Poem/Caveat Emptor
by Paul Nachbar

I buy my Mental Health
In book and pamphlet form,
In group and individual therapy sessions
Billed to the responsible parties
At some certain hourly rate
And too in the form of agency services
Whether counseling, housing or referrals
Not to speak of various medications
Which make me sick enough, uh, healthy enough
To function at the anticipated jobs.

Like all goods and services this Mental Health
Is a commodity, to be bought and traded
Not to say that this is good or bad
For the industry does, of course, provide numerous jobs
More interesting than being a cashier or shirt salesperson
A cab driver, clerical worker or bookkeeper
And of course these folks need to pay the rent, eat etcetera
This is not to say that the Mental Health Professionals
Are of course, good or bad, merely that---
They have to pay the rent, eat etcetera.

If you are calm and cheerful enough and seem appropriate
Then these Mental Health Professionals will listen to your "ideas"
And not call you an 'idealist', a 'nihilist' or far, far worse
And they will shout at you to put these ideas
Into a form that Middle Management can use
Or else invite you, as a bright lad or lass, to join their ranks.
You of course by now feel guilty about the very act of thinking
Since as a patient, or so-called consumer, you are not supposed to
And when nobody else is thinking, doing so
Would be bad form, sticking out like a sore thumb.

My point here, and I do have a point, is that it is hard
To think and pay the rent at the same time
It is better of course to be born rich or win the lottery
But such things are not quite arranged by thinking
It is better of course to marry rich or sell some lucrative patents
Though that is not always possible by circumstance
In which case you can write poems about paying the rent, eating
And also trying to think at the same time
And hope that Society throws you a few quarters for your efforts.

Prayer At Age 44
by Paul Nachbar

God bless This
Awful awful awful awful
Awful awful awful awful
Awful awful awful awful
Awful awful awful awul
Awful awful awful awful
Awful awful awful awful
Awful awful awful awful
Awful awful awful awful
Awful awful awful awful
Awful awful awful awful
Awful awful awful awful
Stuff

Theology
by Paul Nachbar

Some heed a God of logic
Intangible to most
Some hark unto a God of love
Though sometimes as a ghost;
While others love a God of peace
Despite eternal war;
A God of Power is obeyed
Demanding always more

I say unto this world of man
To atheist and priest
There is a space in us for such
What's true it matters least
The problem here for each I think
For you and no-one else
The dark and awful dialogue
With Gods within oneself

Reality Check by C.L. Frost White and gray and blue rectangles upon rectangles upon rectangles. My present reality is made of pixels, while a hum beckons from some third dimension. My present reality is words crafted in cyberspace yesterday, ready for reading tomorrow. My present reality is now, anytime, past and future; my present reality dies with an omnipotent click. I'd take time to smell the roses if they were in bloom; maybe I'll smell the lilac instead, and return to pixilated reality with the perfume of the past in my nose. Reality is forms and papers, words and blanks referring to other words and blanks, referring to other words and blanks, referring to something lived by someone somewhere. I drowse over papers and recall the lilac perfume. Oops - drowsing over papers refers to last weekend, the season of filling out tax forms. Drowsing over papers refers to present reality, as soon as the memory consumes my thoughts. Reality? Get real, ma-a-an! 'Dat's too big a concept for my wee mind. frosted flake (really!) (Waste life smelling the roses, even if everyone says you should be doing forms.....)

Reality
by Paul Nachbar

Several hundred cubic feet of air
Several hundred square feet of linoleum flooring and carpeting
Kitcheonette with refrigerator, oven/stove, microwave, canopener, coffee pot, toaster, sink ,utensils, cabinet space
Living room containing two wooden chairs, two plush chairs, a couch, dining table, coffee table, computer work station with computer and peripherals, cabinets with books, television, CD rack, CD/Stereo/Radio/Dual cassette deck with speakers, one lamp, overhead lighting, rug, paintings and posters on walls
Bathroom with tub/shower, sink, toilet, cabinets, floor mats, towel racks
Hallway with overhead lightning and fuse box
Bedroom with one small bed, night table with lamp, drawers Three closets
Two large windows (living room and bedroom) with heat/air conditioning and (in the former) two potted plants
Door to outside hallway lockable from inside, elevator to the right of apartment

1 set of keys to this door and doors to outside on ground floor and first floor

My Ego Is A Dried Up Prune (Alas!)
by Jonathan Marin

Solid egos when attacked Maintain their proper shape intact. The liquid flow with their own force And even help to carve their course. But we whose egos are gaeseous Must pray our container be spacious.

Filosophical Poem
by Paul Nachbar

Perhaps this is
What Simond said
But Simon is
A doodey-head.

Was I ahead
Or far behind?
It's difficult
To have a mind.

DId Simon mean
What Simon said?
Well, folks lay bleeding
Or they're dead.

Did we mistake
What Simon said?
Far more than I
Do clutch their head.

Well Simon is
A human too
And this of course
Is nothing new.

I say to him
Get thee to bed!
I'm tired of all
That Simon said.

Perhaps this IS
What Simon said
But Simon is
A doodey-head.

The Scent of Heaven
by Paul Kisak

When shadows of soldiers
Fill the muster's last hall.
The muse will replace
The sad bugler's frail call.

This is the peace of dreams
For both young and old.
Let no one feel pain,
Go without or feel cold.

'Tis not a condition that
must wait post 'pocalypse.
It is within our grasp
As common ground enlightens wit.

Struggle as we must
To see through the fog.
The light's worth the journey

On The Beach (Ghazal)
By Allen Blocker

Her beauty caused him to have a crush when on the beach
He even found the cheek to rush to her when on the beach

The natural beauty of weather unveils itself
But we can see it better when on the beach

Beautiful seashells wash ashore on the sand
As man never seem to bore on the beach

When close to clear lagoons man seems in harmony
As when strolling under a full moon on the beach

The sunlit sky always spreads radiance
All nature seems in cadence on the beach