Book cover photo from Wikimedia Commons

The Empty Page

This time of year perhaps the empty page

Should be black instead of white

Bleak and wet and heavy with hibernation

Lie weighty and soggy on the silent desk

Waiting for some harbinger some hope

To leaven the wintry landscape within

Perhaps the page were better made of ice

That I may strap on the old hockey skates

Once more and finding that perfect stretch

Of cold weather without snow strike off

Across the perfect surface taking flight

Without a single word to shatter the ecstasy

© Bill Prindle, 2017

 

Midas

I surround myself with gold.  Yes, I have the magic touch.

My first act when I took possession of the palace

was to replace the drapes; you’ll notice

they’re in my signature gold shade.  My predecessor,

among his many shortcomings, had no sense of style

or spectacle.  I’ve drawn countless compliments, 

praising my perfect taste.  How did you come up with that? 

everyone asks.  And I tell them it’s a gift.

Women or drapes, I have an eye for beauty.

I see you are impressed.  But that’s just

the beginning.  Step into the royal bedroom, 

its walls festooned with yards of golden silk.  

That painting in the gilded frame above the bed, 

of my daughter turning into gold at the instant 

I touch her, is a genuine Appelles.  Isn’t she gorgeous?  

So sexy!  And if, perchance, you have need, 

take time to admire the gold fixtures on the toilet

and sink.  How they glitter in the light!  

Even the seat-belt buckles in my chariot

are gold-plated—and no doubt you’ve admired 

my initial in gold letters on my many properties. 

My name itself is golden (speaking figuratively, 

of course), which is why I’m besieged with requests 

to license various businesses. Steaks! A university!

My critics—jail them for treason!—claim all of this gold 

is a sign of idolatry and greed.  Or worse, that it’s tacky. 

But gold is good.  Those who lack it are losers,

and triumph is always my aim. Winning and gold

are cardinal elements of my brand.   

The Golden Rule, says the Wizard of Id,

comes down to this: “Those who have the gold 

make the rules,” which makes me a perfect fit 

for kingship.  People who study these things, historians, 

say I’m the finest king this country’s ever enjoyed, 

probably the greatest ever, anywhere in the world.

© Tony Russell, 2020

Knock-off Clepsydra

Humanity, with its habit

          of invention

can fastforwardthroughaday

          if they had, say, 

          a clepsydra

                    and an earthquake

One is easier to make

          than the other

Once filled, the water waits

          wicks, and spills

          with little mediation

Out, clumping, out onto the sand

          hours sloshed on grains

                    lost to a fault’s fault

This is how to cutaday|inhalf

          a sodden simple way

          unlimited to adage

Minutes easily evaporate

          leave you to explain

                    away appointments

          with what time will 

                    tell itself

You’ve lost only what’s 

          allotted, dimension t

          distended particular

It’s easy enough with effort—

          reference for luck and loss

                    but all that’s

out cannot be doubted

          back in

© James Cole, 2020

Greek Clepsydras. Image courtesy of:
https://sites.google.com/a/brvgs.k12.va.us/wh-14-sem-1-greece-ogm/home

Russian Film

They have dug a fresh grave

Just beyond that group of old headstones

Where a lush green forest begins

She plays her bugle

As her father rows his small craft out to sea

A boy half-naked crawls tiredly onto the rocky shore

In his hand a crab he has carried from the depths

The children are beyond gravity

Their bodies grow upright

I do not see an end to their beauty

They hear the strange echoes made from yelling up the rock cliff

They listen for answers the echoes can not give

Still there are echoes they can not hear

They see faces in the jaded rocks

Too high for climbing

Even their young strong thighs and arms could not get them there

He fixes his hair in a tidepool

Nearly losing the little girl

A seagull flies over the waters

And the children dive in off the jetty without hesitation

A group of the boys seen earlier gather on the shore

They want to see her nude body exposed

She hides nervously in the crevices refusing to show herself

But after all she appears shaming the hysterical boys

The boys’ cruel indifference

She laughs as she plays with the phone booth

Fake conversations none can know

The group of boys yell up at the rocky monoliths

They are searching for the boy who was with the girl earlier

He hides high up in the crags and watches the boys below

He calls for the girl lost somehow

The immovable stones give no answer

But she is back again

With her bugle chasing a man’s footprints in the sun drenched sand

Some Russian song is sung as she boards a train for the city

The boy chases yelling her name

But she is smiling to leave the cliffs and the seas with her uncle

She sticks her head out looking forward

She thinks little of the boy chasing the train

© Philip Marlin, 2020

Image Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Remembering Winter

Winter, my old friend...

I see you beyond the hill

Autumn's last leaf swept away

My shoulders shake with chill

Are my bones just getting old?

They say you're on the way.

Even the clouds have lost their fluff

They seem so flat, so grey.

Yet, I recall a winter past

When cold couldn't halt my play

And the crunch of snow beneath my boots

Brought smiles to my day.

As snowballs landed at my feet

Thrown by admiring boys

Placing me on center stage

I can hear their swishing noise.

As days grow short and cold winds blow

I glance at the orange sun

Remembering so long ago

When winter just meant fun! 

© Shelly Sitzer, 2019

Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Prophecy: A Recipe

You’ll need a fish and some sequins,

 a bottle of good wine, sugar,

rock salt, a bag of mints, and maybe

an orange or two. This is not

a comprehensive list. Improvise a bit.

If it were meant to be simple, anyone

could do it. Are you still listening to me?

Good. Now you need to build a boat.

Not a real boat, an imaginary boat.

Exactly 12 feet and 4 inches long.

It should smell like pine trees

in your boat. You must stack coins

edge to edge. Bind them with candy

floss. It doesn’t matter what color.

It just needs to be sticky. You have

too many questions. Why would I know

when the flood is coming? Who said

it would end in a flood? I’m just telling

you to build a boat in your mind.

No easy fixes I’m afraid, but you can

eat the fish. Sequins make everything shine.

You’ll figure out the rest or you won’t.

© Ellie White, Originally Published in Peatsmoke

Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Sunglint Butterflies

The moment exists

and slips my grasp today

as it does on many

As present bliss is lost

in time that will not be detained

even if I resist the flow

An unseen force is moving

through me...and I question

if the current knows the stream, or

if consciousness can recognize

living as it seems

Is simple awareness reality

and living just a dream?

Or is the truth of Being

somewhere inbetween?

Human born, we are born to see

that balance is a mystery,

a cosmic dance...

Siva, getting down, getting on,

getting free!

Destined for more

than a meal and a mate,

we must daily choose our fate

and fell the power of the stream...

for we are carried, after all!

Yet, it's up to us to paddle

and not to drift, for ultimate

enlightenment

Sunglint butterflies scintillate their flight

upon the windrift soul of water

flowing over stone...

I'm on the bridge, above the stream...

again, the Sun is bursting

light and water over me!

© Gerry Sackett, 2019

Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons