Poetry | Prose | Puzzles

A Poem of Thanksgiving

Nineteen years of injustice
Ended with heavy rains
Nineteen years of folly
Now realize the extent of their reigns

How foolish is the fool who underestimates his station
The Muse, the lovely Muse, tempers those misconceptions
Tell me again, Siren on my ship
Of the luck I fell upon

Undeserving, unnerved, I locked up my fortune
Understanding my prize lay up on a hill, far beyond Beyond
No mortal succor for a fool like yours
Handed the keys to a kingdom, to the beauty of pure rapture

Come again, I don’t believe dreams
They linger for a moment calling me down roads uncreated
Roads I won’t place feet upon
Paths I remember déjà vu or so stated

Though, though, though I am here and true
With You

Perhaps we change laws, you and yours
Perhaps entropy cringes in the presence of our order
Perhaps rhythm, balance, and synergism shine anew
Perhaps we are just that:  order

Never mind the details and negotiations
Words only soil our silent company and mutual contemplations



Advanced Obits
by Quinn Tyler Jackson

for all those who are now quite
alive, but will one day
push daisies

(written in case I daisy kiss
before they do, so as
to spare us both specific sorrows)

Fare thee well, maids of Athens,
and though forever,

Fare thee well.

Moreover – I hear
you can make a nice
tea from daisies,

so don’t forget
to invite me for elevenses
when the twelfth hour
has congealed my (and
your) Darjeeling.

Senseless Murder
By Paul Max Payton

        I died for love a thousand times before it died in me
        And in its death, a mournful cry
          grew in my throat, tear-blinded I
        Did set my passions free, stilled in cold atrophy.

        A dozen times I bid you come, a dozen times refused.
        Two dozen more I praised your worth
          my fealty your source of mirth
        My spirits felled by vain abuse, before your sight amused.

        A hundred times I sang to you - my recitatives rang sweet.
        Three hundred times I nursed my voice,
          to start anew devoid of choice,
        And licked my wounds in sad defeat, denial from you to meet.

        A thousand times I yearned for you. I speak of them no more.
        Four thousand tears arose from this
          fool rabid hunger for your kiss.
        How sadly now I do abhor the lissome form I such adored.

        And so I hand you just reward, a tortured soul your prize.
        Then speak of words to spare more pain
          that others may some knowledge gain.
        Be not fooled by your disguise.
        Within you harbors Love's demise.

Advice for Aspiring Muses
by Quinn Tyler Jackson

We are not always roses–
although we find it fascinating
to write them.

The pot we plant you in will be high,
and you'll ask
if you’re allowed to grow or breathe
at those rarefied heights.

Of course not.