Archives
June 2007
Fiction:
Poetry:
The "C" Word
by
Mathew Friday
'Dying' is too easy a word
for that shrivelled sack of bones,
the head so huge now, so heavy
hanging to one side
like a prehistoric Bog Man. He's so weak
he can't even cry. Only hold on.
So afraid of the Knowing. More
afraid than he ever was in war,
when he raced across North Africa,
braving shells and shot and fire,
all the way up Italy in his fat
Sherman tank - easy to hit,
but his metal coffin was blessed.
He lost hair and many friends,
but came back to his wife,
to his daughter now with him.
Shot down in his seventies,
his stomach riddled,
but he never said the 'C' word.
He admitted his fear for the first time,
a few days away from his end,
his daughter desperately holding on
to what was left of him:
his life, his memories, his love.
Forever's Kisses
by
Bryon D. Howell
Forever starts with just a single kiss,
but seldom do we trust it's timeless flight.
With poor excuses we forsake this bliss,
we trade the light of day for one black night.
For each of us deserves a hand to hold,
a mate with whom we'd share the sweetest fate.
Instead of love we settle for the cold,
in time we realize we're just too late.
Forever will not stand and wait too long -
it breathes upon us with a hurried breath;
it's so unfair; each choice we make is wrong,
we hesitate and risk love's Kiss of Death.
Forever is betrayed when we mistrust;
when we forgo the heart to get to lust.
I Miss You
by
Joseph Massanga
Lost in your eyes, I remember the happiness I felt
It was a moment of pure pleasure; I didn’t want it to melt.
Memories arising in my head,
I can’t take it anymore, I should go to bed.
Still my love for you is unconditional,
Every time I think of you I become operational.
Pain and sorrow came in my life when I met you,
Simply because I feel these feelings since I have lost you.
I guess in this life, real wealth is in the invisible things,
Things that would never die, and never escape or disappear.
I miss you.
The Dance With Death
by
Bill Gates
I have danced with death
With such delight
Her tingling fingers
Around me tight
bejeweled robes round
And around whirl
In a corkscrew counter-clockwise swirl
Bound within a funnel cloud
of virgin furniture
And dust
I have danced with death
With much delight
Amidst the shrieking pounding twirl
Within a nucleus bound so tight
Tattered rags round
And around swirl
Tingles racing down my back
Kaleidoscope of bright colors
Whizzing, streaking
Flying by
sling-shot
Into oblivion
A ruptured rapture!
Broken trees, a shattered limb
Twisted roots
In a light so dim
As I dance with death
With no delight
Cheek to cheek with a clone
I lose myself
I dance alone
Bound within a funnel cloud
Of broken furniture
And dust
Crazy Old Jack
by
Michael Johnson
56 today,
& Jack died
in his room years ago.
He still sits there I swear
watches T.V.
Philosopher of sports,
entrepreneur of sleep,
dream weaver of single men and their dreams.
Jack never leaves his room,
seldom shuts his T.V. off.
Jack seldom gets out of bed, boils on this naked body-
no need for razors, baths, for this man.
Jack takes pills, then herbs, then vitamins-
but he is incurable.
Jack died in a room years ago-
he eats toast & jam,
toast without jam,
fingers wipes butter from a dish.
I hear Jack yawning from
his room, his coffin again.
Sleepy old Jack coughing again,
quiet old room-
just below a beauty salon-
56 today & Jack died here.
Crazy old Jack.
Art:
"Whale in Oil" by Nyssa Wells
Music:
