The Corner of Second and Ho

Rounding past the meadow, east of the lake,

Agony exuberant shouts for all on the make.

Rises up the intersection where all the damned go,

For here's Hell's Hell at the corner of Second & Ho.

In one corner, poor Deek struts in fashion threadbare.

His eyes see nothing, just horizon-less despair.

"I will always be with you, I will don't you know"

Intones this broke man on the corner of Second & Ho.

Across the way, Hungry Willie lazes on a lawn chair alone.

Belly extended, guzzling booze as he gnaws a leg bone.

Reaching for coke below the awning of Wings-to-Go

He rasps, "But no one can fly from the corner of Second & Ho.”

First Class fingers the cars as they speed their merry way,

But what fear motors their hearts, no one will say.

As he pees on a pole, First Class teases those in the know

"Change’s coming at last" to the corner of Second & Ho.

Gomer hears this snide taunt and finds strength (from above?)

Out of the chop shop, she staggers into the street preaching love.

The yos & hos freeze at her words, both the high & the low

Then rush to embrace - GRACE - by the corner of Second & Ho.

As they move off the curbs, a family wagon stops in its tracks.

Windows roll up, locks snap into place, pale faces draw back.

Blessed Gomer staggers back among the meek, life's sad undertow,

Sweeping away all hope on down the corner of Second & Ho.

                                        

As the crowd departs, she snarls "Cracker" at that blue-eyed fool.

The Chevy drives on, darkness returns, again the bleary-eyed drool.

"The first may go first, but the last shall last forever and ever mo'"

Murmurs Gomer to herself athwart the corner of Second & Ho.

© Byron Harris, 2011

At the corner; photo by Tony Russell

Gray Smoke

Thin wisps like smoke that flee from the fire,

a fog late at night, broken down but higher,

fly past the full face of a moon I desire.

Deep in this night two bodies aspire
- Venus and Diana -

both searching the earth for the plausible

fire.

But between we three, an army expires -

tis the shades of Robert E. Lee

and the troops we admire -

thin wisps of gray smoke drawn to the fire.

They swirl down in pills,

from deep darkened hills,

into fate which was badly begotten.

This mass, this fume, is all that now looms

of an army that has never forgotten.

© Marvin Welborn, 2011

Robert E. Lee; photo by Tony Russell

i've been waiting for you -- poem for peace

psst.  i'm here.  the other side of the door.

i hear you.  you've been knocking.

are you the one who tried to turn the handle before?

turn the handle ... turn it.  push a bit harder on the door.

it isn't locked!

come in, i've been waiting.  i've been waiting for you.

CHORUS:   i am peace.  i am thought.  i am deed.  i am possible.

you got distracted.  you've been here.  i remember you.

don't carry your cell!  don't watch too much t.v.  don't waste so much time!

come back to the door.  turn the handle.  push on the door.  it's open!

come in.  i've been waiting!  i've been waiting for you.

CHORUS:   I am peace.  i am thought.  i am deed.  i am possible.

i am here.  always have been.  don't you know how easy it is to get to me?

all in your mind.  your mind.  choices.  you make choices.  choose me!

do i have to shout?  maybe.  but i don't do that.

i am quiet.  i'm here.  in here.  i really am.

i can't come to you.  you must come to me.   it's just the way it is.

make the time.  choice.  make the choice.  you can.  you can.

i've been waiting!   i've been waiting for you!!!

CHORUS:    i am peace.  i am thought.  i am deed.  i am possible.

you can do a lot.  or a little.  hey... it's up to you.  but... you have to do something!

now...  it's time.  now!  do one thing.  even one.  one thing for peace.  one.

come on,  come back to the door.  turn the handle.  push on the door.  push.

come in.  come in...  i've been waiting.  i've been waiting for you!

CHORUS:   i am peace.  i am thought.  i am deed.  i am possible!

© Charlene Roycht, 2011

Door waiting; photo by Tony Russell

In defense of five

It may not be seven's perfection

Or eight's swirling infinity

Especially not three's

Godhead

Right angle strength

balanced on curve thrill,

five is a woman erect 

on a yoga ball

Lovely and odd,

five is the midway 

point to ten, that decadent

basis of metrics and money.

Five is the State Supreme Court--

when two out of three fails,

the rock-paper-scissors plaintiff

appeals to three out of five

for a more just verdict

A smaller scale than one-to-ten,

one-to-five is thriftier, more potent

Five more minutes 

of sleep is the common man's 

dose of indulgence

In minor keys, thirds

may waver, bringing the dark,

the melancholy,

but with the integrity of 

Abraham Lincoln, the fifth

holds steady, knowing

someday the arpeggio

will once again make

a joyful noise. 

© Linda Peterson, 2011

Flowering Cherry
Five petals, five-lobed calyx;
photo by Tony Russell

The Other Side

All week the threshing machine spat straw.

And then there it sat, a great yellow dome

begging to be climbed if you could do it.

I couldn’t.  Nobody could, not a straw pile -

a running start and a loud whoop gained you

a few feet but not the summit, ever.

It was the pigs, rubbing and burrowing

around the edges, who started the other game.

They’d thrust their shoulders against the stack,

then root and trench their way around the base.

Before long they had undercut the edge

and turned their crooked paths toward the center,

rambling pig-sized tunnels just right for a boy

on his knees, and there I was, crawling around

beneath who knows how many tons of straw

held up by pillars any runt could knock down.

Breathe deeply and ease in, grope your way along.

Follow the shoat trotting through the dark -

he grunts in fear of you, not of the path.

Hold your breath against the rot and something

that’s cramping your heart.  Let the shoulders glide

gently, so gently, along the walls.  Let it doze,

let it dream of quiet days in the sun

when a wren could light unnoticed.  Let it sleep

like a child till you reach the other side

and daylight: stained knees, manure up to your wrists,

but you’re out now, and no column fell.

And if it had, that great stack would have made no sound–

oh, a little sigh, perhaps, as it listed

a few degrees, exhaled a wisp or two,

and snuggled around me its gentle bulk.

© David Black, 2011

Haystack at Giverny, by Monet

Stained Glass

Washed in light, yet stained to screen

The light within, without.

I pray the Lord will wash me clean

Thru' death & darkest doubt.

I traced His love in a rainbow's curve;

I find it when I search.

I feel it when I'm made to serve,

A window to the church.

          © F. Carroll Harrison, 2011

Window, Canterbury Cathedral

What Will It Take

WHAT will it take...

For the world to know Itself as One?

Defiance of Unity?

Allegiance to Autonomy?

Separation as an Entity?

Confusion a Reality?

War as Eventuality?

STOP IT! Just Stop.

In terms of Being 

We are One in Spirit and Humanity

Environment lives and breathes

We aspire...

Let us be open to a vision

of differences proclaimed, 

as every flower we know

has got a name,

yet no inherent cause to blame another species grown beside.

Let us awake to a truth inside....

We are ONE

Yet, even in Nature's way 

we see that conflict lives....

The forest overtakes the field 

as saplings sprout amidst 

the grass which came to be 

after a fire which leveled all there was to see....

How do we manage our Destiny?

Seeking the Light that we all require, let's not mob the place.

Every flower needs some space 

to live and grow!

Understanding this is So, and giving each their Due, 

Unity will follow through.

© Gerry Sackett, 2011

Touch-me-not; photo by Tony Russell