Run after everything that moves
Inspecting with childlike fascination their
Noses checking the remains of dried bird poop.
Gregarious they plunge into the fishpond in their gourmand dash.
Tidily scooped out the rascals are then
Intent on ingesting lime green lizards and
Menacing bufo toads waiting for nightfall and
Equally keen to feast on delicate Formosan physiques.
but visions of tuna chilling
in a cold closet dressed in celery and onion, drenched in mayo and
pressed atop whole grain slices flagged me down and held me hostage.
I planned to write a poem but had to do the dishes
cut the grass and reconcile my bank statement.
As I calculated the cost
I checked the mail,
watched Life is Beautiful
and folded a dryer load.
Before I could write
my son stopped by and
we shared a coffee. A poem
skipped through my brain
teasing me with
parallel trains of thought
which led me down a
in pursuit of monarch
butterflies flitting from
flower to flower
in the valley
of soon and very soon
panting for more
pressing further and further
through the muck of have to and should have
until I finally arrived at the
corner of here and now
where I carefully penned this
rambling verse and post it now to you.
S weeping style suggests
F ormatted by talented Authors, Artists and
P hotographers. An
B allet of writing and art
L aunching an evocative brand of story;
I nternal and external rhyme forming fresh free verse that
S ketches a vivid assortment of characters. Altogether
E nterprising and
**Inspired by the Academy of Poets Poster celebrating National Poetry Month in April
the mind, conceal
discernment in a
tapestry. A spinning
top wobbles and slams into
wall. A pear shaped diamond ring at
Tiffany’s. A shooting star. A slot
machine paying a huge jackpot. Bright things
hypnotize the mind. Sunshine mirrors sea
headlights glare inside island tunnel
the full moon’s steady starless ascent
a thousand candle watt light
shined into the starving
dark Chilean eyes
of trapped miners
You have written a book but are wondering how to get it published. Join us for a panel discussion by three published local authors as they share with you a variety of different publishing options you may not be aware of to get your newly finished book off to the presses. They will discuss self-publishing formats, publishers, online options and self-publishing. They will fill you in on the pros and cons of their choices and provide a list ot the publishers and options they discussed.
A single row
of moai statues
from massive ahu platforms
out beyond a cloudless coast
their landscape now
arid and treeless.
They face the sea and wait
for no one in particular.
The old ones have long since passed over
their silence roars like a cannon.
Traces of their language
frame an obscure curtain
as one face cracks
crumbling at the chin.
Tiny shards slowly release
the life-force that plummets
towards the jagged rocks below
taking old knowledge and forgotten history
along for the ride. Hammered and
lost at the bottom
by conflicting views
and swept away at last
by the raging sea.
That culture's most famous features are its enormous stone statues called moai, at least 288 of which once stood upon massive stone platforms called ahu. There are some 250 of these ahu platforms spaced approximately one half mile apart and creating an almost unbroken line around the perimeter of the island.
The Tide Calendar hung lopsided
its edges curled and yellow.
Water flooded the bilge
the relic listed to the port side
barnacles clung steadfast
to the thick rope tightly tied to the dock.
The cabin reeked of mildew
and stale urine. Pitted gauges
balanced haphazardly amid the dust and grime.
In the corner a couple of dead AA batteries rolled over a faded photo
of the vessel and her captain.
A beauty in her prime
she was in desperate need
of a stiff broom, spit and polish.
Rusted cans of off white deluxe deck paint
beneath the starboard seat cushion.
The scarred cabin door
hung on for dear life
like a holocaust survivor.
Captain Bly once a handsome rake
his dinner, his vessel was aptly named The Heeia Kea Queen after The African Queen.
His cooler was always well stocked
with green bottles.
His weighty reputation had
stretched beyond the confines of the small harbor
and swept throughout the windward coast.
He always wore a black shirt
the collar ripped at the neck
thin against his salty frame.
he dreamt nightly
of snaring a mermaid
in his fishnet.
He was her Lifesaver.
The next day
he would wake in a cold sweat
as she disappeared
into the sea flipping her tail
splashing him with sea foam.
One fateful morning he was gone
that was better than thirty years ago
Some say that the mermaid took him
others say it was them green bottles.
he finally succumbed to his deeds.
So keep in mind
A full cooler doesn’t float as well as a life preserver even if you are a lifesaver and unless you have gills you could wind up sleeping with the fishes.
Write a story that is between 100 and 150 words. The trick is you must use the following words: drink - rock - damage - heartless - destiny - cruel - abandon - lost - regret - bastard. Words may be used in different formats (for example: drink, drinking or drank)
It’s a new day
Amend some damage.
Make better choices.
Read the signs.
And not fall for the same
old mistakes this time.
Abandon the whine
for the heartless bastard
that did you wrong.
Re-write that song.
Outwit the cruel fanatic
that led you astray
paved the way
for your friends who lost
the game of life.
Rewrite your destiny.
Because drinking to get drunk
or getting wasted
The Beatles reigned
in Tillson Elementary school.
The cute boys,
the songs we danced to during recess.
I can still remember riding home
in the back seat of the school bus,
bouncing high every time we hit a bump
on the twisting old country roads.
My friends and I giggling
in our bright new clothes
just picked up from layaway.
My long straight brown hair
tied back in a ponytail
fastened with a matching colored band.
I woke up early on school days
it got really cold
in the winter
in upstate New York.
The old furnace
was turned down at night
this warmed up the downstairs nicely.
Upstairs the feather down comforter
that grandma sent from Germany
pulled up to my chin,
was all that protected me
from the frigid air in my bedroom.
I would lay out my school clothes
the night before,
dress, tights, shoes,
and race to pull them on.
my arms and legs.
I loved my room, it was private.
I had my own portable TV
and stereo where I could practice
She Loves You
and I Want To Hold Your Hand
into my hairbrush
each afternoon after school.
Before Mom got home from work
and I had to start the potatoes.
would bellow I’m Home where’s my dinner?
When being the oldest
meant you were accountable
when everything had a proper order
and my audience
would have to wait
the dishes were done.
had walked inside the empty pyramids of Giza
marveled at the Sphinx
and the Coliseum in Rome.
Toured Vatican City and St. Peter’s Basilica,
hiked up steep mountainous cliffs
to the monasteries in Meterora.
Sailed down the Rhine
waved at The Lorelei
crossed the St. Charles Bridge in Prague.
Motorcycled around the Southern rim of the Grand Canyon
and witnessed the beauty of the fall colors.
She had climbed up steep steps
on the Great Wall of China
and posed for a picture
in front of Cristo Redento in Rio de Janeiro.
She had survived hordes of hungry flies
driving in a rental car
to swim in the great barrier reef in Australia
and along the way had shared dinners with
doctors, lawyers, teachers
seniors and exchange students
some robust and others on their last leg.
She had inhaled the markets of Casablanca
sampled their wares, skirting old men
smoking stale cigarettes drinking strong coffee
holding fast to ancient beliefs
no longer relevant to anyone but them.
trapped inside decaying walls
stinking of urine and fish guts.
are traded and bred as cattle.
and the smart ones get locked away
in cliff towers, never to be seen or heard from again.
She knew that she was
one of the lucky ones
that this still goes on
today evidenced by
movies of women being stoned
by indifference and fear
who dared to upset the status quo.
Good women and their daughters
discarded like trash
by uncaring husbands.
By fathers who would taunt their children to
eke a living from a stone field
who had summoned the courage
to work for a
widower’s paltry coins
and were later accused of sleeping
with their employer.
She witnessed the degradation
and the intolerance
saw a courageous soul stand up
and speak out, branded as crazy
the name Soraya forever etched
into her hard drive.
She had touched the stain
that is mankind
and still she
dared to hope.