————

Moon Sphinx

the moon sphinx
devours its shadow
at dawn
as it sets under the heavens
it does not declare its intentions
beforehand
no one is at a loss
regardless
as it rejuvenates itself
endlessly

– erica snowlake

Conspiracies Debunked

By Jim Smith

I don’t believe in UFOs
except the ones on the moon.

I don’t believe Bush knew
about 9/11, but Cheney did.

I don’t believe Oswald was a pasty,
the CIA doesn’t kill people.

I don’t believe in mind control,
never seen it on TV.

I don’t believe in chem trails in the sky,
a Happy Meal is all I need.

I don’t believe in parasites in the brain,
I’m actin’ crazy because it’s fun.

I don’t believe the world will end
in 2012, it’ll be much sooner.

————

13:33 Thursday, April 15, 2010, inside the Talking Stick…..Bi-polar world, two sides to the same coin, I might as well just go ahead and join. What difference does it make? Let us adjourn, Just re-attach both halves and be reborn. This hybrid combination of two parts Is two-toned, hemispheric, and alerts The separation to the binary. Twin universes, alternate and free. Pygmalion resurfaces, imports Dichotomy of purpose. How it hurts To sense this perforation. Should I mourn? Have I been so affected as to burn And freeze in the same breath? Should I resign Myself to being torn asunder, or rejoin?….Roger Houston

————–

Still too dark to see

By Karl Abrams

Lightning at sunrise,
first warning of an omnipresent thunder
where deep rolling drums beyond my reach
wake me from a peculiar and hidden dream,
crawling in anger and symbol
in a dead and moonless night,
that’s still too dark to resolve or comprehend.

Even here I could once worship
your dreamy tropical presence,
in a bamboo bed
floating as an unsinkable raft
far from any known or definable shore.

Now I obsess in your absence,
one that won’t go away,
one that always pulls in more
of what never really arrives.

Laying exhausted,
on a chilly night road alone,
I see how my cries and words will,
as they must,
slowly bend and twist,
eventually crushed
under the timeless weight
of losing you.

————-

Ode to My Soul

My soul is
a farmer dressed in
muddy overalls.
He is standing
leaning over his hoe
pointing at a row
of perfect, delicate
bib lettuce.
“Look,” he calls to me,
“look at the seeds
you once planted.
And i, i have tended
faithfully. Don’t
turn away
from your past.
It is growing, growing
into a divine and
sumptuous feast.”

–krista schwimmer

————–

Farewell American Poet
Steve Richmond

I could hear him before I saw him
in room 5   New Vista Hospital
for post-acute care
he thrashed and groaned non-stop

I talked to him
blanked eyes didn’t register
he stopped thrashing some at my touch
continued to groan

nurse slipped in gave pain-killer
his eyes flicker
why doesn’t he answer me

couldn’t know if he heard . . .
heard me say   you’re an original
a damn good poet    yeah   now in a bind
a word guy   with no more words

I didn’t stay long

—Panos Douvos

————

On The Beach

I blew into my bottle, because
I wanted to hear
the horns of the ships.
Then I drunk the entire
Atlantic Ocean
with my straw

– Virág Vida
———–

Is There No Justice?

“Sure it makes perfect sense.
Import the breadfruit from Tahiti
To feed slaves in Jamaica.
Cheaper than bananas
If slaves must eat at all.
Makes sense to import
Slaves from Africa
Train them to drive
The red natives from this land.
A century later we send the black men
And the red men
To kill the yellow men in Asia.
We play chess
And the world is full of our little dolls.
Our motto is:
From each
According to what we need
To each
According to what we choose.

“And it makes sense
To those of us who run the machine
To keep the best for us
And mete out the rest in tiny segments
To the ones who bear the weight.
Money is earned
By those who love money.
Those who rule
Deserve their pay for ruling.
And can our pleasure be denied us?
We are exhausted from our struggle
To lead the ignorant flocks.
Excuse us our frolics in Vegas.
Yes we’ve heard our employees
Live through evictions
And debts and unpaid medical bills.
But they are not deserving.
Had they been meant to earn money
They would be earning it.
It makes sense to us.
The poor are poor
Because it is their destiny.

“There are winners
And there are losers.
If you are one of the losers
Don’t cry to us.
What helps us to keep winning
Is that we promulgate the notion
That you can become as we are
And win.
The truth is
You never can.
We won’t let you
And your losing keeps us rich.

“Justice? Why do you ask?
What is that word?
Is there no justice?
Of course there is.
Like any commodity
It is always paid for.
Medieval millionaires
Did not burn at the stake.
The moneyed ones
Never hung from a rope or a cross.
It makes perfect sense. At least to us.”

So they said. So they said.

And one being, with an active mind,
Stomped upon and almost crushed to the ground,
Felt the wind of another world
Entering her almost broken frame,
Bringing the revival.
And from what miracle she could not know
She began to grow.
She raised her head,
Threw up her arms
Like two branches.
Her arms grew wide
And her hands formed fists
That clenched the air,
Pulling her clear from the wreckage
Dealt her by the talking pride machines.

Up and she threw
That wreckage. The machines
Crumpled, pushed back,
Cracked, whimpered, as she dealt them
The terminal blow:

“It makes perfect sense! Our lives, our creed
Make perfect sense! What are you doing?
Help us, don’t hurt us. We’ll change!
We’ll give you what you want. Only
Let us go. Don’t crush us. How
Can you do this to us?”

She pushed them hard.
They did not die
But they did not shine.
Left alone, feeble, unable to move,
Unable to touch the millions
At last freed from their interminable excuses,
Only able to watch
As the world got on
So much better without them.
The last they heard
Was what was shouted
As she left them to rust:
“It makes sense to me!
Is there no justice?”

–Lynne Bronstein