Pain knows no memory, I've heard,
But 't is a foul deceit,
An empty consolation hurled
By those not in receipt.

Agony builds strong character,
If it does not kill you--
Words no agonized would ever
Utter, if he pain knew.

"Consider the pain of others
And how much more it is,"
Some thoughtless knave always mutters
Because this pain's not his.

Let this pain strengthen someone else;
Take him instead, O Lord,
For one more moment of this curse
I hardly can afford.

Put all my aching bones to peace,
My character is made,
From this agony please release,
End this too sharp tirade.

But if You shall not, this I ask,
At least do not forget
That I have suffered at this task
And have such torture met,

So when the crowns are handed out,
At least I, too, shall wear,
Something fitting of this, my gout,
And all I do forbear.

Spam - C.L Frost

If Yahoo serves us lots of spam,
Why not also toast and jam,
Eggs steaming on a breakfast tray,
Expresso for a hopping day?

Though bacon makes 'em smack 'em
And slick fried chicken makes 'em lick 'em,
Spam and ham are fat and salty;
Give me Ovaltine, sweet and malty.
If you do, here's what I'll do -
I'll give my lard-lush spam to you
Gratis, free, no need to pay.
(So, is there a deal between us two?)
 

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Ars(e) Poetica - Quinn Tyler Jackson

I

Ah christalmighty man, give me a break!
I bust my ars to make my poems rhyme,
And some Joe Blow gets published all the time,
Yet he’s obviously some lazy fake!
Christalmighty man, lead me to the wake
Of the Muse, since ‘tis obvious some crime
Has been committed: She’s been snuffed. The time
Was when it took a little while to make
Poetry — now it’s fallen to that pack
Of Sunday writers who never would have
Been printed in the past. Who the hell
Do they think they are? Someone smart should smack
Their stuff in a pile and light it, or have
Laws been passed to protect against the smell?

II

To all those who claim the Sonnet is dead,
That it’s outlived its function, that people
Don’t want rhyme so you have to be careful
To splatter words until the reader’s head
Is so battered he doesn’t know he read
A poem, I say: Who wants a work full
Of wandering and muttering and bull
That doesn’t hold together with a thread?
(Of course, to be good such “poems” are shaped like
Bells or trees, or whatever one desires
To convey. Instead of saying, “The tree
Grew high,” these writers show us what it’s like,
So when I read it to my friend, he stares
And says, “I don’t follow what I can’t see!”)

III

Is that the root of poetry at all?
(And when I say root, I don’t have to draw
The tree that grows from it!) In its most raw
State, poetry is spoken to enthral
With its sounds and the images they call
To the mind of the listener. The law
Before writing was to sit ‘round a braw
Fire and listen to the bards’ many tall
Poetic tales. With no writing, they could
Only be recalled through meter and rhyme.
(For the poems were very long then.) In
Those days, one couldn’t shape the scop’s spoke word
Into Eiffel Tower or the sublime
Mountain spruce. This they could not imagine.

IV

If you make a prose piece too short to be
Printed as prose, and break it up into
Fits and starts that rhyme only rarely, you
Still have a prose piece and not poetry.
And, even if it calls to mind two, three,
Or even more images, when you’re through
With your writing, no matter what you do,
It is still prose, just prose shaped like a tree!
“But people don’t want to read the Sonnet!”
Some concrete writer will surely yell loud;
“They have had enough of meter and rhyme!”
If good ones were written today, I’d bet
By modern poetics they’d be allowed,
But rhyming “moon” with “June” has seen its time.

V

Well, it doesn’t even have to rhyme, since
There’s always devices that steal the need
For the “moons” and “Junes;” if they would just read
A bit they would discover assonance,
Alliteration, and the like. The dense
And numerous volumes from the past, indeed
Any poem written before the seed
Of e.e. cummings’ crowd landed, would cleanse
Their minds of the belief that poems require
Obscurity to be profound. Classes
At the local university would
Put them straight and get them out of the dire
Habits that they’ve acquired in great masses.
Then their poetry would ring like it should.

VI

Nor does today’s Sonnet need the “thous”
Or “doths,” words which are often in misuse
From the repetition and harsh abuse
Of those who would some nostalgia arouse
In us. But the Sonnet form still allows
For more modern words and rhyme that’s more loose
Than old convention would admit. The Muse
Does not have to be outdated in vows
For a sonnet to be good; for indeed,
Shakespeare’s clowns very colloquially spoke
On subjects that were as vulgar’s could be,
Yet somehow, the Bard managed to include
A rhyme that summed the essence of the joke
So well, though not anachronistically.

VII

That is, in Shakespeare’s time, the words he threw
About did not fall heavily on th’ tongue
As they do now. Since the Sonnet’s still sung,
I say to cummings and his merry crew
Who so often ramble, scramble, and screw
About the page: Your messy work has stung
Us with its novelty, but what is young
Is not always what has stronger sinew
Holding it together. When the Muse comes,
Pouring great visions in your head, it’s best
To do those visions justice. Drawing tree
Or tower is for the painter — it comes
From practice with brushes. Make your quest
An honest one: write some real poetry!

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Flagellate - by Ann Franklin

She likens me to some
Single-celled organism
Which wears its' primitive heart
Upon a transparent membrane or two.
In the admittance of sins
Both past and present
I am purged by the whirling
Of my own cilia.

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Poetic License - Quinn Tyler Jackson

Poets can say
anything and get
off scot-free,
or can we?

Can we speak the pain
in our bones so loudly
that the reader wants
to have his legs
amputated now damnit
now cut the damned
things off?

Can we cry about
inconsequence,
or do we have to
say something royal
if we are to be heard
by reality?

Can we tell ourselves
what we really think
or do we have to
muddle and mutter
it up, butter it up,
clutter up our words
so no one really
has a damned clue
what we really, really
think?

Can we dance on the precipice
at two in the morning,
wondering if we'll ever get
to sleep, and say that?

Poets can say anything
and get away
almost free of scot,
or can we?


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Art of the Poem - proliferates (Addendum) - Jonathan Marin

Some successful poets like to sit in the bathtub
Free-associating to a tape recorder
Plugged into the socket above the light
Instead of the electric razor.
This is a perfectly workable approach
Especially for poets with beards
But to keep the dictionary and thesaurus from getting wet
It's best not to fill the bathtub.


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A Resurrection - Quinn Tyler Jackson

a boring story about
a boy and his dog
and coffee drinking
and chain-smoking
did you come expecting
more from this tale
than that

a drawn out recollection
of a young man and his cat
and coffee drinking
and chain-smoking
did you expect insurrection
and get the mundane
in its stead

the yawning memoirs
of a man and his vodka
and coffee drinking
and chain-smoking
did you expect a thrill
and get let down
by the truth

a boy and his dog
a young man and his cat
a man and his vodka

that is all there is to tell
is it the story of my life
sure as hell not
but what i can tell you about
is coffee drinking
and chain-smoking

no dog
no cat
no vodka

but pull up a seat
and suffer the indignation
of my black coffee breath
and the kiss of death
that is chain-smoking
and we will have
a resurrection
 

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This is the Art I Seek - Quinn Tyler Jackson

this is the art i seek
not something i can put
only my mind to
but that puts its mind
to me

this is the place i seek
not a where i can be
only in place
but nowhere and everywhere
inside outside
for the ride of me

this is the mind i break
through neural osmosis
once twice thrice
into and beyond
ripples on the ponder
beyond wonderful

this is the promise i make
to myself and around
beyond boundaries
putting my mind
aloud beyond
what has been
allowed me

this is the part i seek
nothing i can describe
only a kind of
christmas wrapping
unopened until
the time comes
to be

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In My Bones - Quinn Tyler Jackson

there's a solid
weariness
in my bones
an emptiness that
won't leave me
alone as i consider
choices i have made
in this
my life's far too
noisy parade

is a man all
he is made out to be
and if so
just who
must do the making
is a tear
drawn from some
remembered hurt
easily erased
as it draws its line
down across
his torn masculinity
drawing his yesterdays
to a breaking
can it be
covered up
with a happy art
or drunk to
nothingness
with any wine



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On scary days - Melinda Frye

On scary days like this
I want to bury my head in the sand,
To have the sound of sirens
Drowned out by a marching band...
To pull my dress over my head,
To shut my eyes and have one long kiss...
Yeah, I'd almost rather be dead
On scary days like this.
 

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i wish the world - Trivik Bhavnani

i wish the world
could not
i wish the world
did not

i wish the world
chose not
to make me
cry

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Rapsodia Concordia - Quinn Tyler Jackson

no money no gin
no rest for the wicked
if this heaven
i sure didn't pick it

just honor just pride
a truck load of fuck all
just here for the ride
and hell bent to appall

aspirations few
just greatness and glory
a dollar or two
a nice glass of brandy

no money no grub
and no rest for the tired
if this ain't the rub
my contract's expired

arguments many
like a daily repeat
ain't got a penny
just shoes on my feet

the blind man can't see
and the cripple can't dance
say ... if you were me
would you leave it to chance?

no money no time
and no rest for my brain
if life were a rhyme
it would all sound the same

the whole world groans out
with a gnashing of teeth
i shall without doubt
push, continue, and breathe


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Overqualified - Quinn Tyler Jackson

they said you're overqualified
you won't be happy here
i could have gone and outright lied
removed nine tenths to spare

the cv's long but life ain't free
account's an empty well
what are they afraid of from me --
i'll do the job TOO well?

save a penny spend a dollar
pay all the higher up
put the grunt in tight bound collar
and pay him like a schlep

they say i'm overqualified
that i'll move on some day
and this is how they justified
not hiring me today

i promise that i'll screw up then
at least three times a week
make them shine in comparison
practice well thought out meek

i do not want to have their job
i want one of my own
i'll be a tool i'll be a knob
i'll play the corp'rate clone

anyway and here is my gist
as they their quotas meet
i've five mouths on my feeding list
not to skilled to eat

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All's Good - Quinn Tyler Jackson

pol pot khmer rouge
mai lai agent orange
auschwitz leibensraum
napalm atom bomb

nagasaki hiromshima
vlad the impaler dracula
emperor chin ghangis khan
bow and arrow gatling gun

and you tell me
in an innocent voice
man is basically
good given the choice

and you insist
in an innocent tone
these were the acts
of madmen alone

lock step goose step
brown shirts guns at hip
pep rallies for the masses
manufactured poisoned gasses

mao tse tung giant leap
forward backward army jeep
d day dieppe falaise
drop the bombs and watch the blaze

and you contest
going to great pains
man shows his best
as madness reigns

and you have said
with your innocent glance
man ain't half bad
given half a chance



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Soul Sale - C.L. Frost

Better wry comments on a dried-out age,
The meditative musings of a sage,
Than rantings rhymed in a drunken rage,
Wrists spurting bloodwords from a floodlit stage -
Though they pay fame and glossy royalties
For angst that outdoes last week's agonies.


We might call marketers of self-help pap "profit-tears". Just as those
who make millions from encouraging apocalyptic fears are propheteers.
Or we might wax poetic with a bitty ditty:

On every bookshelf, self-help profit-tears;
On every screen, apocalyptic propheteers;
In every city, twinkling tiers -
High rise jewels from wholesale fears.



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Night thief - C.L. Frost

Jumping off the hypomania train
To railside bedding on cement terrain;
Whistles shrill from far and deep;
Night lights are burglars of my sleep.

Sneak thief, sneak peep,
Sneaker squeak, sneak creak;
Sleek beak's trill, startled beep;
Night rhymes brew and slyly seep.
Night songs are burglars of my sleep.

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November - S.L. MacNiven

Cinnamon and wine
And nutmeg and cloves,
Chestnuts all roasted
On fires and stoves…

Gluhwein in chipped mugs,
Hot soups and rum teas,
Snowflakes descended
On conifer trees…

Beanies and scarves for
The cold northern wind,
Coffee and rum for
The Winter within…
 

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Life - Brennen Martin


Life is never ending, it is always, life has no escape, and not even the gaps between lifetimes can one be free. However, life is perfect.

Life is more precise than exact, more defined than it is real; its machine like design transcends power both spiritual and physical. It is furnace forever-perfect life is perfect.

Life is like a chessboard, the pawns that roam its angelic surface, act as within a steady glimpse, and subtle movement from the beholders well executed move.

Life itself is bewildered by how it came to be, though life seemingly has many shapes and sizes, the truth is to be heard, life is everything, it is every imaginable shape, size and colour, constant euphoria mingles within its beauty. However, life is perfect.

Life itself is bewildered by how it came to be, though life seemingly has many shapes and sizes, the truth is to be heard, life is everything, it is every imaginable shape, size and colour, constant euphoria mingles with its beauty. However, life is perfect.

Life is like a biosphere, life trapped in life and rounded off to create a peaceful prison. Life is like all our senses combined, no one to record has thought of it the way I have. Where others run, I stand my ground. I want to grasp its proverbial brilliance within my hands, know it better than one ever thought possible.

Bitter but sweet, life is like a matrix. We are the pips, if life were truly good to us it would show us a life from outside the apple….THE REAL LIFE. If life were truly good to us it would free us, give us emancipation. Only then would life really and truly be perfect.

Life is the pen, by which we forge our own destinies with. We are as much in tune with life, as life is with us. We are equals.

Life is scarred, as the inevitable breakthrough of life’s awesome barrier draws near, one can only laugh a polysyllabic tune. Life it scarred by the fact that we now know too much, and that we no longer need its eyes gazing upon us 24/7.

Life will sleep, birds will turp, and people will smile for we all agree
that the way of life is now overwhelmingly true, and freedom is anything but new. Everyone will stand high and marvel at life’s ingenious. We will forget the old life, move on, read and re-read this poem. The start of a new beginning is here. The life of life is perfect, this poem is perfect, and life is perfect…. I JUST WANT TO KNOW THE TRUTH!


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Misère, misère, et désespoir, - Quinn Tyler Jackson

Misère, misère, et désespoir,
Quand je regarde dans le miroir,
Ce n'est pas mon propre visage,
C'est un étranger, cet image,
Et, dommage, quoique je fasse,
Je reste toujours à mon espace,
Tout effraie et tout effroi
C'est la vérité tout à moi.

Misère, misère, c'est toute complète,
J'oublie tout ce que je regrette,
Mais si tu vois mon visage blanc,
Et si tu comprends là-dedans,
N'oublie pas que toutes mes batailles,
Mes chaînes, mes blessures, mes orgueils,
Toutes ces choses noires qui tellement blessent,
Ne se sont rien contre ta caresse.

Et je chuchote, "Ton nom, c'est quoi?"
Toutes mes douleurs, un grand "Pourquoi?"
Toutes mes misères se disparaissent,
Quand tu souffles ta douce tendresse;
Quand je me vois dans tes yeux claires
Je ne sens plus de ma misère,
Et j'arrive à cette toute fine borde,
Ton nom, c'est Dame Miséricorde.

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Roachy - C.L. Frost

Attach a leash to your roach,
Strut proudly in the lead.
When critics gawk and reproach,
Say "He's an exotic breed,
Sired specially and pedigreed",
That you've the papers to prove it
To all who would reprove it.

Say "My roach is not an 'it' - a 'he'
And he's very cheap to feed.
So I pamper him with luxery -
A hotel where he and wife can breed.

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Jingle Joy - C.L. Frost

Breezes raced me to the Jingle-berry tree
Where bronze leaves played in symphonies;
The wind beat its baton to pace
The rhythm of the humming harmonies.
Jingle leaves gleamed as they danced,
And jingle berries glinted as they drummed
For my jingle-joy on the dazzle-dappled grass.

Today, they just tinkle at my glance;
The windchimes were made of brass.
Now none would stay to hear and see
The jingle jangle of a chain-hung tree.

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Soul Sale - C.L. Frost

Better wry comments on a dried-out age,
The meditative musings of a sage,
Than rantings rhymed in a drunken rage,
Wrists spurting bloodwords from a floodlit stage -
Though they pay fame and glossy royalties
For angst that outdoes last week's agonies.

On every bookshelf, self-help profit-tears;
On every screen, apocalyptic propheteers;
In every city, twinkling tiers -
High rise jewels from wholesale fears.

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Lit. - Andrew Ridge

THE poem arose
massing on the brow of shells
carping for order.

Polemics saw fit
to defend a lesser cause.
It's taken enough.

Here's one, here's another.
Yea, yea, nay, nay.
Prose, its duty did.

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Iconoclast - Quinn Tyler Jackson

My mind's a blast

It's such a pain
This quickened brain

I did not ask
To wear this mask

I hide behind
This seething mind

While deep inside
I check my pride

On the extern
I boil and burn

It would be nice
To freeze like ice

And just this once
Act all the dunce

But I've laid claim
And staked my name

And took flatter
On gray matter

So though I tire
Of smart attire

I'll push forth yet
Without regret

And raise my drink
To all who think.

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Welcome to the midnight hour - Mark Norman



Welcome to the midnight hour
my show is quite simplistic
showered with blood shot sheep
sleepless in Ohio, screw Seattle
hopeless, I just can't get to sleep

That laughing goblin
glowing red numbers for eyes
perched upon my dresser
mocks, winking new numbers
I curse it beneath my sighs

Prim in a coffin type fashion
I lay myself out
fetal or full gainer, I still lash out
in one then another passioned, tangled
bed sheet wrestling bout

So tired yet no sleep
condemned to roam this night
A zombie or vampire, my looks
pastey and bloodshot
same such fright I cause, oh what a sight

It had to be that
devil's elixir, that tonic
of the coming sunrise
that last mocha delight
before I went to bed this curse'ed night

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The Existentialist - Katherine Wetz

Passing void of life,
Neither rich nor poor;
Not suffering strife,
Existing, no more

Meaning unsought,
Tears never cried;
Thinking no thought
Of suicide

Sin unconfessed,
Knowing no Fall;
Undisturbed rest,
Being is all

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Were it Not All - Trivik Bhavneni


were it not all
i can not find a call
ing

each time i perk
i feal like a jerk
off

2,207,520,000 seconds
10^31 particles bekon
to me

i must be blind
there is none behind
me

why i must ask
in thought is he bask
ing

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Il y a Des Choses en Moi - Quinn Tyler Jackson
 

Il y a des choses en moi
dont je ne parlerais jamais;
les oreilles du monde
ne veulent pas les écouter.

Il y a des mots en moi
qui pèsent trop pour mon âme;
ils restent sans son, sans haleine,
sans même écho dedans.

Il y a des désirs dont
je n'oserais jamais respirer;
ma langue de plomb ne bouge pas
donc ils restent introuvables.

Il y a des épreuves
de mon esprit indomptable
dont il n'y a pas d'abécédaire,
donc elles restent improuvables.

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Roll it up and Smoke It - Quinn Tyler Jackson


Nobody cares
about your scores
all that they want
is some dumb grunt
to fill the time
until five's chime.

You're too damn smart
right from the start
and some poor slob
will lose his job
if they hire you,
with your IQ.

Yes, you were born
to live this scorn
to get shafted
because you're "gifted"
but don't complain,
you too smart brain.

It's just a test
and you're the best
of all the cream;
you want to scream,
"What can I do,
with my IQ?"

Roll it up, lad,
in a long wad,
while others watch
you strike a match;
don't throw a fit--
light, then smoke it.

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The Truth about Xmas - C.L. Frost

Rudolf refused a simple nose job,
And so was abducted by a cop;
The Yonkers lights had all gone bonkers;
Rudy's nose blinked traffic to a stop.

The elves read a Workers' Manifesto
And skate on glaciers while on strike;
Santa advertises for cheap labor,
Cursing every greedy griping groping tyke.

Mrs. Claus, 3 centuries married,
Bored, is filing for divorce;
The Old man can keep the igloo
And elves (Their manners are too course)

Santa, age 400, has got brain rot,
And too much belly for scales to weigh.
Someday he'll die of a stroke
Or break high rise windows with his sleigh.

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Beyond the Crisis - John Sweeney


Look beyond the flash,
the flash that blinds
into obscurity -
reality, purpose, meaning;
for beyond the crisis,
a new beginning,
yes, a leaving behind
of the old,
to be reborn
into the arms of understanding,
confidence, regeneration.
Be not a victim,
but a victor
and stand triumphant
on yonder side
of this, your darkness
which is but a veil
through which, to a world unfolding
for you to claim,
that others like you,
with hope, be given,
for to you, a pioneer,
will they look.
For such souls then,
with despair, be burdened,
beckon them, show the way.

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Poetry Rand-ified - Mark Normam

I know not of you, and care
not of opinions.
Not of their condemnations, nor
of their blessings.

I know what is good, for
it pleases me. The blue
pencil preserve, for
its marks be damned.

Meter, rhythm are my steel.
Emotions the furnace, fired
from the fuel of
experience.

With the purest of commodities,
love and vengeance, I toil.
My own two hands creating
what no man can tear down.

The exalted `They' say it must be
built upon the ages.
Good is what
good has always been.

I cry, "Fools open thy eyes to
the beauty of free form. Forums
of the ages be damned. The
Renaissance is now, today."

I will create until I
cry or laugh. For others
will too. Still others will
scowl at the dismissal of rules, so be it.

We are the true poets, the Roarks
of the twenty first century. Do not
bow to or stone us. Simply step
aside and let us create.
 

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Year End Poem - Quinn Tyler Jackson

It's been my tradition
at each year's completion
to summarize it in verse,

as if one can fairly
each nigh-January
know the better or the worse.

I've had me some better
of both days and weather,
knocks harder I've rarely known,

but thank God that in there
a kindness and dime spare,
occasional kindness shown.

My pride and my stature
and high nomenclature
didn't spare me hidden tears;

Though my pride oft' towered,
My enemy cowered,
and hit me with my own fears.

The money ran sparely,
the cupboard full rarely,
it was rice instead of lamb.

But although I lacked gold,
it's not all, I am told,
so I'll settle as I am.

It's been my tradition
at each year's completion
to sum it up square and neat,

but this year was harder,
with its empty larder,
and doesn't feel quite complete,

so when the year's over,
and I'm in the silver,
then I'll tell you how it went,

but until that fine day
it shall not end this way,
e'en if space and time are bent.
 

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Out on Me - Quinn Tyler Jackson


fuddy bluck my life is muck
nothing in the fridge to eat
cuddy blunt it's all want want
and wet shoes on my feet

chrizuz jeest while in the east
they flart and fip their wigs
and plan to blow us all to frick
with jigs and jags and nuclear zigs

the rucking foof is dripping drap
as january rain the blucket bucking fills
the mortgage due is half of it
the other half is twice the pain

angst angst angst worm sturm gloom
it's not depression don't you see
it's just that god got real poff issed
and took his piss-off out on me

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