Cheez Almighty

image borrowed from bing

Cheez Almighty

Cheez, cheez,
Oh Jeez;
do you think our Savior
liked any kind of Cheez
on his unleavened bread?
Dude had all kinds of wine,
so why not the Cheez?

And then there was Lincoln,
who it is said
scarfed down a fried peanut butter
and Cheez sandwich
before he took his seat
in the balcony of Ford’s Theater,
waiting to have his skull
perforated.

Even Attila,
the nasty Hun,
turned back his mighty horde
from the massive gates
of Rome
because the wily pope
gave him several hundred pounds
of Cheez.

I read where
Lewis told Clark
to chew cascara bark
to alleviate a severe case of constipation
brought on strong
and fully induced by the over ingestion
of Native American Cheez.

You know
Superman and Batman
do hang out at Palmer’s Pizza joint
in Gotham,
where Supe gobbles
Cheez Whizz sundaes,
and the Bat
craves and consumes the hot sausage
stinky Cheez calzone.

Hell,
Cheez is cool,
when it’s not hot,
stretching out two feet
from plate to lip.
Either way,
dig it while your colon
is still Cheez friendly.

Glenn Buttkus

February 2012

Listed as #26 over at Magpie Tales 106

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?

Got Milk?

image borrowed from tess

Got Milk?



Sandwiched
at the checkout
by Mennonites,

I am conspicuous
in white linen,
bright MAC red.

One in a bonnet
that could double
as a dinner napkin,

tugs five, gallon
containers of milk
to the conveyer,

glances sideways
at my Chardonnay,
latest Vanity Fair.

I imagine after,
she chugs a drink
in a Fairlane truck,

carefully takes
out the bobby pins,
blots foam from her lip.



tess kincaid

February 2012

Posted over on her site Life at Willow Manor
Listed as #3 over at Magpie Tales 106

Stones Staring

image by glenn buttkus

Stones Staring

Soldier’s statues line the perimeters
of parks, military bases, capitols, armories
and cemeteries,

their faces deeply chiseled in marble,
bronze and stone; captured, preserved,
petrified, frozen in time;

torrential tears long ago dried up,
lifted from the chaos of Mars,
transported whole to a pedestal,

rivers of blood camouflaged as bravery,
put on public exhibit, their brotherhood
only hinted at, death immortalized,

so that small boys can gawk,
flocks of angry birds can mock,
brass bands can rock, until

the transformation is ongoing;
their blackish features,
their perfect weaponry,

their concrete combat boots,
their baleful bayonets,
their bilious battle packs,

their sensuous stone bullets,
all turn into abstract art,
as bird shit, oxidation, & graffiti

soil their precious memory,
and anger their lingering spirits,
those ever silent specter battalions
who bivouac around statues.


Glenn Buttkus

February 2012

Listed as #6 over at dVerse Poets-Poetics

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?

Renape

image borrowed from bing

Renape


from his pedestal outside Nordstrom
he does not sing The colors of the wind
as his daughter does in the movie by Disney
but collects them from pigeons
in white, purple and green

like tributes once paid by his nation,
thirty tribes brought together, only to be laid low
by settlers, invaders, it all depends on
who holds the pen

only children stop to stare at Chief Powhatan
and stumble over his given name,
WAHUNSUNACAWH
which rolls like marbles, foreign on the tongue

one, her dress a spring day
gathering around her legs, shiny black flats
on her feet, maybe her Easter adornment just
bought at one of the high end shops, asks

"Mommy, who was this man?"

and i want to say, "he was once a man
who was willing to fight for his people
and his land, whose daughter was stolen,
who watched brothers & friends
desiccated by disease dry up like river beds,
slain by pale hands as they defended their freedom
and family, displaced & lost in history
to the romanticized legend
of John Smith (not Rolfe) & Pocahontas so that we
could build---

shopping malls
to fill the void of consumption
once there were no more
great conquests"

but her mom sums it up in,
"an indian"

& they are off to another anchor store,
as i down the last bite of soft pretzel,
and nod not to the monument
but he who was willing
to stand behind it.


Brian Miller

Posted over on his site Way Station One

The Things That

image by yi ching lin

the things that

the things that
hold us
up often
have a mean
streak –
just when we
are most
secure, reclining
in the beam of
assertion, we are
no sooner
overturned,
dazed, under
inspection
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

We Collect Data

image by yi ching lin

we collect data

we collect data –
intentionally,
accidentally,
charmingly, sitting
elbow-to-elbow,
lips shiny, tongues
wet, a silent
prayer to the
bartender – for
some kind of love
.

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Son of a Son of a Son a

Painting by Monet

son of a son of a son of a


snow crusted lip,
breathed grey by exhaust,
ditch, in which sits

a beer can
dented & crushed, slow
eaten by rust, intox-

ication consumed, only
one golden drop left, to catch
the sun, un-

noticed by passing cars,
face, window pressed
watching power-

lines murdered by crows
the whistle wind blows
desperado

& he,

daddy,
come home


Brian Miller

This is his Flash 55 for today with G-Man
Posted over on his site Way Station One

Jihad

image borrowed from bing

Jihad

Yes, there is Christ-consciousness
in the Koran; some of it reads
like the Gnostic scrolls, yet

when a zealous Muslim girl will
strap five pounds of C-4 to her
beautiful chest to martyr herself

by murdering Infidels,
awaiting her hurrahs
as savior and hero,

embracing warped visions
of Heaven,

where is Allah and love?


Glenn Buttkus

February 2012

Posted over with G-Man at Flash 55 with Mr. Knowitall
Posted as #24 over at dVerse Poets-OLN33

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Past the Blue Smoke and

painting by donna lorelei

past the blue smoke and

past the blue smoke and
mirrors, it is soon to be
Spring – time to dig in
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Since Memories Are

image by yi ching lin

since memories are

since memories are
formed, then rebuilt
each time they are
accessed, may next
year be easier, on the
anniversary of your
death, may our
neurons stop
passing along this
unbearable sadness
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

From Fan Palm Tree to Accordian

painting by diane millsap

From Fan Palm Tree to Accordian


The palm tree sits in the sun
her fronds outstretched like paper fans
waving hello from across the street
drawing me near, calling me
to come and sit awhile
relax, catch my breath
cool off before the next mile

and I’m strolling in the French Quarter
Cajun music floating out of opened doors
accordions and fiddles, zydeco
the smell of alcohol wafting by
alone in the crowd
running from myself

I’ve come a long way.


laurie kolp

Posted over on her site Bird's Eye Gemini
Listed as #14 over at dVerse Poets-FFA-Visual Writing

At Each Crossing, We

image borrowed from bing

at each crossing, we

at each crossing, we
still have choices, and that is
what really matters
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

A Day in the Life

image by cavan on flickr

a day in the life


darkness consuming
upon my awakening

while the blood is cold
and muscles stiffened

on my way to a tai chi morning
I ride a silent road

and now returning, body loose,
eyelids heavy for my morning ferry walk

continuing my journey to work, reading Shakespeare
and seeing the words while falling asleep

yet soon it’s time
to leave the bus for a cafe stop

and mocha bought, the frothy leaf on top
concealed by whipping cream

but the words that come out slow
they flow into espresso double-shot

that lifts the fog before a client call
with necktie freshly put in place:

in a week or so my book is out
or maybe sometime thereabout


Blue Flute

Posted over on his site Follow the Blue Flute
Listed as #4 over on dVerse Poets-Visual Writing FFA

Regret Sits in the

image borrowed from bing

regret sits in the

regret sits in the
driveway, hangs from
the doorknob, catches
some sun on the
wardrobe, listens in
when someone uses
the word garbage.
on the other hand,
regret sits in the
car lot, hangs in
the department store,
catches some sun
off the neck of
a mannequin in
the window, fully
marked up, sale over
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Yes, It Was My Grandfather's

Image by Glenn Buttkus

Yes, it was my grandfather's
last name, but certainly
not his tombstone.

The Cemetery Gates Swung

Image by Glenn Buttkus

The cemetery gates swung
open, but I declined
the invitation.

The Tiny Bathroom Window

Image by Glenn Buttkus

The tiny bathroom window
seemed so small against
the blue sea of siding.

The Trained Eye Can Find

Image by Glenn Buttkus

The trained eye can find
the delicate balance
others miss.

I Know For a Fact

Image by Glenn Buttkus

I know for a fact
locomotives love to have
their portraits done.

Ever Wonder How Those

Image by Glenn Buttkus

Ever wonder how those
rear steering wheels
on cabooses work?

Throwing Shit at the Moon

image borrowed from bing

Throwing Shit at the Moon

Where in hell are those
silver skate keys for the sidewalk rollers,
the pungent inner tubes for the
fleet of fat bike adolescent transporters,

the raw wind whipping in your hair
while vectoring personal muscle volition,
unfettered by tiger-striped helmets,

those public phones hanging next to
ice machines at 7-11, lonely phone
booths standing in parking lots, or
alongside hardware stores, their violated
phone books lying half naked, askew
from having their yellow pages torn out,
or those 50’s phone numbers that still
had the name of trees in them,

the nickel colas, the 19 cent burgers,
the crackle of dual glass pack mufflers,
poodle skirts and lacy petticoats,

real hard ice cream milkshakes, complete
with the tall stainless steel mixing cup,
still resplendent with luscious refill,

horse meat at the butcher’s, that sickly
sweet smell as it fried up in cast iron skillets;

yeah, Christ, I know dearest children,
just another sexagenarian howling at
technology like an old dog baying
at those sirens you cannot hear.


Glenn Buttkus

February 2012

Listed as #30 over on Magpie Tales 105

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?

Donut Store Blend

image by epic mahoney

Donut Store Blend



Gone the way
of the phone booth

and station wagon,
the morning tradition

is dunked, or otherwise
reduced to an essence

added to the grind,
a kind of tribute.

Time-travel across
the politically correct,

wrap one in wax paper,
dribble jelly for old times' sake,

the icing so sweet
it makes your teeth hurt.



tess kincaid

February 2012

Posted over on her site Life at Willow Manor
Listed as #2 over on Magpie Tales 105

Bitch in Heat: Redux

image by Reena Walkling

Bitch in Heat

Albatross, what gorgeous flotsam is this
held tenderly in your golden beak,
deposited sweetly, swiftly, without guile
center stage amid male musk?

It appears to be an Alpine wild flower
with small breast blossoms
and a wasp waist, with nine bracelets
chiming along a smooth thin wrist
first peeking out of voluminous paisley sleeves,
then clanking like metal Lionel box cars,

who has picked me to court, her minty breath
caressing the bulge of my neck, swirling
her long black locks into curly tangles
over my blue collar as her hot tongue
strums an ear lobe before nibbling it,
my own cortigiana onesta providing
complex coitus on a red cushion,
steaming sexual gymnastics from
a hazel-eyed vixen, who hums like
a tropical fan while her hips and lips
steer the lust craft into hyper-drive,
dragging me into a ball-busting ride
in her orgasmatron, pleasure bound
for the “flower and willow world”,
tearing at the fabric of propriety,
like a lusty mongoose sucking dead fingers
to the bone, man,

Connected, you dig, but not simply whole,
more fragmented in a Monet mode,
vibrant swirling of dot matrix, drenched deep
in the sensuous sins of many colors,
frightening, dude, cliff diving blindfolded,
fire walking, blade sucking, sharing
the blue sugar cube tongue to tongue,
accompanied by the chorus of a million screams
thrust out from the tube every hour,
preventing me from detecting who
the hell she actually was, cradled
again in that musky brown beak,
a swallowed thing that still breathes
that I could kiss without lips,
tasting vanilla, pepper, and thick cream
in the folds of my inner cheek;
startled by a flurrious implosion
as she flew without wings to Atlantis,
and all in Christ’s world I could do
was stand mute and erect watching
her pink contrail dissipate into husky mist,
and wait patiently for my own feathers
to sprout peacock proud.,

Glenn Buttkus

May 2011

Listed as #30 over on Magpie Tales 67
Also listed as #6 over at dVerse Poets-Poetics

Would you like the Author to read this poem to you?

In the End

Image by Renna Walkling

In the End

A touch---

Feel the BASS in your chest
air thick with each breathe
ash, & ash, & ash
Feel the BASS in yoUR CHEST
ground liquefies beneath
earth sky earth sky
lines blur between
falling into each other
FEel the BASS in yoUR CHEST
the gods have returned
the gods are here
the gods are insane
the gods
oh my god
bodies, mouths wide
screaming loud but unheard
100, 1000 lions roar apocalypse

fire, fiRE, oil & fIrE

where are the children? where
am i? damp, sweat, piss, blood
god, i, ash & ash
fade to grey, then black,
fingertips on a shoe
a sandal, a..a table leg,
i

orange-red, a light, bright, blink,
black, heat, blink

black, breathe, can't,
black, breathe,
black, can't
i

break
release
breathe
finger hovering over the stone that once was
--was a body, sitting now between stalls, fresh
fruit in the market, it's curled, seeking safety

---and at a touch
i cross time, there, the moment where
hearts stopped--her heart's stopped---
first thoughts in the face of---

of--but then, a woman, her child
on a day of celebration, they are smiling,
laughing, she sees
her husband, smiles, crossing
the stones when---

the BASS begins, (this is the end) feel it
in your CHEST (this is the end)
this is the end---

and you never
never saw it coming, even through
you have felt the tremors for weeks, months
years, and swore, it
would
never
happen

to you---


Brian Miller

Posted over at his site Way Station One

Oh Christ

image borrowed from bing

Oh Christ

Did Jesus really look like
Jeffrey Hunter,
or Max Von Sydow,
or Jim Caviesel,
some lean handsome Aryan
dude with flowing locks?

Or did he look like some Jewish
spear carrier on Broadway
in “The Merchant of Venice”;

hook nose, dark skin, brown eyes,
nappy hair and all?

Only A&E dared show us the truth.


Glenn Buttkus

February 2012

Just 55 words for fun.
Listed as #39 over on dVerse Poets-MTB-Heroes

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At the Grocery

image borrowed from yahoo

at the grocery


Mr. Jones, that drives the bus,
wears a hat, Built Ford Tough,
& as we pass, in the parking lot,

he out,
i in

he shuffling not so fast,
i in a rush

waves his long-fingered hand,
creased like a leather map
& shares a word

his wife waiting patiently
by his Chrysler in a handicap spot.


Brian Miller

Posted over on his site Way Station One
Listed also as #33 over at dVerse Poets-Meeting the Bar

Much of a Clownfish's

image borrowed from bing

much of a clownfish's

much of a clownfish’s
life consists of staying
in, working out
to build immunity
from the big bad
blue world, and
giving the silent
treatment to the
stinging landlord.
no, there are no
jokes being
polished, no sons
getting lost, and yes,
the entire family
missed out on
that lesson on
flapping and feathering
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

There's More to the Story

image borrowed from angelique

There's More to the Story

When he was out to sea, my dad
sent coins to me from every port,
stuck at the bottom of his thin blue letters,
the whirls of his fingertips preserved
in the tape. I’d smell the paper hard
to find his bristly scent.

When he was young, he stole bread
and cigarettes, watermelon and eggs.
He picked up coal along the railroad tracks
and wore whatever someone gave him
to cover his scabs. He found an orange
one Christmas and ate it like an apple,
skin and all. It was the most magical food
he had ever held on his tongue.

When he was sick, my dad was
crazy as a loon, one screw loose,
taking direction from TV and
writing nonsense on the bills.
There is a spook talking nonstop
in my head, he’d say. We wouldn’t
let on to the neighbors, even when he
burned a mattress in the yard
for reasons we could not explain.

angelique cain

aka: paperbatty

Posted over on her site Angelique
Listed as #17 over on dVerse Poets-Meeting the Bar

Heroes (& Villains)

drawing by brian azzarello

Heroes (&Villains)


57 channels (and nothin' on),
the Boss sang --- now i have hundreds
at the click of a button, and still got nothin'
this is how we measure our progress,
more but no substance

In this season of superheroes,
at the movies, everyone wears spandex
or muscles plasticized in some unattainable
place,

we set them on pedestals
we can no longer reach.
Our heroes

are mass produced and paraded through
and when one actor gets old, we find another
younger, start over, rewrite their origin,
begin again---the last Superman had an
illegitimate kid, perhaps that makes him
more believable, i guess

he has kryptonite to bring him down
but---as a kid i waited for my mutant powers to man-
ifest because i knew they were coming, b'cause this
could not be it---flipped
pages back and forth measuring the angles
of john romita jr, shadows of jack kirby,
designed costumes,
picked names
& practiced

when the time came,
i was more villain than anything,

nursing a stiletto chest wound & spinning webs
to trap & take as many with me as i could, mis-
understood & ready to write a last issue,
end-ing circulation, or at least
dilute the ache with a drink, a drug, a late night escape,
billowing hospital gown as my cape

(breathe)

Heroes don't always make the movies or
after school specials, much less the comic books,
sometimes they wear jeans and their power
is limited to seeing---
this is where she found me---
& she loved me

anyway--

so do i know heroes, yes
i have kissed their lips & will again
when i get home---and if there is nothin' on
(the tv tonight),
well then...


Brian Miller

Posted over on his site Way Station One
Listed as #1 over on dVerse Poets-Meeting the Bar

Canvas Hearts

image borrowed from brian

Canvas Hearts


Four score and seven years ago
our fathers brought forth on this continent,
a new nation,

conceived in Liberty,
and dedicated to the proposition
that all men are created equal---

but we know thats not true
and this aint a size thing, not what you do
before but after the ring, yeah
script fliped when the lips tripped with 'i do'
and don't, soon as you get home
once hot, now---heh, guess not,
romance, a body that needs exhuming
to search for evidence of its existence---
yeah rome is burning,
all heat consumed by ashes,
leaking like ceasar, perpetrated by cassius

clay could rope a dope but when you won't swing
you got no hope and'll kiss the canvas mat
1-2-3 now ten count, yeah you out---what's that,
laid back on the couch,
getting while the gettings good
---then you passed out
snore a dull roar, yeah boy
you got a pretty mouth
& a silver tongue, enough to seal the deal
but what you got
when it comes undone

Four score and seven years ago
has it really been that long since
you last tried to woo
instead'a just expecting her in the bedroom,
St Valentine's a martyr, so one day a year---
you can try harder, it's the Hallmark &
you been carded,
yeah this is a song for the broken hearted,
it's time to leave Egypt, water's parted,
don't know bout you
but my love needs more than 24 hours
they say the dandelions a weed not a flower
who we got to model the role, but our fathers
but then again, ain't all men created equal
and there's a reason her answer is two advil
ooo how bad's that feel, you can deny
but it's mad real

Time to plant the flag in this hill,
nah not like that,
but this, a new nation of understanding what
love is, not a one day plan
from a one night man,
in a one minute stand,
where ladies got no reason
to say "you mean that's it?"---damn,
time to grow up boy be a man,
open your ears, and don't skip
dedicate to a proposition
romance is a life style, not position,
once more back to Lincoln
cause---

In the end, it's not the years
in your life that count.
It's the life in your years.


Brian Miller

Posted over on his site Way Station One
Listed as #21 over at dVerse Poets-OLN31

Is It Chemistry Or

image by yi ching lin

is it chemistry or

is it chemistry or
biology that draws
them here
every morning,
two by two,
on the banks of our
lake, like young
trespassers
in love
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Kitten

image borrowed from bing

Kitten


spooned by fullness,
I tremble

smocked in sweat,
crumbs, and
remembrance—
slaps and caresses
of snipped
mental replay

ambushed
by burbling thoughts,
I curl up and filter myself
until silt
settles
down

at the bottom
of an angry rhubarb river

raging love-blood in flux
quashed by quiet soothing
breeze

blind and folded,
I lap some milk and
purr myself to sleep

sweet little calico
kitten


Shawna McAllister

Posted on her site Rosemary Mint
Listed as #53 over on dVerse Poets-Open Link Night 31

Plain

image borrowed from bing

PLAIN

in memory, Bob Burlingame

If he had been
a creature on
an endangered list,

he might have been
a blackfooted ferret
nestled

beneath a gnarled
hackberry stump creekside
off the plains of Kansas,

or the plainest of plover
only found rarely
in a high canyon

deep in the Guadalupes
under the white peak
of El Capitán -

ancient reef
overlooking the salt flats
of West Texas.

He becomes a joshua lizard,
dry weeds, yellowood,
rooster, fish, beaver, finch,

blue milkwort, wild cherry,
sandhill crane, turkey vulture,
sunflower, shark, dandelion,

portuguese man-of-war,
sycamore, mountain laurel -
all that sing in solitude.


Gene Keller

Posted on Bobby Byrd's site White Panties and Dead Friends

Pollock by Namuth

image borrowed from bing

Pollock by Namuth

He was drunk
He was nasty
Many knew
We young ones didn’t
He looked great
Brooding in denim
Cigarette between long fingers
On the running-board
Of his beat-up Model-A Ford
On the Evergreen Review cover
Names of heroes
CAMUS
BECKETT
SOUTHGATE
O’HARA
He’s not the same now
You grow up and adjust
You want the old feeling
It’s still there but not
To be trusted…well,
It’s not for him anyway
But for that world when
You didn’t have to know
What you know now

William Corbett

Posted over at Bobby Byrd's site White Panties and Dead Friends

Adolescence Waits

image by yi ching lin

adolescence waits

adolescence waits –
a recipe for layered
apathy and
distraction, with
two shakes of
homegrown patience
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Love Crumbs

image borrowed from flickr

love crumbs



you – not you -

me – with -

without you;

some words…
like crumbs,
stick to my feet,
dragged along,
snipping at silence,
his “not-like-love”
ambush my thoughts
much before zenith;
a slap from reality
or reality slapped on me -

you – me – us

no more – still …


Lady Nimue

Posted over on her site Pages from my Mind

Love is Blind

image borrowed from bing

Love Is Blind

There is nothing trifling about Valentine’s Day,
born blindfolded in the blood of martyrs
as Roman emperors quashed romantic
relationships, passing laws ordering young men,
in the fullness of their sexuality, to remain single,
to tremble only for battle as legionnaires,

but Saint Valentine understood that love
was never endemic as he made matrimonial
chimes ring softly, secretly, yet was unable
to quell the sweet burbling from reaching the
royal ears of Claudius II, who had Valentine
arrested and imprisoned;

legend has it that on the eve of his execution,
the fledgling saint sent a hand-written card
to the blind daughter of his jailer, signing it
as her Valentine, and though stillborn, this
affection healed her blindness.

It was of course Geoffrey Chaucer in 1382
who spoon-fed the aristocracy romantic rhubarb,
and this courtly influx of love-snippets led
steadfastly to the canonization of fat cherubs
who ambushed couples with their love-darts,
roses, and chocolate confections, propelling
love to a zenith of popularity within America
in 1847 as embossed paper lace cards became
mass produced.

As for me, even though I know love can bitch-slap
you senseless, can even lead to madness, still
I find myself joyfully tithing to the mewing gods
of hallmark, while recalling my Shakespeare:

Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s Day,
all in the morning betime,
and I am a maid at your window
to be your valentine.--Ophelia.

Glenn Buttkus

February 2012

Listed as #1 over at Monday Melting-Week 6

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?

Unhitched, the Yellow

Image by Glenn Buttkus

Unhitched, the yellow
caboose cried out
for the mother train.

It Seems That Crosses

Image by Glenn Buttkus

It seems that crosses
everywhere think they
are sunflowers.

When a Plow Retires

Image by Glenn Buttkus

When a plow retires
it seeks out
a stout tractor tire.

Swing Your Bale

Image by Glenn Buttkus

Swing your bale
up, Bob, there's
lots of space.

My Other Car

Image by Glenn Buttkus

My other car
is a classic
Cadillac.

Old Chevys Make

Image by Glenn Buttkus

Old Chevys make
excellent homes for
errant maple vines.

The Seven Cables

Image by Glenn Buttkus

The seven cables
perfected a new knot
of fellowship.

A Peek Over the

Image by Glenn Buttkus

A peek over the
palace parapet reveals
another castle corner.

Black Silk

image borrowed from bing

Black Silk


Swallowed in sin
bereft of moral decency
all inhibitions stripped
black silk like quicksand
left and right,
she tries to turn away
resist the undying urge
no one else understands
until Lady Godiva spreads
her cunning charms on them
they can't resist temptation
after that first luscious taste-
Death by Chocolate; today's splurge,
tomorrow's repercussions
forgotten.

Laurie Kolp

Posted over on her site Conversations With Laurie
Listed as #38 over on Magpie Tales 104

Fallen

image borrowed from bing

Fallen

Tempted –

ivory beacon
in an
ebony
void.

Consumed –

another
angel
falls.

Mark Windham

Posted over on his site Awakened Words
Listed as #39 over at Magpie Tales 104

Black & White

image by DrJOnes

Black & White


There was a time she would have been
sent away to live with a distant relative,
some school of reform, labeled crazy
or even burned at the stake---

They, being inferior, would hang
by the throat with rope,
dancing beneath the trees
until their tongues lolled,
or roasted on spit---

In preservation of what?

We've come a long since---
right?

Is it always black & white?


Brian Miller

Posted over on his site Way Station One
Listed as #37 over on Magpie Tales 104

Ebony Orchid

image borrowed from bing

Ebony Orchid

Cataleya was raised as a very proper
Southern belle at a time when
the coloreds had to use separate entrances,
drinking fountains and bathrooms.

Then she attended college at UCLA
during the birth pangs of civil rights,
and without the tether of inherited
racism

she discovered black lovers,
jazz, the blues, and the back
of the bus.

Glenn Buttkus

February 2012

Listed as #28 over at Magpie Tales 104

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?

In Flight, We Appear

image by yi ching lin

in flight, we appear

in flight, we appear
fairly different from
one another – judging
by the wingspan,
the beat of our
song, the pattern
of colors against
the sky. when
falling, however,
we appear
just like the last –
a memory, a shot
in the dark, one long,
colorless flutter
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits