Words on Fire V1E6 [Revised]


Clarence from “It’s A Wonderful Life”

Words On Fire
Imagineers of Pyrotechnic Poetics
Volume 1 Edition 6
( for October 4 – December 6, 2014)


  • Mickey Draca
  • Le Hornet
  • Tonscher 01
  • Vicki Bashor
  • Frank Ramon
  • Michael French
  • Jennifer Skochinski
  • Steve Campbell Grant
  • S.L. Weisend
  • Denise Baxter Yoder
  • Kristy Rulebreaker
  • AF Knott
  • José Eduardo Coelho
  • Qalbi Qaali (Yarta Yasmin)
  • Don Morgan
  • Matt Cox
  • Jean Billheimer
  • K. Leigh Thoma
  • A Furious Child
  • Fergus Martin
  • Lynn Paden
  • Allene Angelica
  • Jerry Desbrow
  • Jane Hunter
  • Daseph J. Edwards (Rick Maury)
  • Paul White14 - 19
  • Dennis Edwards
  • Debbie Green Razey
  • Loretta Leslie
  • Mac Dre
  • Seraphime Angelis
  • Weak Perfection
  • Robert Horton
  • & featured moderator, Chris Flegel
untitled by Mickey Draca
 We Didn't Start the Fire
Memory like orthodox tyrant
Cuts down my personality
Now I’m divided into numbered pieces
Each one sways on a branch of death
Bruising my elbows’ sonnetsIf only the ghosts could whisper
Into hearts of anathema
My soul would linger dead emotion
Towards the fists
Towards violation

Of awe in circular hell
Metamorphosing in anathema well

Memory like orthodox tyrant
Swaying my pupils in clairvoyant
Bleeding pain, vision and hearth
Of my darkness myriad.

untitled tanka by Tonscher 01

In the Middle East
Fanaticism is King
Sanity bleeds out
Common sense lays dying there
Madness arms it’s followers
E.B.O.L.A. by Le Hornet
E = Exaggeration, for the media highly exaggerate,
they try and keep you in a hysteria state.

B = Blame, as the media blame a certain people,
If they had any true concern they would have
contained such a disease, but they don’t believe
in treating people equal.

O = Organised, as the media try and organise more
chaos than peace, they enjoy putting you in
fear in the west, as they talk bad about the east.

L = Lies, as they continue to make up statistics,
at the same time being hypocrites, because if
we as a mass knew the truth, would bring in
active solutions and better logistics.

A = Arrogance, as any western nation feels no
true sympathy, as we have up to date and
evolved medical facilities.


CoMMence pOEm………. HOrNEt Mind IniTIAted……….

O.K…. BEGin……

Ebola has been here since 1976,
with all the years of medicals advances,
you still cannot find a fix?

I don’t believe that,
you help who you wanna help,
the rest can just die flat on their back.

I see you trying to put
a new fear in the air,
fear is a bigger disease,
especially if the people’s
understanding is not clear.

in truth it’s obvious to see,
you have no intention
to help your fellow man…


I sense you have a bigger plan,
the concept of an actual disease
may occur,
I saw a  slight theory in the
amazing spider man;

But it is no different from resident evil,
moved from lab rats and monkeys and
thought it’s time to test the people,
disease the local occupants
bring it to public appeal.

Ebola is classified as Bio Level 4 disease,
to others can be used as a weapon,
it’s not only psychological,
but can be used biological;

They got FEMA camps and coffins ready,
for their long term mission…
as they steady go with their plans
which involves human extinction.

They make you fear something,
which can be controlled,
but the less you know about something
the more they have you on a stronghold.

Ebola is not just a curable disease,
they would rather create death threats,
as the rich could care less,
if the poor decease or decrease.

U.K is clearly in denial,
as they speak on such subjects,
but their care can’t even walk a mile;

Exhausted by the first check point,
as you set up checkpoints,
terrorising your own nation,
the government are the real terrorist
the new world for the
U.S is a FEMA plantation.

I guess…
it’s not time to guess…
it is the time to know…
as we enter the new dark age,
you better find your light,
because now…
now is the time to glow.

“A world where we praise evolution,
humans de-evolve, why we will soon
meet our conclusion”


Inspired by Emerson  by  Vicki Bashor

The world rolls and the
circumstances change
every hour. Nothing
is outweighing or staying.
We’ve got one giant
collective eye prowling
in the cellar whether
for good or evil.
We are untamable, even
as we are sheep. We are
alive and significant.
I look beyond the earth for
worth to revive. Passion and
truth rebuild the world
for our youth. We are all
enameled in fire.

14 - 18

Never Again To See by Frank Ramon

Who will close their eyes
On the day that they die
Run rivers of blood
And they die for lies
And for a god
That they can not see

Believing the words
Spewing from the
Mouths of men
Not gods
Not gods

Oh how vain you are
To think that
You could drag
The suns of the universe
Like raging dogs
To fight your petty battles
While greed hides in its disguise

Worship the flag
They tell us
As sheep are led to slaughter
Red the color of the blood shed
On the battle ground
Blue the color of the sky
Above the battle ground
White the color of
The turned up eyes
Never again to see
The wonder

14 - 17

What I Want by Michael French

It’s pretty basic

There is a hill outside of town
my schedule has taken me up there a few times
just as the sun is coming up
I know a spot I can pull over
watch it as it happens
It’s not silent there….
There are big black crows most of the time
and the wind never seems to stop
I can’t describe it as pretty in any way
The planet is turning towards our star as it must
This is one of those places
I can feel it happening
That is what I am after
That sense of the actual reality
It’s not about us
Never was

On the other hand

I read a lot of pretty poetry
There is passion and fire
and from time to time
I get to write like that,
especially about my Wife..
Fancy language, however, is not needed
to talk about the times she has simply
listened while I worked through a situation
And then give me no option,
just by her belief in me
but to do the right thing as I see it
And live with the consequences
That is what I needed
That sense of actual togetherness
It’s about us
Always has been

14 - 20

“Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during the moment.”

–Carl Sandburg
untitled by Qalbi Qaali
Fragile threads bond us
Thinning in each direction
Holding on to something
That never was
14 - 51
Mio Nonno/My Grandpa by Jennifer Skochinski

Forever, will I remember the day, the hour, the second..hearing the words of death.

Mio Nonno/My Grandpa, I will miss you.
Bursting into tears, struggle to catch my breath.

Forever, will I remember his capacity of compassion, teachings of old with both a

toughness and tenderness.

Mi Nonno/My Grandpa, I will miss you.
Heart aching, struggling, feeling restless.

14 - 91

Needled, nine times by Steve Campbell Grant

What if I told you
About the person I once loved
And probably still love
And miss
With all my heart?
Such was a kind
When I was a kid
Caring fellow
O How he loved me
Love like I never knew
He carried savage lies
As they ravaged the
vein branches of his innocence
Needled, repeated
Poisoned again and then…
There! – I would point –
With a small boys urgency
Just there
Like a Medusas head tattooed justly
Beneath untainted skin
He was the gatekeeper of insidious secrets
Hero of my happiness and
Gaoler of sticking sorrows
His –
Mine –
Brother-father of mine
You never let on –
Stayed true
A kid of four with
An absurd peculiar burden
Peculiar truth
Peculiar responsibility
For a little boy –
“Grow up, grow up!” came the witch like demands
Of the situation makers
His horned and calloused skin
Thickened by the trickery
Because a lie needs a lie needs a lie –
I hated him for that
I loved him, too
Was all I knew
He was my best friend
We were partners against
Heinous idiocy
And who could ever
When understanding was the least of any ones concern?
What if I told you
How we were kids once
We two brothers
Necessary friends
When all other children could ever do
was only ever
as children can do?
Shared innocence
Shared love
A depth, an understanding
remained “us and ours”
Then to now – forever just “us and ours”
Our pain
Our secret
Origin to morose self loathing
Remember me
I miss you
I long for how
I would hold your hand
When it was mine to hold
I would snatch it greedily
Convinced it would always be-
You knew me when I
Was Primary School made, unfettered
A free and happy kid
Before I was double figured
Before this life demanded
Was my third year in –
2 years and one marked
And the beginning of a lifetimes bereavement
Why’d it have to change
This playful aura of early education?
Yellowing school building boards
Warming sun and wide verandah
Grey wooden expanse in my mind
Friends were mine then
“Friends” o where – I wonder
There was Ian and Phil
and Igor
I recall
and Laura –
maybe Georgina too
We’d play catch’n’kiss or
(I could never catch those summer afternoon dresses)
Sometimes I go back to that playground
I imagine the heckling crackling of dead red leaves beneath my feet
Dry leaves and the screaming of little girls
Old man winter tree would watch on
Witness to free and early personality forming
I think on the winding valley avenue
Weeping willow waiting
Dangling, dancing, dappling
In this sacred Summer haze
What happened to my childhood?
You were there, brother
It was flat chat and Pine Gap
In every home a Big Mac…
My super hero
I’d sing about you
All praise and fond regard
You told me
mum said
We’re moving
I tried to make it best
All courage and flexibility
But starting is always hardest
When starting presents tough, tangling challenges.
Life in Quala by S.L. Weisend

without the pitter-patter,
a quantum of love is still love, a spit of rain remains rain.
& somehow the measure of absence becomes the bitter proof of ones presence.

& it doesn’t seem to matter when time decides to fling itself off the ledger, as long as it is not at this moment.

This is life qualified.

Only, the precise metric for quality does not seem to exist. But, if it did, wouldn’t it improve the science of religion along with other things like the distribution of goods, such as


& wouldn’t it be a better if we would measure our lives this way, rather than in bulk?

as if life were nothing more than a procession of bright heart-beats riding a conveyor belt on their way to being checked out.


picture taken by Denise Baxter Yoder

untitled by Denise Baxter Yoder
Awaiting stages of  lightness
Leaves  say goodbye
Indigo skies bear souls
Crowded by contemplation
Looking straight past the latest glimmer
Vying for first sight beyond the rim
With passing tremors
Felt by those fated to look forward
Fever and cool winds find ways to greet
Wondering if hello is the next new word
In the fragility of  a timeless  transition
14 - 1
No Guests by Kristy Rulebreaker

Today my phone
is drunk
My locks
are jammed
My windows
are deaf
Today my day
needs no guests
Today I need
a silence
to hear the stories
of my heart
to wipe the tears
if it cries

Bumper To Bumper by AF Knott

This morning I awoke inside my car,
On the Expressway,
Where somebody
Or some
Had attached all the cars
Bumper to bumper,
Waking up at the same time
In our driver’s seats,
Listening to news radio,
Doors welded shut
And my front bumper
Attached to the Prius in front,
A Ford pick up in back
My gear shift removed
Air conditioning ON
Cup of coffee in its holder,
Jelly donut on a napkin
In the passenger seat,
Workers in hazard suits
Waving us forward
Though gas pedal gone,
No brakes,
Line of cars heading
Straight Into
The Midtown Tunnel,
Out of which smoke billowed
And flames could be seen
The closer we got.

I sipped my coffee,
Glanced in the rearview mirror,
At the guy in the truck pounding
His steering wheel, lady ahead,
In her Prius, slumped
Sideways, passed out, I guess,
As I took a bite of jelly donut, reached up and realized
I hadn’t put Rogaine on my scalp that morning.
As I usually did before leaving the house.
That made me a little uncomfortable,
The idea of going bald all the quicker.

Sud Express by José Coelho

What’s the matter with trains?

Is there a disposable vertigo swirling inside one’s veins, is there?

Anything as cocoon’s threads weaving a helmet around one’s head?

A way out, an emergency exit, please, just in case you freak out before arrival at some safe place and I’m bemusedly absent, scratching my own groin and

by the time Gare d’Austerlitz leaks out of the frenzied view, I could be exploring the
sweetness of your eyes, tongue in tongue, persuading flavors to reprogram my sensory papillae, exquisitely bathing the inner landscape of your thighs with the sound of skin addicted kisses and the rumor of balsa tree leaves, waving, outside

at me, through the mat glass.

So, what’s the matter with me? Have I spun the memory all too fast, the memory traveling inside that train?

14 - 01

Celebrity by S.L. Weisend

When you are found dead at 38, whether it be:

In a hotel room with bath-steam cloying the atmosphere with odors of brewed iron, ammonia, and old sweat, steaming up the mirror through which you exited,
or tossed in a stone-washed denim heap at the end of route 66 with a needle point design punched into a bony chest,
or, was it from a silk encased pillow? Downy feathers pressed into ripe lavender lips and those high-dollar panties cinched to purpling wrists,

The people will wallow in your demise, as their narrative is now completely fucked up by the unexpected twist in your fate
and they will blame the stars for letting them down, once again.

But your fate was not written in the stars, but in scars too dull to read, as there is no adjective less intriguing than lonely and none more common than afraid. And yet…

nobody ever thought to come to your assistance. After all, nobody thought you were human, until they were digging the grave.


Psychedelic Pic of Miles Via Tumblr

Haiku by Tonscher 01

Endless high drama
Modelled of frozen water
Clouds enter stage right


Soul tilted by sea snails
Crime above moments of sanity
I am dirt and mud
Silk and lace

I’m hungry for decay

My burden is a bliss


             by  Mickey Draca
Somnambulant by Don Morgan

I still find myself wandering through the house searching
for something,
eventually, that will stop.

Still, in the mornings, I have this feeling I am forgetting something
important and I take another look around before I go,
eventually, that will change.

At night, I lay awake with thoughts that turn to tears
and then confusion,
eventually, I know I will learn to sleep.

At times, I catch myself trying to decide whether
I truly want to live at all, but I think,
eventually, that should pass.

And, when I think of you and wonder what happened,
I try to pretend you aren’t really gone,
eventually, I hope to get over that too.

Movie by Michael French

Had a dream where the credits started to roll

(No, I didn’t read them)

Yes they were both there at the same time
and they saw each other and shared a moment
But she and he are very different people
that instant will need constant care and attention

Had a dream that ended the way stories normally do

The Hero was left standing, however
what would follow would be the day to day
stuff that requires someone who knows how to
maintain and justify, not just win

Had a dream where I didn’t get the Girl

She was a friend and I thought we could be more
but she wanted to meet my other friend
I felt like a fifth wheel and left them too it
It was a bad moment when I woke up

Had that other dream I have all the time

The cars are just the wheels and steering
Places come and go all out of order
I wake up and I don’t regret it
Always takes me a little while to sleep again

“Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things

which escape those who dream only by night.”

–Edgar Allen Poe

I Miss You by Matt Cox
I miss you
I can’t remember when
the people in my closet
stopped dancing for me
stopped reaching out

I have tried to change
the music I play for them
the way I look at them
what I say to them

But they won’t dance
with me anymore
their faces are so sad
I’ve opened my arms

I respect their boundaries
I hang my coats near them
I want them to know that
I’m still close

Maybe one day we can dance again
One day before it’s done
And I could fit inside them
One day.

The Seasons by Jean Billheimer

Spring flits
In soft new greens
And gentle rains
And sweet birdsong

Summer stutters
In sultry days
Of new mown grass
And cicada nights

Autumn hurtles
In brilliant shades
of rustling leaves
and gusty winds

Winter lumbers
with snowy feet
and frosty glass
and cozy nights

Spring soften things
and stirs our hearts
Summer slows us down
with lazy wonder

Autumn shakes us up
and hurries us along
Winter wraps us up
to dream and slumber

Spring flits
Summer stutters
Autumn Hurtles
Winter lumbers


Goodbye by K. Leigh Thoma

Puffed cigarettes and lies
Wine and heartfelt tries
Promises and cries
Early morning goodbyes

Broken words and lies
Questions and surprise
Pleading and cries
Late night goodbyes

Ignorance and lies
Blindness and broken ties
Disbelief and cries
Only silent goodbyes

Nothingness and lies
Empty phone and empty lines
No longer any cries
Goodbye. Goodbye.

Dangling Leaves by Vicki Bashor

There are still leaves
barely hanging on
the trees in my yard.
I feel like them,
swinging, dangling,
hung little criminals
or maybe
they’ve just got an
exceptional grip.
I don’t have the latter.
I let slip anything that
starts to make me
hurt, sometimes even
people who matter.
I’m not needy so much
as sentimental and
loyal. Like the leaves,
I toil for my trees,
and go down with
my brothers.
The dangling fronds
still hung up shake
in the breeze of
their discomfort.
That is me. Time to
run again.
Time to leave.


 Black and Blues by K. Leigh Thoma

The brothers and the sisters
And all of the well wishers
The bastards and the legitimates too

The beater and the broken
And those with crimes unspoken
They’re all waiting for their next cue

The hero and the coward
And those that are devoured
The too many and the too few

The lowly and the highly
All of those who follow blindly
They’re all singing the black and blues

You sing high or you sing low
You set sail or say land ho
You do what you do ‘cause you do it so well

You try hard or not so much
You say it’s go, or say it’s touch
You do what you do ‘cause you got a story to tell

The misters and the misses
And all the little kisses
The spinsters and the bachelors woo

The sinners and the saints
And the ones who say they ain’t
They’re all waiting in the next pew

The slow dogs and the cool cats
And all the hungry street rats
They’re all trying to get a view

The blessed and the meek
And those who seem so chic
They’re all singing the black and blues

You sing high or you sing low
You set sail or say land ho
You do what you do ‘cause you do it so well

You try hard or not so much
You say it’s go, or say it’s touch
You do what you do ‘cause you got a story to tell


Poetry by A Furious Child

To me,
Poetry is an image,
An illustration that captures a moment
In the midst of Time,
For it takes the momentary
Through words and sounds,
And resurrects it back to Life and Perception.
It is the Concept and the Voice
Of men and women
Who announce to the world
What stirs the cores of their souls
And the sensations of their physiques,
Through which, they dissolute
All boundaries of Time, Space, and Mind,
For it is true Inception.
It is the tale told
To you and me,
And to the thousands of years to come.
It enchants all with the art of expression,
Enveloping and liberating the minds
With plots, characters, and speeches,
And with messages and themes,
Though some are hidden in the core,
Traces can lead to
Every corner of the universe.
Poetry is my…


Breakfast Club [GIF]…hard to believe that movie came out almost 30 years ago.

The Soul Not Sold by Kristy RulebreakerLook at me
So stupid
The soul not sold

Look at my shoes
The objects of pity
The cheap means of transport

Look at my status
The laughingstock
The party for ruthless

Look at my resume
The fine sand
in the broken bag

I have nothing
I have all
The soul not sold

2 Poems by Fergus Martin


“The great abyss waits for the souls of the undeclared”

Windows shuttered to the world outside,
doors forever sealed against the pain,
empty chambers whisper tales of longing,
mortal souls lost in the corridors of hell.

“The emptiness of time will blind the un-enlightened”

Runes that speak loud to darkened hearts,
words dancing in the grim of evermore,
resounding in their sad unspoken truth
reminisce on the shadows of the past.

“Oblivion awaits the undecided”

Path leading forward going nowhere,
stationary crossroads seeks direction,
way ahead re-routes unto itself,
journey without end begins again.

“All will be tested, few will be spared”

Over and again he read the words,
fragments of his life flowed in their meaning,
stagnant in the boundaries of his mind,
over and again he failed to see.

In The Attic

Rafters whistle with winter winds,
old chairs rock quiet in the eaves,
grooves flickering in twilight shadows,
contemplating destiny.

Cardboard boxes lined in rows,
childhoods sit securely sealed,
locked in time for future playgrounds,
frozen temporarily.

Images framed in the dust of time,
forever still in captured moments,
forgotten treasure awaiting plunder,
creating immortality.

Cases full of worn out tapes.
films we watched repeatedly,
now unwatched they gather dust,
in silent tranquillity.

Lamps that flickered in the dark,
forever dimmed their light has shone,
no more to brighten up the room,
outdated inefficiency.

A lifetime’s memories lie hidden,
stored away for safekeeping,
held in stasis by the past,
dreams in perpetuity.

2 Poems by Vicki Bashor

Black Flies

The last of the prairie grass
on land as even as glass
till 300 miles north
into the Black Hills.
Red-tail hawks circle here
and the North Platte
flows clear and flat
as if along a tabletop,
western Nebraska haunts me
as it did Jack Kerouac.
Railroad country
for the beef industry.
Beautiful big skies
-Kerouac was right
full of manure-loving black flies.

This Hour

Long have I been absent, reticent
to show myself in undress.

Hesitant, not eloquent, expressive
more in intellect than reflection.

Salient, I’ve made the connection, a concession
for recompense in recollections and

Selections of my senses, fragments
in some kind of an elegant dissection.

Fractions of me lay open, unfolding
this thought, this hour, inspiration floating.

Thoreau said to “elevate life by conscious endeavor.”
I awaken and spread slowly like fog over a river.

14 - 121
water…  by  Lynn Paden
so much water
but true

pulling in
so fast
pushing out
so hard

almost like breathing

i sat
too weak to enjoy
the tide

watching him
and glide

the power of the sea

conquering it
for me

and i followed
with my eyes
his taming
of the waves

without speaking

drawing in
the ocean air

with all that was left of me


2 poems by K. Leigh Thoma


Tip Toe Tip Toe
Look beyond your sight
Tip Toe Tip Toe
Shrouded wolves posses the night

Tip Toe Tip Toe
They’re hiding in the dark
Tip Toe Tip Toe
Their bites precede their bark

Hush Hush
Keep it quiet, keep it to yourself
Hush Hush
Speak not of it, your voice up on the shelf

Hush Hush
Choices made, out in the open air
Hush Hush
Keep your tongue, while flaunted without care

Silent Silent
Listen beyond the sound
Silent Silent
Mendacity all around

Silent Silent
It should have all been clear
Silent Silent
Can’t heed what you can’t hear

Loudly!  Loudly!
Pontificating upon love and upon life
Loudly!  Loudly!
Hypocrisy, considering the back and bloody knife

Loudly!  Loudly!
Declaring “I give nothing but love and gentle touch”
Loudly!  Loudly!
Methinks, perhaps, thou protest perhaps a bit too much


Growled and grunted and groaned
Went down the rocky lane
To the valley that moaned

Like a mouth that is swallowing a pill
The valley was deep
Just waiting for the kill

Down, straight down
Bend at the right
There’s no turning around

Down straight down
Keep walking straight
You know where you are bound

Darkened, dampened and dense
The ground was soft
The pressure was immense

Down in the bottom of that hole
The air was thick
The earth greedy for souls

Down, straight down
Bend at the right
There’s no turning around

Down straight down,
Keep walking straight
You know where you are bound

Walking through upstretched hands
Nails are black
The fingers begging for command

My hope, my charity, my gain
They all went to hell
When I wandered down that lane

Down, straight down
Bend at the right
There’s no turning around

Down straight down,
Keep walking straight
You know where you are bound


Monty Python [GIF] via FFFFOUND!

untitled tanka by Tonscher 01

Sodium lights shine
Nature’s darkness lit by man
Burning Earth’s fuel
Was there higher life on Mars?
Did they make the same mistakes?

We Listened by Allene Angelica

In my somber wellies
I clumsily walked
Through lanky grass
As coconut palms talked
About the lore
And the bore
Of human nature

A breeze whispered
Our dreams

Hot and humid
Sweat trickled down
The back of my neck
While on and on
I trekked

I followed
In the footsteps
Of one I hold dear
In his strength
I have no fear

I wriggled my toes
In the heat
I felt the uneven ground
Beneath my feet

It rained
The day before
But not today
But I’m sure
More is in store
Tis the season

A breeze whispered
Our dreams

Volcanic rocks
Littered helter-skelter
Imagined scenes
Violent days of yester

A tug of my hand
I looked up
You smiled
I beamed back
In the knowledge
That love
Is the one thing
We do not lack

A breeze whispered
Our dreams

We listened


Journey Through by José Coelho

It’s terrible when your background image becomes stronger than the reality behind it

dulled acid filaments
wired lanes

depot of memories

it’s terrible when your mind absorbs all those pictures of rough life events, cutting,

polishing, re-framing them into a scenic amalgam that you set as your background

diversion tool

in hope of

expanding your illusion
of past
into the future.

Is this not
what we all do?

Perverting time in order
to make present
arise from its static


Greyhound Bus by Jerry Desbrow

Sleeping on the plastic bench; bus scheduled
expected soon, no one trusts the timing
dreaming till arrival, contorted,
conflicted adventure mine.

Awakening to music of dancing
droplets, multicolored sprites over
deep pools at the base
of waters cascading falls.

The wandering soul hungry,
reeling; lost, lacking sense void of
thinking; winking fogs spectre
from plaintive eyes smelling morning breeze.

Acute senses tell time’s apparent;
my circadian rhythm spent, Amy’s
love before me held; fending off deaths
cunning hand too soon may beckon.

To speak at twenty, who are we  to say,
for all it’s sweet faults;
reflected music once stopped
colors the tatter beauty of my age.

Turned my head once too much
falling off the bed to concrete floor
to the sound of a crying child and
the Greyhound’s arrival Albuquerque time.


Psychedelic Dylan [GIF] via FFFFOUND!

Tears and Flowers by Don Morgan

The ghost of night shades
the waterfront, cliffs and his
hasty footprints in
the sand. Painted flowers and
her tears flow back to the sea.

14 - 41

2 Poems by Kristy Rulebreaker

No One

One chair
and the air
Her lips curved
on the wrong side
To make her smile
there is no one

Cold drink
and one glass
To toast with her
there is no one

Blue skin
and the draft
There is no one
to warm her arms

False Colors

All your
holy goodness
The vases
with artificial
You fooled
many others
with your
false colors
but not me

Allow Me by Michael French
To write
about not wanting to write
about not having that feeling
and what feeling that is,
in the first place
is a very difficult thing to get into wordsRound and round
that particular piece of logic
has a mind of its own

Is this too inside?
Is that just the thrashing around of a mind
that seems to feel it has nothing
to actually get across…?

or is that in its way
part of it the overall thing…
that thing we are all
working our way through?

On our way

We have no choice in that

Even sitting still
refusing everything is a choice
and moves things along
Even not writing says something

There is no great mystery here
I decided to sit down and write about
not writing
You have only yourself to blame
for allowing this to happen

In the Search of Pi Limits – II (Impossible Poetry) by José Coelho

we. are
we. are a sequence of digits
we. are a sequence of digits rehearsing
we. are a sequence of digits rehearsing history as a fairy tale
we. are a sequence of digits rehearsing history as a fairy tale ready to unroll the next predictable though unknown page
we. are a sequence of digits rehearsing history as a fairy tale ready to unroll the next predictable though unknown page ad infinitum
we. are a sequence of digits rehearsing history as a fairy tale ready to unroll the next predictable though unknown page ad infinitum; may god be on our side

Freed by Jane Hunter
your fingers entangle themselves in my hair
and with a gentle tug you lift my eyes to meet yours..in those twin pools of divine light
i see myself reflected,
glistening and bright….the sheen of newly discovered sexuality,
coating my entire body….
which feels more alive than ever.

how could i have ever lived without knowing
such bliss?

all i am is here and now…
in your embrace i’ve found myself…
and time and space cease to be…

only you and i exist,
bound together
by invisible but oh so tangible
desire in its purest form..

our bodies writhe and twist
and slip and slide,
pure desire magnified…
tongues and fingers, hands and mouth,
probe and tease,
test and hungrily devour..

nerves previously unknown
set ablaze by our electric ecstasy..

in the throes of our lovemaking
i have found, in your eyes,

the sexual goddess

i never fathomed i could be..
all curves and flesh and wild muscles,
straining and contorting,..

as you, masculinity defined,

struggle to tame the newly unleashed,
ravenous, utterly insatiable
appetite you inadvertently freed…

the time for timidity and gentleness long passed
voraciously you consume me,
and the pent up lust i locked away for so long
is finally liberated in delicious thrusts and strokes…

faster and faster, passions waxing,
years of neglected yearnings erupt,
until that ultimate crescendo..
followed by

final, sweet release..

our bodies shudder one last time,
wonderfully spent,
we both collapse in a heap
of trembling flesh and tangled hair..
so intertwined i can’t tell where you end and i begin..
and so we lay,
exhausted, utterly sated…

the goddess who lay within me

hidden for so long,

we have been freed.

14 - 1
a Poem by Paul White(In support of sufferers of PTSD)

All I could hear was death coming closer, each shell a footstep nearer,
Passing bullets hummed in my ears, like the reapers scythe skimming my flesh.
The scent of decay, of decomposing comrades, invaded my nostrils,
Filling my brain with putrid uncertainties, of lost hope and unfounded reason.
Huddled, I clenched my head, pressing my skull inwards to feel something.

Gritting my teeth to stop the constant noise, the tinnitus of battle.
Some say that was then, discarded on the battlefield with the blood of dictat.
Little do they know, our battle continues each day; each hour is a war.
I still hear death approaching, each footstep stealthily nearer
Huddled, I clench my head, pressing my skull inwards to feel something.

Illusion by K. Leigh Thoma

The fantasy of love
Is not love

The idea of happiness
Is not happiness

Fantasies are not

Ideas are not

They’re mirrored houses
Reflecting only what you want to see
Reflecting only what you want others to know


Hmmm, this is interesting [GIF] via FFFFOUND!

dottie claws

Dottie Claws [K. Leigh Thoma’s cool cat]

Watch by Denise Baxter Yoder

Time keeper
Complain to someone else
I hear grinding of your gears
Second by second…year by year
I’m not yanking your chain
You’re cutting into mine
With your tick and your tock
I can’t unwind
You are an ego trip to guardianship
An illusion I’ll choose to ignore
Just watch me  as I take you apart
Piece by piece hours fall to the floor
So string I a strand on a second hand
Bronze numbers beaded and bonded in links
A necklace I wear to show I don’t care
Not one whit what you time keepers think



untitled by Dennis Edwards

Should one
with steady hand
untie the knot
To breech its flimsy defense
and release the strand
that lacewing band
from the bondage of your form
that tender shelter
from festering storm
and simmering swelter
That place of playful depravity
and give it as an offering
to vengeful gods of gravity
and watch it fall
and pool in puddled folds
1455859_10152553549930745_7400435396252516597_nAs if from sparking smelter
Should one with the other hand
That conscript of a tactile man
Spread fingers like a fan
find your neck and trace a filigree
then disappear again
Hide and seek,
strong and meek
playful monkeys in a tree
parting hair, parted lips, bearing forth,
wrestling in the rye
Resolute to make a stand

Did You Hear? by K. Leigh Thoma

It’s been awhile since we last spoke
But not so long, as things go
Did you hear that I scaled a mountain?
No. I’m sure you didn’t know

It feels like ages since I saw your face
Then again, only yesterday
Did you hear that I broke the record?
No.  I’m sure not yet today

My hair has grown three inches
My smile is almost right
The scars that I have caused
Are healing up quite nice

There are cobwebs on the game boards
And dust upon the shelves
As if people left a living place
Running to save themselves

It’s been awhile since we called our names
But not so long, as time drifts past
Did you hear that I won the whole thing?
No.  I’m sure you haven’t asked

It feels like ages since we laughed together
Then again, a slight moment in time
Did you hear that I climbed the ladder?
No.  I’m sure you’re doing fine

My hair has grown three inches
My smile is almost right
The scars that I have caused
Are healing up quite nice

There are cobwebs on the game boards
And dust upon the shelves
As if people left a living place
Running to save themselves


“Night of Minus Thirty Degrees” by Daseph J. Edwards

Here I lay here in the snow
Wounded as can be,
With my body being eaten
By the savage taiga freeze.

But how I wish I weren’t a man
How I wish it wasn’t me,
Dying on this silent night
Of minus thirty degrees.

How I wish I was a spruce tree
As hard as hard can be,
With bark rugged as old Tjikko’s,
Armored against the freeze;
Then I’d be an iron rampart
Above all the taiga trees.

And how I wish I weren’t a man
How I wish it wasn’t me,
Dying on this silent night
Of minus thirty degrees.

How I wish I was a fir tree
As fair as fair can be,
So a rich man would chop my trunk
And bring me to his family,
Where they’d crown my head with a star
While singing sacred songs ’round me.

And how I wish I weren’t a man
How I wish it wasn’t me,
Dying on this silent night
Of minus thirty degrees.

How I wish I was a juniper
Then I wouldn’t be coarse of fancy,
I’d still be dying in this cold
but I’d be happy.

And how I wish I’d been myself
Instead of a dismal infantry,
How I wish I hadn’t shot him
When he spoke of his family,
How I wish I said I loved her
When she was crying on her knees…

How I wish
I was

How I wish
I was

Happy as a
Juniper berry,

On a juniper

But no–
I’m not glad,
I’m cold;
I’m sad;
and I’m a bitter, bitter man
Dying on this bloody night
Of minus thirty degrees.


“Writing is easy. All you have to do is cross out the wrong words.”Mark Twain

2e5800e8ae2ac1c10366dd2b90a2065c3443904f_mEyeballs tunnelling melancholic screams
Prior to meeting a nerve it turned towards pestle
Of lilies
Water lilies
To spin into molecules
Divide them into multiple sarcasms
Tear them down
Until regrown into succulent fruit
Food for butterflies
A view for tired pupils

Eyeballs’ death by Mickey Draca


Blinded by Jerry DesbrowQuote-Do-the-Impossible

Staring into darkness, night reflects feelings
thoughts on shadows and images cast.
Natures world becomes an unnatural
predestination, sightless save the flickering images.

Technological marvels from the magical minions of
mankinds marvelous new world engineering and
the world of medicine and cultural displacement.
Lost in the distorted silence of galactic regeneration.

Always the darkness seems to regenerate tomorrow
a molecular necessity, reprogramming today with
slight alterations, subtle but profound changes
so our understanding is tweaked to notice the new sunrise.

The path to an American’s heart is through their amygdala by S.L. Weisend

Life is rough, a course fabric knit from tightropes and worn
From one shoulder to the next on cuffs threadbare & torn

Shrugged high, uncertainty high, between canvas sky
& fiberglass shore
where elephants load their trunks In preparation
of crude war.

A war under-writ by the Lord’s almighty poor,
and sold to frighten half-wits by the unfairly scored.

Einstein quote II

 “Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.”
Albert Einstein
14 - 11
2 poems by Debbie Green Razey


I have a triad
of impairments; a square peg
in the “norm’s” round hole
Autistic, special… unique
I’m more than just my label!

So please be kind as
I find it hard to fit in
I’m irregular…
not symmetrical to you,
but our hearts are shaped the same


between the edge
of seductive sleep and
my arousal upon waking,
I search
for you…
for your
body; heeding
your telepathic call
Tormented by my needfulness,
I wait…

uncontrollably grows.
I imagine your lips upon me;
your strong
masculine hands
clutching hard at my breasts.
Wanton lust pulsates, yearns, consumes
…my soul

you’re inside me
touching parts of me I
keep hidden safe away… I am
My skin
bristles as I
moisten into a pool
of sultry reminiscent bliss
silken sheets in
delirious fever,
pleasure and ecstasy flow. I need..
you here!

14 - 1

Hollow Tin by Robert Horton

Tap tap!
Like calloused fingers
On a hollow tin,
Like a snare drum
Muffled, as if bodies
Were stuffed within.

Tap tap!
On riddled wood
And gloopy mud,
A spit, a splat,
A rat-a-tat-tat
A gasp, a cringing thud.

Tap tap!
Slow yet rhythmic
Like warm autumn rain,
Hauntingly beautiful,
Echoing like the silence
Of comforting pain.

Tap tap!
The constant dripping
Of crimson friends,
“Over here, over here!”
As one voice calls out
Another one ends.

Tap tap!
On crispy khaki
And hollow tin,
Sculpting Tommy’s face
Into a grimace
And wry grin.

Tap tap!
Louder, a whistle,
“Oh my god!…..this is it!”
Tap tap!
Another two bullets

2014 - 11


Alive by A Furious Child

You find yourself
That eternal internal battle…The line between
Good and evil
Often blurs
Living among people
Reminding of a painful past_
An even more painful future
To comeLet us try
Just once_
Seeing the light
Without closing our eyes_
To curve
A truthful smileLet us
Just once
Stop mourning
A childhood
Broken by
Harassment and

Let us join
In joy
To have


appreciate by Lynn Paden
you grow to appreciate
the quietthe calm before the stormbefore she comes in
and sucks the life
out of the roomwith her sighs and cries
for attention

over and over again

you learn to appreciate
the down times

the eye of the hurricane

after she’s done in
and fills the silence
in the room

with the snores of
her restless sleep

you lean over her
a lookout in the rain

waiting for her to start



Disjointed Jacks and Jills by Frank Ramon

the jack of diamonds
and the queen of spades
met one smoky afternoon
where the grapes
of wrath were played
and that old Buell Kazee
and others too

now the queen tuned her wire
and the jack began to strum
when the child tried
to hide the chocolate
the mother had to stop the fun

just then the furnace fireman
ran ranting thru the door
i heard you got a fire here
and i need some place to pour

the queen jumped up and spun around
thru her g string to the ground
i got some people from misery here
and they dont need u messin round

the jack o diamonds turned his pick
and threw a band around the place
and when the song was over
the smoke had gone and left no trace

later on they passed the pipe
and every body had a bowl
all except the neighborhood john
for he was known to lose control

14 - 1

HUMANNESS. by Weak Perfection

My watch
And it’s funny,
I know exactly when the hands ceased to move
Exactly pinpointing time standing still.
My jacket
And it’s odd,
I know exactly where the seams ripped away from each other
Exactly able to size up what kind of patch is necessary.
My mirror
And it’s telling,
I know exactly how the glass moved from smooth to spiderwebbed
Exactly the pieces and how to put them back together
But something I don’t know exactly
Is when
Or where
Or how
People are broken, torn, and shattered.
We are more
Than objects.
And to undermine that is to devalue understanding.
The beauty of people is that we can be known
When we let ourselves.


Ernest Hemingway

the aeons of even stay by Seraphime Angelis

tell me of love

for the blithe specters of floridly stained relics are upon me, against

the sidereal daylight of waxing rubbish, his venusian tongue errs, though not often, how

agreeably the angels shiver amongst the stardust, their laughter, his fingers

tickling bloodshot cherry from between my gauche, honest thighs, he

smolders in the jealous habañero cauldrons of apprehension, whilst

degenerate things creep lovelorn into my past, and

ensure the gypsies this bittersweet chocolate of our satisfaction

is theirs.


Boys 2 Men by Mac Dre
Figured I’d write myself a note, but then I seen it was more, a million souls who
doubt theyself, dreams that won’t be explored, they say it’s not about a race, but
why did Emmett get killed, another time, another place, I might’ve been Emmett Till, I paint a picture
with these words, take a look, and then capture, paint a picture like
proverbs, for all the crooks that been captured, they say it’s rare to hear the truth, I
can’t condone or pretend, damn it’s so rare to hear the truth, that it’s unknown to
most men, no other way but revolution, just stay steady or try, born as a seed of
revolution, born ready to die, if I rebuild what I destroyed, can I pray for amends, if
we rebuild and then destroy, can our boys become men?
Ralph Waldo Emerson Quote 2
(Impossible Love) by José Coelho
I’ve never been
the one aiming at
Africa, her skin aged
too long toomuch skies
above us tundras, horses
galloping their white
Napoleon desire, unable to
conquer loveletter-sweet
kisses brewing, somewhere
as a disease
spreading its odor
silently, between
lips aching
in pain, for
uncertain parallels & meridians
turning the tissues
withinher hands, truly
a compass
following the eternal movement
of seabirds –
north & south
back & forth
– the stamina
of generations
rising as a voice
of identity

I never woke up inside
a faulty azimuth
put me
steering into another

until today’s
memories broke up
and I realized
was just
the name of this

But I feel young inside by Loretta Leslie

I’m middle aged
My face creased and lined
My hair greying
But I feel young inside

I’m middle aged
Spring gone from stride
Back is stooped
But I feel young inside

I’m middle aged
No longer sharp of mind
Thoughts all askew
But I feel young inside

I’m middle aged
In chocolate I imbibe
My tummy’s spread
But I feel young inside

I’m middle aged
My sex life’s …
Oh to hell with it
I am young inside

14 - 1

Monty Python via Tumblr

“Creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. Art is knowing which ones to keep.”

Scott Adams
2 Poems by K. Leigh Thoma

Release – Truth II

She spoke without a trace of regret
With a back upright and strong
Staring straight ahead
Without any contempt or scorn

Her lips were slightly upturned
In neither a smirk nor a smile
Her lips simply fell upwards
As if all had been reconciled

“There’s nothing more you can to do me,
I have truth on my side.”
“It’s not about the truth”, they stated.
“That’s the truth that liars lie.”

“The truth is not a variable,
It’s not something you can squeeze and turn.”
“It’s not about the truth”, they stated.
“That’s how lies are often born.”

Her voice remained a river
In neither a swell nor in a drought
Her voice was clear and crystal
And spoke without any doubt

Her mind was cleared of burden
Like an oxen released from its yoke
Free to roam and seize the day
And decipher the fire from the smoke

“There’s nothing more I need to hear,
I have learned what is true.”
“It’s not about the truth”, they stated.
“That’s what separates me from you.”

“I wish you well, in all you try,
I hope truth will set you free.”
“It’s not about the truth”, they stated.
“That’s what separates you from me.”


I have crossed the living river Styx
Backing away from the underworld
Navigating through outstretched arms
And clawing nails
And gaping mouths
And sinking mud

I have returned the coin placed in my mouth
To pay my way through the river hell
Leaving the shroud of death behind
I am not yet bound
I am not yet a bodiless soul
I am not yet said and done

I have fought my way back to the solid earth
Though the ground is still uncertain and strange
Feeling my way through the treacherous land

Our Featured Moderator: Chris Flegel with his Cusps series of poems…Enjoy;-)
[there are twenty-one parts to this series, but parts xvi and xviii have been temporarily misplaced.]



Cusp of coherence abides,
acknowledges neither intersect.
Divergent pass our worlds.

I heard you dance.
You saw me tap
& take to flight.

Immaterial echoes
percuss my quickening heart,
echo in the fountain well,
echo on the peeling sill
of windows casting watch upon
an ancient cobbled square.

A swallow tapped a dancer,
shadowed long ago,
shallowed as a misting blume,
drops a universe divide.

ii. Cusp of C’redation

C[hromatic P]redation.
9 June, 2014.
A true story.

Rains have come in waves,
pouring from the heavens,
making sea of land,
a hand or more overnight.

Mud run for lunch!
Bit Little and I,
every third
a slide or slippery step;
have never seen the flats so wet.

Two miles in I heard the roar,
a pound to match my aching knees,
ditches The Corp emplaced,
attempting to tame Old Muddy’s flows,
through cotton bottom feeder clays,
unruly green through cotton white or Yazoo brown
depending on the season.

Thirty feet deep
& thirty yards wide,
a mix of willow and kudzu vine
twerking through rows of green.

A sight I’d never seen:
invaders halfway up the bank
had turned from water flow overnight,
soft their underside green exposed.

A volume of runoff I cannot ‘prehend.
In quieter times on normal runs
stepped over without a thought or a sound
just to climb the banks for a bit.

[How did I greet this powerful marque,
what lessons have I invested,
what powerful words engraved on my heart
to share with the world?]

I carefully stepped to outside bow,
squared my feet, mixing pale yellow
with the roiling brown below.

A futile predation for sure,
but boy, oh boy, it felt right…

I could not hear where met the streams
but Bit Little’s bark as we resumed.

iii. Cusp of Communion
(Faith Meets The Counter Chorus)

Absent of malice, heard between the waves

Resounding in tandem, voice of whelming sheaves

A bouquet of flowers left behind bereaves

A susurrate echo forms the architrave

An aroma of shallows round the closen doors
the absent, the crashing merely meters, implores.
It was never the pounding of the breaking waves
but the silence between us which we could not stave.

There’s an echo resounding from the closen ports
– Here my nothing. Rows.
There’s a bouquet of flowers parching on a porch
– Hearing empty rows.-
There’s a man or anothing, in the waves subsumed.
– Here our hearts implode.-
There’s a woman acherished, sterile life restored.
– Hearing. Breaking. Bode.-

& the silence of the abbas cannot match the braid
or the swishing of her bottom pushing what was made
of the nothing & the everything & we betrayed
& the flowers left to shower steps in retrograde

It wasn’t the breaking sounds we pushed upon

But the silent betweens were as the touching longed

& what never was spoken was their only song

Anothing, a flower tasting antiphon.

iv. Cusp of Cohesion

Morning ritual:
”Hey Bud-Bud!”
He wickers, snorts,
procession starts
to barn,
feed pens,
a stitch of stink
coheres to my bare skin.

Joined by cats,
thirty this morn,
four other horses,
a teacup chihuahua
makes chase of the cats,
the chuckie chuckie of his exhalations
adheres the cloy
to beading skin.

Feeding pen sub-ritual:
Buddy first. Lady next
or sometimes Buster,
if he not second usually last.
Sisters Legs and Lacey Pearl kicking,
biting at haunches,
follow the way.
Loki tires of playful chase,
flops down, Snickers chuckies another tom,
pursuant under Lacey Pearl’s impatient hooves,
clomping dust to churn my ankles
a sticky, caramel brown.

Twenty minutes in the barn,
I leave five buckets in hand.
Buddy snorts and throws his head.
“I had to scritch the kitties. Bud!”
He is not impressed.
Fed in the order they claimed a pen,
Snickers poaching feed
slipping Buddy’s maw,
a treat the tiny dog trills.
Companionship transferred,
I quit to the house alone,
except for the rivulets
making their way
haltingly south
against my belly and back.

v.  Cusp Ochone

Within the belly of an
apiary hexagonal presses
propend a lachone, rounds of
poisoned nectar.

vi. Cusp of Curmudgeon
(i. Thursday Dinner Out)

A most disagreeable man,
my only local friend,
former neighbor,
off venter,
goes to the wind at his own pace a few miles down the road.

We call before we visit;
he says so he can put on coffee;
we know so he won’t shoot us
coming down the drive
caressing the ridge,
a finger of trees
pointing to his place.

If you haven’t been here, you wouldn’t know.

“So, how the hell are you?”
His gravelly voice chips heavy air.
We discuss nothing over a cup.

He gives Charlene a hug.
We trace the finger outward bound,
no thread disturbs egress.

vii. Cusp of Carne
(ii.  Thursday Dinner Out)

Chicago via Como,
“The Windy City Grille”
tucked in to one of centenary fronts
locked together, reclaimed of brick
pulled from the rubble of the raids of ’65.
Nothing’s disturbed the rails in a while.

Vivian, fresh, helpful, new,
I did not tic at unsweet tea with quite the kick.
My only thought,
if this unsweet, the sugary kind
would leave me in a coma,
as southern tease can literally do,
a coma in Como.

Chicago style was superb,
a crust to die for.
Our fingers touch.
She takes a drag.
The neon screams
over biker shouts and farmers bleating,
“New Belgium Fat Tire”, telling a tale.

We settle for cake to go.

viii. Cusp of Camaro
(iii.  Thursday Dinner Out)

“Wandering but not lost,”
proclaimed the biker’s patch.
Charlene laughs as I, perhaps inspired,
pilot her old Camaro,
eschew the interstate, twist the back road thirty miles,
working gears, joy unleashed
as muscle does what it does.

Fingers touching standard shift,
sandles touching clutch,
hands enfolding wheel,
she leaps commanded and smiles.

Last ten miles
“stuck” behind a pickup truck
I could have passed at any ole time,
one of those Sunday Thursday drivers, you understand,

ix. Cusp of Comfort
(iv.  Thursday Dinner Out)

Garage consumed Camaro,
a luscious electro-mechanical mouth,
lips tapped the Fat Tire ale
we had eschewed.

Fingers returned,
caressed her tablet of thousands of books,

& mine scratching words
I haven’t thought of yet.

x. Cusp of Communion
(Faith Meets The Elements)

Let the ocean’s ether forms caress my face,
aromas shift from cusp to cleanse
the ever increasing folds,
my sins, as it were.

Let the sands caress my back,
abrade the signature of failure
stealing into every fold.
I am ready.

Shadows of ornamental crosses
allow the waters to cover me whole,
slowly, gently,
returning to sea,

leaving nothing
of the nothing whence I’ve come.

xi.  Cusp of Communion
(Faith Meets Conception)

Abbas cued a consolation,
released her to the waves,
curls would echo upon closed doors,
a soothing, her way home.
She walked the sand alone, a grain
or two were tucked secure
within the creases of her palm,
were grains stolen from the

barrage of wind or were they words?
Their pleas to mend her weighed
upon her soul as a gull waits
upon the firmament
for her to pass, her broken hand, quaking heart
clasping broken ochre
of the setting sun, gentle balm
warming neck as lover,

sinner, sailor, spy. Who knew as
coastal doors receded
into sound, into bustle of
city?  She made her way
mindful, her growing girth, her steps
resigned to barren hearth…

… but glimmers a splash, a taste of colour,
vestal grey and white banned
as gulls made rounds, flocked and scuttled,
broken heart, quaking hand loosed
the eucharist grain, bent to touch
the flowers to her heart.

xii. Cusp of Communion
(Faith Meets A Counter Chorus)

Absent of malice, heard between the waves

Resounding in tandem, voice of whelming sheaves

A bouquet of flowers left behind bereaves

A susurrate echo forms an architrave

An aroma of shallow rounding closing doors.
The absent then crashing merely meters, implores.
It was never the pounding of the breaking waves
but the silence between us which we could not stave.

There’s an echo resounding from the closing doors.
– Here my nothing. Rows.
There’s a bouquet of flowers parching on a porch.
– Hearing empty rows.-
There’s a man or anothing, in the waves subsumed.
– Here our hearts implode.-
There’s a woman acherished, sterile life resumed.
– Hearing. Breaking. Bode.-

& the silence of the abbas cannot match the braid
or the swishing of her bottom pushing what was made
of the nothing & the everything & we betrayed
& the flowers left to shower steps in retrograde

& it wasn’t the breaking sounds we pushed upon

but the silence between us as the touching longed

& what never was spoken was our only song:

anothing, a flower tasting antiphon.

xiii. Cusp In Case

.                       Her
.                     left arm
.                   severed raw
.                 was all she had
. vouchsafed, cased, in his freezer (should he need).

xiv. Cusp Not Culled

.              Her
.              link,
.            nurture,
.            as never
.  withdrawn, the man-child
. completely unumbili’ culled.

xv. Cusp of Co-Dependensate

.                         &
.                         as
.                     the blood
.                     let began,
.                 continues, abates
.          only upon whim, but his whim
. doesn’t see the blood, only his needs need be sated.

.             &
.         he repays,
.  her loving sacrifice prays
.   oh keep sumping safe,
. in the coldness, coagulates.

xvii. Cusp of Calumniation

Consider the ease with which believed
little white lies push others away

Block by block
verbal cement
histrionic accretions
displacing those without

You think a wall will hold

Your caldera
your white lies of diminished expectations
rising, pushing
crumbs from friends
who once were friends
lobbing verbal vollies
care become bombard
touch a slap
kindly word kinetic strike

Crumbled from within
eroded from without
Napoli slowly rises

xix.  Cusp of Connectivity

I am in a strange place,
a third world county
in a modest state.
Connection comes haltingly,
throttled by cell or satellite,
bytes are moving when it wants.
Yazoo powder
settles on my feet or lower shins
upon a whim of idylls;
I run the cotton bottoms.

xx. Cusp of Completion

I am in a strange space,
a thirsty world expects so much,
then squanders what is squeezed
from brow and face.
I left for my run
an empty, hollow head spinning,
no, preferring,
the heat would take me today.
What in the hell is up with that?
It doesn’t matter.  I wanted it;
of course it didn’t happen.
Dust will settle where it would.

xxi. Cusp of Companionship

We are in a state of grace.
Willie cannot take the heat
as he could in summers past,
twenty minutes in and he is through.
I waited
half a mile from the road
leading from the bottoms home.
When he caught up we walked together
except for twenty yards; a car had passed;
he chased along the shoulder,
loosed a single bark,
looked back and hung his head on stopping.

xxii. Cusp of Cryptic

“If my mouth is moving
or pen out of the quill,
‘tis likely I dissemble.”

“Write a happy villanelle” requires:
bouncy lines forever malleable
in variegate shades of distant fires.

A ticking of a tock or new transpires
tapping of a timpani of trouble,
writes a happy villanelle, requires

objects fuzzy in the lens or lyres
if my lips are moving, quiet burble
in variegate shades of distant fires.

Musical droplets dampen the pyres
of pens out of a quill, coy, dissemble,
write a happy villanelle.  Re:  Choirs

of angels dance in the rain.  The flyers
take a sultry dip, in octaves tremble
in variegate shades of distant fires.

& so the dance, the rain, the sound retires,
& blown to the east, would reassemble,
write a happy villanelle, requires
a variegate shade of distant fires.

The Magnificent Seven [Moderators/Co-Owners/Co-Editors]:
RC deWinter
Chris Flegel
Uma Venkatraman
Mary Macharia
Arthur Turfa
Frederick Andrew
Michael David Saunders Hall (aka the 21st Century Griot)
BigUps, Much ❤ & a Very Happy HooYah of a Holiday To All Contributors. Remember: the poet tree will be streamed…so, let’s forever indulge in the balance of delicious agony and suite ecstasy of our everlasting leaves, always writing what the moment recommends to infinity and beyond. Till next time, Write On/;-)
©2014 Words on Fire (in association with AfroDamus Jonze: The 21st Century Griot).


  1. Reblogged this on Wandering Words and commented:
    Words Of Fire is a an online publication populated by material first shared within a community on a popular social networking site. There are many fine writers to be found there and I hope you enjoy a sample of their craft


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