Words on Fire V1E4

Words On Fire
…Imagineers of Pyrotechnic Poetics

Volume 1 Edition 4
( for July 6 – August 16, 2014)

Featuring D.W. Metz, Denise Baxter Yoder, Robert Horton, Michael French, Le Hornet, Vicki Bashor, Matt Cox, Jacob S. Garcia, S.L. Weisend, Jean Billheimer, Karie Thoma, Mary Macharia, Our Wanderings, Allene Angelica, Robert Price, Katya Mills, Paul Chapman, Taylor Breakfield, Michael Veloff, A Furious Child, Frederick Andrew, Ric Rudnicki, Kamalika Jayathilaka, Peter Schonefeld, Patrick B. Vince & RC deWinter.

Cracked Skin by Robert Horton

The life and soul,
The funny man,
Taking your chances
Whenever you can,
Charming, daring,
Debonair,
Designer clothes
And swept back hair.
You ooze charisma,
The talk of the town,
The envy of others,
The shining crown,
With the strength of a lion
And the midas touch,
You are mister wonderful
And loved so much.
But what a facade!
Tough as old boots!
Your alter ego and you
Are in cahoots,
You seem blasé
About love and hate,
Trusting to instinct,
Intuition and fate.
Where are your morals?
Where is your pride?
A million masks
Behind which to hide,
Your steely armour
Is wearing thin
And a child seeps out
Through cracks in your skin.
Proof by Michael French
+++++++“There is no love; there are only proofs of love.”
Pierre Reverdy

+++++++

I have found
it’s not like the poetry

There has been moonlight
and roses
dancing to soft music

That stuff is easy

There has also been
shared fears

pain felt by both

But that’s not it either

I find myself grasping at a concept

difficult to express
because

it is life itself

all of it

every mundane, regular
extraordinary
second of it

and I can’t encase that
in a few words

so instead….
I hold her hand

Poetic reflection by Le Hornet

Am I part of this age?
Every time I hit a new level,
God disappears and the devil
takes the stage.

I look for appreciation,
They boo my reality…
simultaneously
applause exaggeration.

I submit myself at the fullest
I hate coming half empty,
you asked for an extra pint
but you cannot stomach G.

I refuse to sit and sleep
but flow with the current,
I live some days wavey
so I feel no disturbance.

I aim to target the youth,
that’s why I be shooting truth,
I ricochet my honesty, so I know
I am hitting more than two.

I speak because I have a voice,
so I let it be known,
I am in no position to judge,
so will never throw the first stone;

Because I am not without sin,
I repent a million times lord,
just give me that one win.

I want to spark a new
wave of thinking,
my boat will float your thoughts,
get on board or just get left sinking.

I wonder first
then I act in a second,
my degree will get you a third,
I am forth coming with my word.

I don’t engage in debate,
I intend to marry what I create,
take a divorce from doubt
and make love with a new day.

I am a man with the potential,
a woman may find that attractive
but it is not essential, they really
looking for a person with more credential.

I hate the idea of comfort,
roads can be hard without effort,
so I try and I try
most will spot that like a leopard.

I like to inspire so
I can see people get higher,
I live by impulse,
I always chase what I desire.

I am not afraid of my dark,
as most are blind in the light,
NeoN illusions are external to the eye,
LeoN confusions, I must look on the inside.

“I am one to
express the experience,
because life not fully lived
is half the deliverance”

 Letter to Charles Bukowski by Vicki Bashor

I love you more
than you loved the garbagemen
which was a lot
and my drunk jeans
slightly damp
from my commando crotch
are poised in my mind
in your bedroom I’ve got liquor
rolling you smokes or joints, whichever
and I imagine your fingers
are muscular as a poet and writer
I would break glass and walk on it
if the blood spatters
on my feet
produced latticed tea leaf prints
and my giggles of misery
made you alive
to write more poetry.

Pieces of Memories by Matt Cox

I was fourteen when I answered the phone
Be outside in ten
Who click
I knew if I wasn’t outside in five
I would be dead, simple.

Autumn in the deep south is summer
Wet as fuck and just as sticky
Outside in ten
I sweated for the expected five
Under the new street light

The van pulled in fucking white
these fuckers
there was a thing
before what happened next
doesn’t matter.

I climbed in and sat behind
in the fucked up carpet
Zeppelin was cranked
Tommy was cranked
fuck I was cranked

You have to understand
you didn’t get into it
like you want your knuckles
against some dickhead who
stepped on your shoes

You didn’t get asked
to do a thing unless you
already showed that you
could do a thing
and the thing was done

The Beam was passed to me
as we drove next to the park
thank God there was only two
I will always remember the smile
that I destroyed

The second one is only bits
pieces of memories
we left them there
memories
left them there.

Into The Distance by Jacob S. Garcia
Today I feel I am an enigma,
the darkest of red wine laid in vintage,
an elephant in a Chinese chess game.The labyrinth of life an origami
of a question that may hold an answer.
I am standing, writing, and wondering
while the white and gray clouds herald twilight
flowing fast through the vibrancy of air.

I stare into the distance unashamedly.

En La Distancia
Hoy siento que soy un enigma,
El más oscuro de vino rojo establecido en la vendimia,
Un elefante en un juego de ajedrez chino.

El laberinto de la vida es un origami
De una pregunta que puede contener una respuesta.
Estoy parade, la escritura, y preguntándose
Mientras que el herald nubes blancas y grises del crepúsculo
Fluye rápidamente a través de la vibración del aire.

Miro fijamente en la distancia sin reparo.

 A Real Woman by S.L. Weisend

A real woman is soft     as dew
bled from the atmosphere

she is a river full of forks    & froth sculpting a latitude
out of basalt columns of gnashed teeth

shimmering as she slithers over stones
carved round by her steady devotion   to softness

She is so soft, you could easily slip into her deep satin
& become free, as she carries on    & on    anon

No Tears by Jean Billheimer

There were no tears
When he died
Not from me
Not for him
I cried

They thought I cried
Bitter tears
That’s not true
Not then
Not for years

There was nothing
When he died
Not for me
But for them
I cried

Sharp by Karie Thoma

My heart was broken in various forms
I can show you all the times
I picked up the pieces
I didn’t mind
The flats and the naturals
I only minded
The cuts and the sharps
The broken rhymes

Tokyo in the Summer by Mary Macharia

Pink curls bounce
to the beat of a thousand feet
in the cool, Shinjuku
underground tunnel.

A consumerism hub,
surround sound
announcements…

Her line of sight is broken
by a homeless man,
watching with a vibrant eye.

Step by step, the curls
bounce to a yakitori stand
(1 stick for ¥100)
and then back to the man.

This offering,
“the prayer that the heart sings”
(a small appeasement
in the face of a larger issue),
accepted with a bow.

Paranoia at 4:07 by Our Wanderings

I’m scared
nothing more to say
Nothing more to be said
My heart is racing
Racing
racing down the street
I cannot see
See the faces of everyone around me
Shaking
Can’t see me hand
Just shaking wondering
Anticipating
With anxiety I’m fading
Fading
Fading
Unable to speak
I can’t elaborate on this feeling
Damn why is everyone looking at me
How can they all see what’s wrong with

me

How can it be
They’re reading
Reading my mind
I don’t want to talk
Speak
Walk
No I don’t want any fucking bubble tea
Damn something must be wrong with

me

Anticipating the future
It’s been 3 weeks since
I’ve last felt feeling
Yet Damn I need more time
Just another day
Just another week
Just another lifetime
I’m sorry
Hmmmmm
I just need time

Intents And Purposes by Robert Horton

I cannot sleep
thinking
there is no hope for us.Somehow
we have lost
the biggest part
of our adult lives
in the futile attempt
to find the inner child.

Our time
is now limited.

It seems
we will go to our graves
as fragmented,
and tortured individuals,
lost
without the hope
of true love.

It seems
hate and anger
rage inside,
like a tumour,
growing,
festering
with each passing year,
and for that reason
I feel incredibly sad,
and because of that
I am lost.

Relentless,
attack
after attack
after attack,
with no regard
nor thought
for consequence,
just the pain
of open wounds
that weep
as many questions
as there are
defence strategies,
yet I feel
defenceless.

There were times,
rare times of unity,
and I wonder,
were they genuine?
Was it heartfelt?
And, when we said
we loved each other,
was it true?

Sadly
any one of us
could now fall,
we agree
that is inevitable,
would that
be the only time
we truly unite?
I don’t want to test
that theory.

But for now,
I am heavy hearted,
feeling old
and trapped
in the realisation
of the hate
that rages in us,
not knowing
how it began
but knowing
it may never end.

We did have
brief moments
of harmony and love,
that seem now,
with the heavy burden
of hindsight,
so fake,
clearly
we were on
our best behaviour,
a facade,
a pretence,
a lie.

While
under the surface
our flaws
swirled and bubbled
like an angry siren,
barely contained
and thinly veiled,
we were consumed
in her jaws
without reason
nor pity.

Is this is our truth?

Is this is our reality?

Is this how it is meant to be?

Perhaps it is.

We survived,
shot down in flames
but alive,
yet on the brink
of despair,
comfortable
in hostility,
resigned
to ourselves
and our foibles.

I cannot sleep,
thinking
there is no hope of peace,
perpetually
in conflict,
trapped in a war
that can have no victors.

We have become
refugees,
wandering aimlessly
between the past
and our dreams,
to all intents
and purposes
we are doomed.

Plaza de España by Jacob S. Garcia
Father passes café con leche,
To the boy at his side.
The boy’s pattering, youthful feet
spread on concrete
Covered in mud, purple stained and
Smelling of thyme.
Imagine,
These small feet
Crushed the crocus flowers.
Notice their broken perfume,
Save the petals for another day.
(café con leche is coffee with milk)Plaza de España
El pápa entrega un vaso del café con leche,
A el niño a su lado.
El golpeteo de los pies
Del niño extender los dedos subió concreto
Cubierto de barro,
Manchado morado,
Olor de tomillo.
Imaginarse,
Los pies pequito
Aplastar con un flor de crocus.
Olor se perfume quebrantado
Salve los pétalos para una otro diá..

My Umbrella by Allene Angelica

Walking the city streets
The stuttering whisper
Of spirits past
Feel heavenly
In the smothering heatHumanity and its refuse
Reach my senses
Crinkling my nose
As I continue on
My journey

The children
Used to ask me
For money
But I’m now
Part of the scenery
They no longer see
The foreigner
But a moving feature
In the landscape

“Good morning mum.”
A vendor walks by
Carrying metal containers
Swinging on bamboo
Over his shoulder
What they contain
I have no clue
Steamed corn,
Roasted peanuts…
Maybe

I pass the church
I can hear the prayers
Of a hundred sinners
I wave to the security guard
Standing sentinel
Who offered me a chair
One hot day
Not too long ago

Now comes the most
Perilous part of my walk
The roundabout
Cars coming from
Every direction

On this day
My umbrella
Is my hero

DARKNESS BECOMES LIGHT by Jacob S. Garcia
I dwell in the realm of great
and possible outcomes where there
are gates to light, peace guarded
by a beast with three heads named
Discord, Racism, Discontent,
armed with claws called Violence and
a stinger of poison Hate.Inspired by current events and Parashat Mas’ei.

OSCURIDAD SE CONVIERTE EN LA LUZ
Yo habito en el reino de la gran
y possible los resultados donde allí
puertas están a la luz, la paz guardado
por una bestia de tres cabezas con nombre
la Discordia, el Racismo, Descontento,
armado con garras llamados Violencia y
an aguijón venenoso de Odio.

Inspirado por los acontecimientos actuals y Parashat Mas’ei.

Questions
By Robert C. Price
I sat with my daughter
the other day
Her big brown eyes
looking up at me
with two front teeth
missing and every word
she pronounces sounds
like Daffy Duck
Having her head in
my lap, she asks the
complex questions that
geniuses have yet to
solve

Why do people hate?
Why do they kill?
Why is there so much bad?

I looked at her with
the wisdom of age
and told her the
plain truth
I don’t know future
queen but it’s up to
you to change our
delusions of grandeur
that we bought into
If I never teach
you another thing
from this day forward
remember to be better
than your father and those
that came before me

Maybe
Just maybe
you’ll do a better
job than us slackers.

Ten O’clock Ramblings
By Robert C. Price
I wake up each morning
completely aware that I
am a fraud
A shyster
Con artist
Who in their right mind,
or any mind for that
matter, would think that
I’m a writer
An author
A novelist
(of course you have to actually write a novel for that last part,
but for the sake of arguing, we’ll include it)
I mean, what have I written that’s made
a difference in this big nasty world
How can I call myself one
The word has been bestowed on countless
others who are worthy of the title
See, I’m a guy who took too long
To figure out who he is
Hell, who am I kidding?
I haven’t come to any conclusion of who
I really am
Don’t mind me, I’m rambling about
this and that and still trying to live
up to the title.
Am I a writer?
Stupid question
I am who I am because I have no
other way to express me
To get my point across
To show you my thoughts and
ambitions
I can’t talk feelings
I can only put them on paper
or a LED screen for you to
examine and deem worthy
of the title, but I already know
the answer.

‘memory. untitled.’ by Katya Mills

i do remember
loving you
your every strand
unique

how i comb
the deep striations
of our whorling time
we shared

lucky me
and lucky you
enveloped in an unjust world

in our all-stars
walking streets
toenails breaking
stride

in our galaxy groove
we move
some masterpiece
outside the Louvre

tossing snowballs
dear Chicago
winters coldest hell
on earth

laughing through the
blizzard of our monetary
fails
some trickle down to
naught

down Division Street
complete
happy getting
what we
got

tale of me
tailing you
comet scattered bits of light

in my blue jeans
modern match girl
picking up your bits of light
making our
mosaic

clear as glass that’s not been
stained
brilliant as
one single night

candlelight
i’m after you
the two of us
i know
you knew

shadows
and the cat

the blizzards wake
a code of silence
staring in our
eyes

oh holy nights of Mazzy
Star and magnum bottles
taste your
tongue

its over now
those days are done
your hands in my back pockets
while i sung

caressing
waves of whispers
flooding fields of broken pavement
paradise

i dream of autumn colors
open skies
midwestern
eyes

before the pages
written
read

sharing all our bits of light
the comet tail
our nights in bed

getting what we
get

i proselytize the burning moon
replete in dark sky formals

eclipse us now
and cancel out
our every last
regret

untitled

you threaded the
eye of the
needle

i watched you fail
and fail
again
again

i watched you lick the
thread the
tattered
end

you wanted me
i wanted
you

to thread
my head
with erotic elevating

the time it
bombed
the blood was strong

the pulse so
escalating

i stitched your heart
we had
a start

over and under
under and
over

something like
again
again

something like
creating

Solitude by Michael French
+++++++“If you’re lonely when you’re alone,
you’re in bad company.”
― Jean-Paul Sartre
+++++++

I step out into the night…

on a shoreline along a northern lake
loons share their story

On a prairie where the stars
have spilled out of their framework

In a mountain valley
not a man-made light anywhere

on a beach along a sea
which if it has a name, it hasn’t told me

It doesn’t much matter, the result is the same
I am not alone

Below my feet
is a teeming pyramid
a glowing mass of humanity
reaching back to the very moment
a creature very much unlike us now
for the first time looked at its own hand

and wondered

what am I?

I stand at the apex
and from the cold mists of time
I feel their eyes

and their whispered plea…..

step out
step out into the night

“In order to understand the world,
one has to turn away from it on occasion.”
–Camus

fields of sunflowers
+++++++I’ve been dead for a few moments now
the violence was mercifully brief
it didn’t hurt very much
of course that is all relative and
completely irrelevant

nothing matters now at all
the plans I made,
the people I knew
the odd thing is, I,
and those others,
will be remembered as
a symbol
an example

but what will really persist
is those thoughts of me
years from now
unbidden, sudden
and that tearing feeling
that returns
It is not what I pictured
as a legacy

Below
fields of sunflowers await
and if I had a few seconds
I might have even wished
to be among them

If I were a flower.. I would be a sunflower.
To always follow the sun, Turn my back to darkness
–Pam Stewart

Artistic License by Denise Baxter Yoder

The artist who paints  me
Likes colors of white mixed with pearl
Tones of rose and passion pink
Gold and tawny browns with cream
As skin warms and enjoys his touch
The artist  who speaks to me
Loves the sound of my voice
Reverberations of purple echo
As I call his name
His words rich with deep sienna tones
A promise of mysteries
To be unraveled
To be undefined
A delightful connection
His language of heart and laughter
The artist who creates in me
Loves the curve of my neck
Likes softness and shadow
Leading lines and gentle valleys
Walking the fires of desire
He explores my blue veined contours
Meandering riverside
Of salted sweetness
Delta of moist musk scent
Reaches my inner core
Where all heart and heat of art reside
Responding
Rhythms
A longing to linger
Ever closer
Within his arms

Shortest Kiss by Matt Cox

she knows this will be the last
time she will ever kiss
and the chamber spins

I watch her drifting her
fingers against the hardness
in her eyes a wanting
and the chamber spins

She is unsure now
lips parting but I put it in
the candlelight is perfect
and the chamber spins

I look at her face
as she nods acceptance
this will be it
and the chamber spins

Her hands are shaking now
I hold them in mine
she knows my steadiness
and the chamber spins no more

It presses inside of her
and as my lips peel from hers
I watch the greatest pleasure
slip away again

THE KINDLY FACED GRANDFATHERS by Paul Chapman

Each morning I see them
The four kindly faced grandfathers
As they take their morning walk
Each day they call a greeting
Today it was different
The four old men sat on a bench
In the shade of the trees
Nearby I sat and listened
Their talk was of times long past
How under the dictatorship of Franco
Things were so much better
They knew how to govern
There were no immigrants
No body was gay
Poets and writers were controlled
Spain was for the Spanish
As they walked out of the park
They waved
And I saw the blood
Of thousands of innocent people staining their hands

Tantric by Taylor Breakfield

He came with war dogs to breach the tower
Tripped the wire
Stormed the gate
Then laughed as everything caught fire

He obliterated all within an hour

By the time I arrived, I was already too late
The ash was cool, the blood was sour
His dogs had fell into spiked trenches
So he managed to go around defenses
And have his way

I caught him in the temple
Just as he had rung the bell
He had placed every head he took
On a silver plate
And bade me, “Wait…
We’ve not yet had dessert.”

I told him his dogs died better than he ever lived
And that I’d rather die like them than ever give in

He just smiled at me and said,
“Better a beast with a name
Than a man without one, eh?”
.
.
.
Now the memory teeters on a pedestal
The minute hand losing its power
But I am tantric…
Chanting my mantra even louder.

Picture

untitled by Our Wanderings

Damn I’m tired
Tired of the cops
Tired of this bullshit,
Mistakes and mishaps
I’m going to end up as another statistic
Another black man chained and
Dead…

Here I lay
Dying cuffed up
On the street
Finally getting one fucking ounce
Of sympathy
10 minutes too late-
Around me,
I feel
Life
slow-            ly

But

Surely

Slipping

Out

Of me
My eyes open
Breathing sluggishly

I can’t move

I CAN’T BREATHE-

God please give me peace

A cop says, “Hey just keep breathing buddy.”
Giving me a gregarious pat.
As if I were an old friend.
Damn
it’s just too late for that.

Limp I lie, as dead as a door nail
I just need to
keep

Breathing

Keep-

Breathing
As I lay dying on the ground
Choosing between heaven
Or staying in this hell

Thoughts

Slow

Down

God, please

Watch out…

For

My.                   Wife

And

ki-


Jericho Bar & Grill

stranger, dangerously collared blues
(named emblazoned on his bowling shirt, not him)
Joshua, sits outside the neon hum
night falling, shadows calling

a black case footside open
gleaming brass, a gas attack
(or is it just the puffs of smoke
filt’ring from the premises?)
he coughs, clears his throat
setting fedora down for change

picks Trumpet up to play
picks trumpet for to play
foreplay to the nightly battle
(music comes from just inside
jukebox memories)
and blows

Mercury rattles inside his switches
planets align and the walls shake
with one blast of his horn
Joshua fit the Battle of Jericho
but did they hear
did they hear?

the Grille’s abuzz
and the gas lights in the window vibrate
to the Cadence

a mournful sound
as shots’re passed round
and those that exit
pay their long over dues
coins rattle jingle, greenbacks crinkled
like the toker’s eyes
and Joshua sighs
picks up his hat
and shuffles down the block for wine

Inspired by R.G Kirk’s WHISPER by A Furious Child

That wavering tune inside my head
Living deep within the darkness,
Hiding its truest purpose,
Had once more resurfaced…
Streaming away in rivers of sand,
Leaving all in absolute chaos
To torment my bleeding heart…Slowly stripping away all sanity,
Down a stream moves so subtly
To reawaken a voice so tiny
And of past faults reminds me…

I shall live with all regrets,
And dance in old outfits…
And singing along, my vanity,
Atones for years with no memory
Of loved ones so long gone
And lost souvenirs set on stone…

Tender Darkness by Frederick Andrew

Tender will the darkness be
when you at last submit
full of exquisite agony
so patiently applied

each gentle stroke
and firm caress
move toward the precipice
then hesitate ….
and draw away
to languish just a bit.

while on the edge
you quiver
soon to beg for sweet release

and in the fall the darkness roars
before the blessed peace
when satisfied you crawl away
where you can lick …
your wounds.

The Firelight by Ric Rudnicki

Ascending harmony with a shooting star kiss
Atmosphere awakens
The Zoetic deep blue
Remains resplendent, lustrous reasons riding my waves and touch
Into the unrevealed gorgeousness of her heart
Any Caesar would arc before her simper

Many the ghosts would find their skin
Many the men would shore their hearts to her bones

Glorious ivory
Unprofaned
Untainted
Borne from the fountain of an untroubled breath of life

She is the dance of a lifetime to come

Empress of the sweep that frames my heart….

Reign down upon me….
A gift to your calm
My believing earth
is now your perfect throne

Home by Kamalika Jayathilaka

Where birdsong beckon a new day’s dawn
And faint naked footsteps stain unkempt floors
When old pots rattle and tea mugs are poured
Dust laden windows but languidly yawn

Where sweet sticky rice and jaggery tastes divine
Bananas overripe entice passing flies
A cacophony of stories and laughter combine
With more sips of tea over the Sunday Times

Where grey clouds cry their rain heavy eyes
And monsoon’s flames light the bellowing skies
Where mute birds wait in the jasmine vines
As dark miry waters down tired hills decline

Hissing oil in pans and smoke fired eyes
Ants in the treacle and treats stacked in piles
Love served with smiles and awakened old ties
It’s where my heart lies this sweet home of mine

Pilgrimage by Allene Angelica

In a world
Of no understanding
On a pilgrimage
Will embark
With pleasant company
(Me)
To a point of no return
A guiding hand
Registers with compass
But pay no heed
Speaking of dreams
Goals, lofty and small
Knowing I can’t
Have it all
But
(Myself)
Included
In convo
Argue with passion
As to the best course
Of action
As the ark of thought
Drifts
Over smooth waters
For
( I )
Though unwilling
Must navigate
The turbulent
Sea of society
With only me
Myself and I
As my truth

Nature: Humans by Vicki Bashor

You’ve searched the clouds
the horizon
for clues into your soul.
You’ve reached down in
deep and felt your heart
beating on a level scale
with the little drummer
boy, whose only gift
was beating his drum
for his king, the nobility
and simplicity of this
a reckoning for which
there are no other
words.
You’ve packed your suitcase
full and said good bye,
waving your troubles
away like birds in the sky,
wondering why
you still feel
empty.
Taking them back again
and again, the avian
problems a chore and
maybe more than a poem
can attest, if sounding
like in three stanzas
you’ve collected your senses
succinctly noting your
defenses and wealthy
charitability.
Cynicism casts its wide
wide wide shadow,
enveloping me as I read
and digest earnest
leanings and feelings
heartfelt and deep,
but losing me
when I hear bleating sheep
looking for sympathy
or a shepherd so sweet
as to taste your meat,
unload your suitcase
and kill your tones
your avian moans
so low
in self-awareness, and yet,
I get this .. your feelings
elemental to your being
and your words feeding
my hungry reading,
your seeding of the future
a breathless test of elegance.

Danae by Peter Schonefeld

Run Danae, for the air is on fire
and your sex has been claimed by the wire
and all those vectors pointing at you.
(Hear the glee of the unseen behind the screen
as they fiddle with their privates – It’s a gag!)
Then again, is it you Danae, in control?
Do you court Zeus as he grovels at your
feet like a worm?  Let them in Danae?

101 Diminutions by Michael Veloff

see I want my Flock
gathered, gathering
to Be
spoon fed on Words of Solace

the Comforter
(thread bare)
and the Cold sets in

my Bones
(the creaks run dry)
and I, the lonely Tapper
sometimes Microphone yapper
in my Satellite of

Soli(CI)tude

come to me,
let me Shear the Edges
of your Tangled Main Streets
I am my Brother’s Keeper
but I keep
(mainly)
to Myself

CI scattered syllables
on Phlogiston’s weary wings
(the Aethers)
a series of Diminutions

Reductio Ad Absurdum
a word
the Word
echoes, echoes
never Heard

Picture

Rain by Vicki Bashor

You talk of the rain
like she is your mistress.
Stiletto spikes in droves
and bits of love
carried with clear,
clean wind kisses,
downpours of sweet
liquid and missed
calls, texts and emails
while you watch her
undress her silky
moist shower of loneliness
onto your level
best shelf of wantonness.
Rain the female,
torn from cumuli scorned
of her, doing away with her,
tossing her ashore with
the ocean riptides or onto blue
porches and ladder rungs
dripping, she waves at the
stars on her way down
to you, and you’re
there to catch her
on your tongue.


Picture

Rain Is For Others by Robert Horton

The village green
And its linen fellows
Bask in summer’s
Dappled yellows,
Bowling leather
Onto linseed willows
Beneath the fluffy
Cotton pillows.

Children playing
Shooting peas,
Stinging faces
And grazing knees,
Gran and grandad
Sip their teas
On chequered blankets
Under trees.

Upon a sudden
Skies grow dark,
People shelter
And dogs bark,
The darting sparrow,
The silent lark
Scatter raindrops
On a sodden park.

Ominous rumbles
A flash of light,
The tempest’s fury
With all its might,
Causes weary lovers
To cuss and fight
To part as strangers
Into the night.

Spectating sisters
Watch fielding brothers,
As doting fathers
Kiss expectant mothers,
Folding neatly
Their mackintosh covers
And all agreeing
That rain is for others.


 “I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate. All those moments will be lost in time… like tears in rain…” ~ Roy, Blade Runner

“like tears in rain” by Peter Schonefeld

I wish i wasn’t here
(in the rain)
crying for those things i’ll never do
(ever or again)
or the people i’ll never meet
(foregone children)

like i have a choice

deep tears in heavy rain
knowing my time is done
(so i tell myself,
with a pang of jealousy
for the live walkers
even though i know
the stones of Ozymandias
too were lost in the rain &
the clouds will still form
valleys when i’m gone)

i spite Death with a smile,
[small cough]
and thank the replicant for
the sense to mourn the end
of memory and imagination,
like those tears he lost …

in the rain.

NHI by Robert C. Price

I stand here with
my hands up
in total surrender
All you see is
otherness
Taking pop shots
at my sternum,
kidneys and heart
Brain matter splatter
on the macadam
What we’ve become
is foreign
NHI tatted on my chest
Nowhere to run
Nowhere to rest
It doesn’t matter
That I got dreams too
You see the TV and
think you know me
You don’t want to
know me
I’m a wart on society
Bringing out your
Compound W to
Dissolve who I am
I’m like herpes, baby
I last forever
Always right below
your lip and in
every crevice
All In the
Background Staining
Your Alabaster blinders

untitled by Ric Rudnicki

Sparked
On fire
Like a creator
Famished from the cold long winter without the thought of her

Inclined to fall with the stars
At her feet
Imbued by her scent here on earth

Contessa
Of my shine
Of my breath
Immutable kiss left on my lips as she suns down on my bones
Now the chamber of love

No room for idle hearts
As we beat the sky into the celestial blue yonder
A mirror to the sun and stars and moon

A blissful swoon
A dance divine

I come undone
In her arms Again….

no remorse by Patrick B. Vince

what’s up with the fascination of I
you sit there with your pad taking notes
have you gotten enough
I have more still to give
what do you want to know
how I was abused as a kid
was bullied and picked on
how I wouldn’t fight back
until one day I snapped
saw nothing but black
heard the sirens
remember the cuffs
escort to the police car
constantly asked why I did it
I didn’t know
I didn’t care
found out later
I killed a kid
somehow I felt justified

 Stranger by Jean Billheimer

She stood there
Hesitating
Feeling as a bird about to take
flight
Wondering where her courage
went
She’s alone

As I watch her
struggle
Fighting the urge to flee
I realize I am
looking in a mirror

2 Poems by Our Featured Moderator: RC deWinter (as picked by the other mods)

early exit

eventually the day comes
when everything you’ve ever done
has been admired and praised
and leaves you staring at a blank wall
wondering now what?

what have all those words brought you
but the need to outdo yourself?
where do you go when you stand
at the top of the ladder
and realize there is no roof
waiting to receive you?

a chill wind steals through your marrow
all your hot red blood congealing
as the cold of alone is pumped
on its appointed round by the stubborn
beating of your empty heart

you stand before the mirror
In the autumn of your life
and watch as leaves detach themselves
gently at first
then in a furious blizzard
until the only thing staring back
is the ivory skull of
death in life

winter is coming
after an autumn more bitter than sweet
no sun of indian summer has warmed you
and you lie
listless
unable to find the will to build a fire

all the treasure in your counting house
cannot buy you what you need
you have the love of strangers
but you and your shadow stand alone

the world falls at your feet
you climb over mute recumbent bodies
as you make your way to the door

the gingerbread girl

i remember the feel of wet sand
between my toes
squishing under my weight
and lightly scratching
the bottoms of my feet
running wild and careless
along the periphery
of the ocean where it kissed the shore
only stopping to pick up a seashell
so i could hear the salty voice
of the sea caressing my ear
summer sun
unnoticed
baking me to a rich golden brown
a gingerbread girl
alive and fearless
standing on the sands of time
those sands have long run out
now i stand
feet boxed in socks and boots
on ashes and soot
with nowhere to run
not kissed by anything or anyone
the voice of the sea a dim whisper
in my catalogue of memories
skin pale like ancient veined marble
and just as cold
the gingerbread girl is dead
just a dim memory in stale crumbs

EndNotes
Moderators/Co-Editors/Co-Founders:
RC deWinter
Chris Flegel
Uma Venkatraman
Michael David Saunders Hall (aka the 21st Century Griot)

Very Special Thanks To All Contributors. Remember: the poet tree will be streamed…& from the lips of wisdom, the life’s last labors of love, especially the arts, will divulge museful knowledge through the awe of it all to our ears of understanding. So, let’s forever indulge in the delicious ecstasies and agonies of our writing to infinity and beyond. Till next time, Write On/;-)

Recommended Reading:
1. horoscopes for the dead by Billy Collins
2. Spontaneous Mind: Selected Interviews of Allen Ginsberg, 1958-1996 edited by David Carter
3. Deliberate Prose: Selected Essays of Allen Ginsberg, 1952-1995 edited by Bill Morgan
4. The Art of War by Sun Tzu, translated by Lionel Giles
©2014 Words on Fire (in association with AfroDamus Jonze: The 21st Century Griot & The Poet Tree).
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