I don’t doubt he’s right – after all, there’s tonight
when with you I’d much rather be balling;
since like Mother Earth, we’ve some sense of the worth
of what he and his own wife find galling.
And so, we restrain our critique of the rain
as the reason we’re both now recalling
that May days and flowers are grateful for showers
that taxmen regard as appalling.
But try as he might to indict us tonight
for sedition, perdition and stalling,
we both know this human just lacks the acumen
to amortize amorous mauling.
Scissors and Knives
by Sue Turner
Young unblinking eyes
brand me a stranger
in that Frankfurt square
where shawled women
walk with unwrapped bread
and fabric bags of produce.
Outside a temporary rental
my landlord bends to clip the grass
with scissors used to trim his beard,
the same tool splits domestic hare
into Saturday night's entree.
Germans have shears
and a war bunker up the street;
the Swiss have army knives.
Turner began writing/watercoloring in 1996 when her left brain turned right and dislodged gainful employment. She shares her home with a Betta named Puppie and an unnamed robotic vacuum. Contact Susan.http://sueturner.homestead.com
Breakfast Out
by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
Long white rabbit ears bob
upright on the small blonde head,
the child’s t-shirt, shorts
and socks so pink
the watcher needs to blink.
One hand clutches
a stuffed bunny, grimy with love.
The other hangs onto a hand
attached to a tee proclaiming
“Proud Grandfather.”
The little girl teeters along
the rocks lining flower beds
filled with bright red and blue
and her smile rivals
the beaming sun
on this Easter morning.
By tooth and claw
by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
I know not to interfere.
Let Nature take its course.
But a baby starling falls
out of its nest in our eaves.
I cannot bear
to watch the cat
carry it to my doorstep.
A wild chase ensues.
Baby flaps and screams
from corner to shrub.
I dodge and swoop
to catch it in my hand,
flail at two cats
determined on dinner.
Stalemate:
One shrieking fledgling
in my palm then
teetering on a branch.
Just long enough
to carry the cats inside.
Down the bird tumbles again,
staggers off, disappears.
At least it won’t be my cats
that end its brief exciting life.
Patricia Wellingham-Jones, a former psychology researcher and writer/editor, is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee. Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: Poems About Breast Cancer (PWJ Publishing) and Hormone Stew (Snark Publishing). She won the Palabra Productions Chapbook Contest 2006 with End-Cycle, poems about caregiving. Her website is www.wellinghamjones.com .
TIME TO MEDITATE
by Floriana Hall
Spring has finally arrived
I know it's here.
Daffodils and forsythia bloom.
The sun kisses me softly
Until it strengthens my garden.
My garden can be anywhere
Sitting in a lawn chair
Midst the cracked asphalt of the driveway,
Under the tree of heaven
Or on the front porch
Drinking in the warmth
Of the brim filled cup.
My garden holds the seeds planted
In my heart, soul and mind
By celestial inspiration.
A sanctuary to meditate
And encounter spiritual overtures,
Recorded invitations to define us.
First hand experience
Keeping alive precious moments
With precious cargo,
My garden flourishes,
Captured in between self and universe,
Jotting it all down with my busy pen.
AWAKENING
by Floriana Hall
After the darkness of night
Blends into the light of day
Life seems less ominous.
Awakened by worry or fright
Positive thoughts come my way
To wipe out the superfluous.
Filled with gratitude and light
I meditate and start to pray
That life will not be tenuous.
Family and friends never slight
Anger and hatred never display
To other's feelings be generous.
I'll try to reach higher heights
The secret of avoiding the fray,
Each hour will be amorous.
This love will take flight
Spread happiness like a bouquet
Making living less dangerous.
Others will forgive and reunite
Peace will not be too far away
The world will be marvelous.
DREAMS OF PEACE
By Anne Elizabeth Connors
Mothers of the world unite!
Let us sow our dreams of peace
in the fertile soil of equality
and let it thrive in the clay
of ancestry and freedom.
Fences of race and religion,
no longer barriers,
pulled down...
the lands cleared of indifference.
The choking bindweed of prejudice,
that thrives in every crevice of the world,
strangles the life
from our children's futures.
Weeds of violence,
plucked by the hand of education,
would wither and die...
hatred falling on barren ground.
We could meet halfway,
in the sun's warm shine of acceptance,
and reach out our hands in gentle rains of understanding.
See with clear eyes that we are one,
our bond humanity...
the voice of peace loud enough
to silence the cries of our children.
If we do not do this...for their sake,
the alternative will cost us the earth.
A Dog Named Sex
By Carl Palmer
My pooch is not named Rover, Fluffy, Spot or Rex.
I wanted something different, so I named my puppy, Sex.
To renew my doggie’s license. I went down to City Hall.
“I’d like a license for Sex”, I said. He said, “Wouldn’t we all?”
“You must not have understood, I need it for my mutt.”
“I really don’t care how she looks, if she’s ugly, fine or what.”
“But Sir, I must tell you, I’ve had Sex since I was four!”
“You are no more than a braggart”, and he showed me out the door.
Newly married, we brought our pet along for the honeymoon.
I told the clerk, “A place for us and for Sex, a special room.”
“Every room has a place for sex. Every room has a bed.”
“But Sex keeps me up at night.” “It keeps me up, too”, he said.
At our divorce the court gave all my possessions to the wife
I protested, “Please Your Honor, I had Sex before my married life!”
The judge then said that he did, too. “It’s not a real big crime.”
“But Sir, before we tied the knot, I had Sex all the time”
The judge said that I could still have sex, so I took my hound and ran.
My wife then said that she’d miss Sex, so I stayed a married man.
Last night Sex ran off again as we walked around the block.
A cop pulled up and asked me if I knew it was three o’clock.
I told him that I was looking for Sex and he took me straight to jail.
Now I’m waiting for my trial to come and can’t get out on bail.
If I ever get another dog,
I think I’ll name him…”Whoopie” or “Boom-Boom”
Anything but Sex!
FACETIOUS
By Clifford K. Watkins, Jr.
a wall of mirrors
swatted flies
television
rolling eyes
another vision
unreality's guide
following the lines
nowhere to hide
empty minds
colorful pebbles
emptied from an aquarium
a stranger's emaciated hands
the one I loathe
when I'm not alone
shivering into madness
painting your face
with crushed stones
a prattler's intrusion
retreating with severed tongue
aided by delusion
realization
scrutiny
shame
imagination
hurtful games
muddled reflections
make it real
clarity's an artist
never a pill
shackled by infinity
overkill
freed from herself
who remembers green
running for a shadow
with nothing in between
THE DEAD MAGICIANS
by Clifford K. Watkins, Jr.
all of our grandeur spawned a race of kings
soon confined to the ground
we know nothing
and madly want to revive what hasn't been found
free the birds from mercurial skies
we're minute projections lost in a forgotten world
caught in a labyrinth of lies
birds assemble above
awaiting the future race of kings
feasting on corpses
and flapping their wings
now the tree is swaying
branches fall on those who are praying
waning moments in our lean hour
dead magicians want one last ritual
to restore their power
and dance among souls
lost in the crevices of night
an ideal place for firewater seclusion
or a murderous plight
never embrace reality with a reason to remember
innocent crayon depictions of canyon kitchens
and glowing embers
POEM OF THE MONTH
FOR MY MOTHER ON HER BIRTHDAY
By Cheryl Chambers
You remember rain, and after all
this time that's what you know,
and I envision old pictures,
springing forth against
the hairnet of blond webbed sweat,
hair stuck to your face until the tips
dwindle and tickle the tops
of your breasts.
You hear heat, and every year
you cycle degrees to me
while soundwaves of your voice
melt me into the floor,
swaddle me in amniotic fluid
that is the salty food,
the then and the now,
of your body.
You speak salves, and one dose
is what you give to stitch
the wounds, opening and closing,
which your womb can no longer
remedy, but a few words
from the tablespoon to my mouth
heals, as if transfusing the blood
of your heart.
Cheryl Chambers is a poet and fiction writer. Her poetry and fiction have appeared or are forthcoming in FRiGG Magazine, The Binnacle, Buffalo's Artvoice, and The Hiss Quarterly, among others.
MY PIANO LEERS (YET)
By Hugh A. Jones
Not 'til adolescence did I play
Sweet shells of chiming red and
Gold formed fingerly to send
Soft bits of a hard-learned piano
Song from me to you that had
Not yet been sent before~
Tinkle-lings and tinkle-lets
Fell from my mind, then my
Feisty teacher died from some
Bleak meeting with the devil
Yes/oh yes/ that sure did put a
Crimp into my romance
With the muse.
Hugh: My wife and I live in southern Indiana, although I grew up in Wyoming. We are both grads of Indiana University in Music; I'm a pianist and she teaches Suzuki Method violin. Her day job is as a cleric at IU.
MY CITY BY THE SEA
By Gary Carter
It may not seem like much,
To some,
But it means the world to me,
The spirit of my wife roams here
In my city by the sea
I'm content to be here,
In my home,
Beneath the towering trees,
Dappled now with bright sunlight
And bent beneath the breeze
I'm happy living in a land
Where the forest meets the sea,
Where rivers run,
And meadows glow
With riotous greenery
Where mountains sprawl
Into the sky,
And the air is fresh and clean,
Where seagulls call, and sandy beaches
Beckon in my dreams
Nowhere have I ever found
Such beauty in one small place,
Add to that peace, and love, serenity
And I'll be here, until I die,
In my city by the sea
Gary is the author of Jump Start, an apocalyptic science fiction thriller, as well as the recently released For the Good of the Many, a military/political thriller. His poem My City by the Sea is excerpted from a chap book of his poems now in production. Gary's poems have appeared in the Port Orford, Oregon, News, as well as the Las Vegas Sun. You can visit him at his website at
of the taxman, who cometh a-calling.