My friend Godfrey:

Yes, I finished reading your work this morning. I have been busy at work, and started earlier this week, and finished it this morning. I should have tried to read it at home, but it just did not happen. I read it at work.

Let me state upfront that I do like your work, and I do think you are an excellent poet. However, you probably know more about music than I know about poetry. I have not studied poetry since I was a college student over 15 years ago. But hopefully my opinion still counts…

My favorite poems of yours are the following:

One

St Ignatius (Sessions) (is my favorite one overall)

The Nightmare Before…(Was this about a phone call from Cassie?)

The Mastermind (The Thief and The Ego) (Probably about Cassie too?)

Hail to the Thief (is this Cassie related? Or stealing bases in baseball related?) Doubt the baseball idea, due to the line “silver, gold, cash”

Found

Ghost (interesting)

A Beast Cannot Be Trusted (Wonder if this is about Cassie too…)

The only one that I did not relate to was:

Appetite

(Well, maybe add “Salvation” as well, but there that word, to me, as a former ardent theist and minister, is a word that I do not like…thus, I am wondering if my own past affected my understanding)…I no longer believe in salvation from a religious perspective, thus I think my mind was clouded to that…

Wine Review

Hi,I'm a Chgo area /self employed musician/bookseller always writing stuff. Not sure what your rate of compensation is but throwing a piece at you regardless. I've been weaned on Buchowski, 60s 70s culture filtered through 80s/90s experimentation/mutation.
Edward Bock

Red Red Wine Whine Wine!

Everybody has a current favorite and most of the winos I know won’t hesitate to tell you what theirs is. I’m going to go there as well, knowing how subjective wine tastes are and that availability of certain “good bang for the buck” varieties are limited.My wife and I stumbled (on recommendation from our liquor store floor guy) on Ménage a Trois 2006 & 2007 which is going for around 8.00 and is thankfully lacking in the cheap vinegary-too much alcohol flavor of many that we have tried in the 5-10.00 range.After going through a few cases of this stuff , we discovered that it’s currently being featured at Sam’s Club (we’re in the Chgo /O’Hare area).Not to get too over the top about what we both thought of/agreed was different about this one. Got an overall “uplifting” feeling after killing a bottle together, was a “sweet talking wine” and no after burn/headache. The taste was more grape than anything and is a decent blend of Merlot/Cabernet & Zinfandel, bottled by a Napa Valley winery with what we considered to be good blending sensibilities.Oh and by the way. “F” two-buck chuck. Edward Bock9/16/08

I'm Elizabeth Downey, 15 years old.
Here is some of my poetry.


She knows

She knows it's time to let go.
She knows she has to walk forward,
but she can't stop looking back.
She knows everything was a lie,
but she fights so hard to believe.
She tries and tries to forget,
but everywhere she goes there is a memory.
She knows she will be okay in time.
She wishes she would have known then what she knows now.
She knows everything changes,
and something’s just aren't meant to be,
She knows better than anything that letting go will never be easy.


Maybe

Maybe sometimes when I hide the pain it doesn't hurt.
Maybe sometimes it's easier to pretend nothing is wrong than to show I'm weak.
Maybe this smile won't fade and no one will see the tears and maybe then no one will see the pain.
Maybe it hurts more with each day,
Maybe it gets harder with every second that passes.
Maybe just maybe one day I'll wake of from this nightmare I call my life.

Frown

No one knows why the frown. Each morning going down in the elevator. Never even a grumpy utterance of, “good morning,” to acknowledge my nod. Once she held the elevator door to keep it from closing before I’d a chance to lock my apartment door. Who knows why she frowns? She turns right as I go left away from Lake Michigan.
I’ve wanted to ask her to borrow her vacuum cleaner. I’ve wanted to ask her to borrow sugar, tea. Perhaps soup on a cold day. “Would you like to have a bowl with me?” In the tiny corner furthest door from the fire escape at the other end. Watch her lock her door after having spoken through the door. She didn’t say, “what do you want?” or any other gruff greeting. She said a haughty, “hello,” through her door of a light wood. The nicer and newer door of all the other doors of black wood. It is because of that she revealed that she has the frown. Everyday the little Asian man who works in the building, windexing the mirror in the elevator. The mirrors in the foyer and they windows on the doors. Sweeping the foyer and toting the sucking machine that sucks out the muck in the clogged drains. Face mask and gloves. The same black shirt each day. Waiting for any moment to bother her about the door but the last two days he’s left her alone. I have been in the elevator with her at the same time. And she hustles away to the right and I to the left.

John Lacarbiere
Short bio:

I was born and raised in New Orleans, Louisiana. August 23, 1984 was the day. I graduated valedictorian from John McDonough Sr. High School class of 2002. Writing has always been a passion for me. I think I wrote my first poem when I was like 8 or 9. I wish I could remember what it was. I really got into it when I started high school. I used to write poems almost every day. I remember I wrote this one poem about Jordan’s, tennis shoes that I love to wear, and performed it in front of the class. The response I received from it made me want to not only write but read my poems to people. I tend to write poems about everyday life. Not my life in particular but the average everyday life. Just recently I had a hard time dealing with the death of my father, who was one of the many victims of Hurricane Katrina. Although I didn’t really show it, it hurt me a lot. I evacuated to Houston and it was there I wrote a lot of my personal poems. I think I was mildly depressed. As far as my style of writing goes, I don’t have just one set style. Some are poetic while others just be…you’ll see. I use profanity in some but nothing disrespectful. I write whatever comes to my head. I could be at work, school, driving and an idea pops up. I truly love what I do and feel I should share it with the world. I Currently host Open Mic at Borders Bookstore in Metairie. come check me out...visit my myspace @ http://www.myspace.com/msbjohn or my blog http://johnlpoetry.blogspot.com.

My submission:


Imagine


Imagine yourself reciting a poem to an audience of none

It's just you and the padded walls in your room

And your poem goes something like…


I'm not crazy

It's just sometimes when I'm alone

People speak to me

I didn't mean to choke my neighbor

I was only doing what they told me to do…


Ok if you imagined that you might be crazy too

But imagine yourself as a lady

(Fellas)

With a heart broken by the only man she ever loved and can't leave

Her poem goes something like…


I want to leave him

But if I do

Who will love me?

I feel so much pain inside

I lost myself in him

Or maybe gave him to much of me

That now I depend on him to not feel lonely

So I stay here not because of love but because of fear

Fear that no one else would love me again

Let him have his friends

And keep my pain within…


Now since we are on the subject of women

Imagine yourself as a 16 year old little girl

With a body fully developed

And a step dad that notices it

She reads…


He says that the more he does it

I'll start to like it

That doesn't stop me from crying

My momma knows what step daddy is doing to me

But she says we need a roof over our head

But it hurts

It hurts

Sometimes it bleeds

I'm only sixteen

Step daddy stop touching me!


Sad I know

Now imagine yourself poor

Reciting a poem to the other homeless people in the shelter

You tell them…


We did not choose to be this way

At least I didn't

I was forced to live this life

Given no opportunity

All I know is these streets

And before I beg another person for something to eat

I make this sign

And it reads

Imagine yourself as me

Kicked out at 13

Been homeless ever since

Feed me…


Now imagine yourself as President Bush

Reciting a poem about justice and equality…


You see America...

I uhh…

Uhh…

Uhh…


Ok he's a lil too dumb to write poetry

Last but not least

Imagine yourself in love

And the person you're with is the only thing you think of

Your poem reads…

My love for you is deeper than the Atlantic

You are the reason I'm up here standing

Reciting this poem

Expressing how much I love you

I love your mind

I love the way you smell

I love your taste

I love your face

I even love your mistakes

I love that you love me

I love you just the way you are '

I love that you don't change

I love the way we love each other

I love not knowing where this love will take us

I love you

I love you

I love you…

Sons of Thunder

That day has finally arrived. You knew it was bound to happen one day but you had no idea when it would happen. Your friends and family have all gathered around your grave filled with sorrow at your sudden departure from the planet earth. A thunderous voice cries out “you are dead!” while you stare with confusion at your own gravestone. How can I be dead I still look and feel like I am alive?

Suddenly, a large movie screen appears on the horizon as you begin to watch the screen you realize it is a replay of your entire life. You start to recall all the fun times you had with your family and friends growing up. The cherished moments in your life that made you laugh and smile all went by so fast. Then the pictures start to reveal another side of you that you tried to forget. You begin to see every time you told a lie a during your lifetime. You remember all those times you disobeyed your parents and stole items that did not belong to you. All those times you had sex outside of marriage and looked at another person with lustful thoughts. The hairs on your neck stand up as you begin to sense the presence of a figure standing beside you. He whispers in your ear with a sinister voice “I have been waiting patiently for you. I know you don’t like liars, thieves and adulterers yet that is what you practiced on earth. You are guilty of breaking the very laws you agree with and that makes you a hypocrite!”

Fear and terror begins to grip you as more dark figures begin to appear in a circle around you. Their presence is pure evil and they smell like dead and decaying flesh. They cackle and laugh as the screen continues to show all of your secret sins which you thought nobody knew about. The shame and embarrassment becomes overwhelming as Satan makes his claim for you soul.


You stated Lord if anyone denies you while they are alive you will deny them right back. I want this human sent to hell as punishment for breaking God’s Laws (The Ten Commandments).

To which a loud voice replies “I was beaten, whipped, spit on, mocked and crucified for their sins. I took the punishment they deserve for breaking the law so they could avoid God’s wrath. They have refused the salvation I have freely provided so there is no escaping judgment. I told them if they do not believe that I am he they will die in their sins!”

The demonic figures begin to wrap thick chains around your hands and feet as you begin to cry out for mercy and forgiveness. Your cries fall on deaf ears as the demons start to bite and claw at your flesh. Satan begins to laugh when you realize it is your own fault that you are being condemned. You begin to hear the voices of other people crying out in pain and torment as you descend into hellfire for eternity.

The alarm clock goes off as you are suddenly awakened from this horrifying dream. The room feels like an inferno as you wipe the drops of sweat off your brow. Your heart is pulsating in your chest from the intensity of the nightmare. You begin to think to yourself that felt so real as if it was really happening to me. What if there really is a place called hell described in the Bible? What if the Christians are right about God’s Law and our moral conscience telling us what is right and wrong?

Questions begin to rack your brain as you lay back down to try and get some rest. It is still dark outside so you set the alarm for an extra hour of sleep. Slowly you begin to drift off to sleep when you hear a voice whisper in your ear. "If you don't listen to the prophets"

Hello,

My name is Saadia Ali Aschemann. My first collection of poetry, lavish lines/luscious lies, was published in 2007 by FireFly Publishing. My second book, Words Gone Wild, will be released next month. The following poems are unpublished, but I thought they might work for your magazine. Thank you in advance for your consideration.

All Best,
Saadia

Labyrinth

balanced on
the flimsy axis between
mistake and memory,
I think of the word
deliverance
as I stumble toward
back doors
of abandon

tripping, slipping
already and almost
when I tell him
that it's complicated
he wants me to know
that it isn't complicated enough
between us
just yet


Soundtrack

sleep soaked voices
popping toasters
the quick rattle of
a Sunday morning newspaper
plus Meet the Press's
lullaby drone
the word mimosa
and the sound of
smooth skin on
soft fabric
always remind me
of the short hours
the long minutes
that we
gave to
took from
each
other



Krug Observations

through
the drinking glass
tuxedoed men
look like a line
of dominoes
waiting for a push
old ladies
with little girl voices
cookie cutter princesses
well preserved
dressed for battle
armed with artifice

unstable
this boozy, blurry realm
where little
white lies
seem to be

the new black


Ten

I've written ten unrelated words
on a sheet of butcher paper

eaten nine double stuff oreos

done eight one-armed pushups
before I decided to have another cookie

taken seven extra long sips
of a buttery chardonnay

snapped six pictures of my boys

painted five fingernails
a color called 'golddigger'

read four different chapters
in three different books

jumped rope for two solid minutes

and still, my maddening muse,
the one person I need right now
is nowhere to be found. He could
have at least called to tell me that he
was running late

Poolside

ten year olds talk
about hybrid clubs
pimped out playstations:
cash fund vernacular,
sunburned self importance

jaded children
debutante diatribes
vacant eyed trophy wives
all access--wireless
and otherwise

an oasis of
tan line temptation
where time splashes
slippery, elusive
in shallow water

Christopher Mulrooney

bio:

Christopher Mulrooney has written poems in Vanitas, Guernica, Beeswax, The Delinquent, Crannog, and fourW.

borscht belt

it isn’t a simply killing that was so funny thing
a waiter’s thumb
but a majordomo’s finger in the soup
plate by plate
the sitting at attention like plebes at the academy
and the roll call
and the watery soup


prestidigitation

prestige is the name
for it
after centuries have gone by

the coin produced by sleight of hand
out your ear

it can’t happen here

the business consortium
asserting national values
against a convenient faux


tribute

it seems more likely
now than shoes for Hottentots
the full megillah traipsed along the roadway
singing merrisomely that was required
the bar was raised
they praised the day welcome was ordained
where every ass was pained
before


falcon

a big bold minister of delights prancing upon the steps of azure
layabout the stare off the greensward
it can’t be tummy says
and drifts upward
the gorge rises
Hellespont and sport fishing
rising schools above the term
hysterica passio
down wantons down


request in triplicate form

the stemlines reach out to the globe
it’s a diffident thing all around
and there isn’t anything you can do about it
so why bother at all

the dews rise as rain if you have a dew point
Du Pont says the punter he’s off to the exchange

this for that dove from hat
a vintage where was water before

and the séance is dismissed

TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING WILL KILL YOU
DON’T LET THE SWEET MILK
SIT IN THE SCORCHING SUN
SO IT COULD SPOIL.
SOME THINK THE SUN WILL
SHED LIGHT ON ONES DAY......
BUT DONʼT LET ALL THAT SHINY SUN
SPOIL YOUR SWEET.

a spankin belt
Loud leather lashes against human hide.
Whips callous soft skin to strengthen your lid.
The strop has not lied nor has it died.
Force fear in the happy heart of a blind being.
To those who beat me: THANKS CRUEL CANARIES!
A nightmare, to stay tender. God forbid!
A stunner, to find that life isnʼt fullaʼ berries.
Belts clear false fruit. What a great corrector.
Itʼs easy to get lost in marry tarries.
Grimness is a trustworthy informer.
You belt me into realtity.
From sappy to strong. A cold reformer.
Ruthlessness is now normality.
In a place that praises brutality.

OUR TERM IS A TUNNEL WE’LL ALL HAVE TO TRAMP
TRY NOT TO TRIP, TRY NOT TO SLIP,
ON ALL THESE HALF-HEADED-NIT-WITS.
DONʼT MEAN TO DISAPPOINT
BUT YOU’LL HAVE TO DASH, DART, AND DEFY
THOSE DOPES THAT DUNCE.
OF COURSE THERE ARE FEATS,
BUT EVEN MORE FOES.
THERE’S NO NEED TO LOOK BACK SO
BUCK THOSE BYGONES
AND BRING IN THE BLISS.


EXCERPT FROM SHORT STORY

Those old haggard fools sit around that radio like they normally would be doing after we play the club on a Friday night; throwing cards around, watching LATE NIGHT BOXING, each one blabbering on about how "If I was fighting I would jab like this and punch like that.." Do they know anything about fighting? No they don’t. They don’t know how it is, going head to head in the ring with a guy who’s tryin’ to crush your nose into the back of your skull. They’re just interested in seeming like they knew what the hell they were talking about; in hopes of seeming like the big cheese, the wisest old geezer out the bunch. I’m stuck at this flat tire they call a club, playing the skins with this pack of hounds tillʼ I come up on some bread. To think that all the dopes across town will be watchin’ me from their metal boxes probably shootin’ the same breeze as these boneheads.

A guy don’t make it big by playing with a bunch of old dogs like these wrinkled raisins. A man needs to able to dart off with some dough and dash off with a dame whenever he pleases. I needa getta wiggle on outta here before this place swallows me in for another sucker: another futz, another fried up flapper, another dried up drugstore cowboy. I’m off my nuts to still be stuck at this grummy, good for nothin’ joint. I need somethin’ to get me outta here, and quick.

We had just finished another gig at the “Cat’s Meow” nightclub. Don’t let the dopey name fool ya, this place is nothin’ more then another two bit juicer serving Dumb-Dora’s and a mound of meat-heads from all across this town. They all try to tell me that the band plays it hot, that "Jack plays the skins as sweet as a shiek." But I ain’t gonna be takin’ no squat that’s comin’ off the cob from any these hooched up nit-wits. All the things that any of these bent up fellas say is bologna anyways. I don’t futz around with any of these fools in this joint. Im here to work for the small change I’m makin’, to eat the free grub, and to shoot down the booze which is scattered across the place.

I get home, late into the night as always. The only reason I stay after I’m finished playin’ that dump is because I don’t even got enough dough to buy some chow for myself. Ever since I’ve been down on the rocks my dog don’t even bark when he hears me get to the door. He looks just as wasted as I feel. When I enter the door he flimsily walks up to me wagging his skinny tail; I’ll pat him on his sides feeling his thin grey coat and bony ribs. When I open up a small piece of paper revealing the small chunk of steak I took from the club for him my sack of dope falls to the floor. He’s as eager to eat that piece of steak as I am to shoot that horse into my veins.
After I get out the shower to rinse the days stink from my bones I look into the mirror. I got sores colored black and blue all over my corpse from getting punched into shape for my next fight. As long as my face still looks good, that’s all that matter anyways. I can’t shoot the dope in my arms anymore cause people will start thinkin’ I’m a freak if they start to notice all the small red scabs where I prick the needle into my flesh.

Puttin’ the junk into my body gets rid of my hunger, it takes my mind off the fact that my pockets are filled with lint, it drains out the sound of the couple who’s pichin’the woo above my head, it gets rid of the rats runnin’ round this place, it makes me feel as copacetic as I use to feel before all this mess began. But when I wake up the next morning I’ll feel like the same ole fink as I did before the dope was in my veins.

As I expected wakin’ up the felt like a bum-rush. I had my last Chesterfield and the brew which was in my fridge for breakfast, packed my bags and walked over to the Big Six Boxing Gym. Every time I walk in the place everyone seems to stare at me, like if im some big pallooka. But I’ll show ‘em up, I’ll give ‘em an earful once they see that I donʼt go down that easy. I might not look like much but I can throw my mitts just as good as the rugged piker im fightin’ on Monday. As I messed with the bag I caught myself glarin’ at him in the ring shadowboxin’. Maybe he might be as much of a hard boiled live wire like everyone else says, but I could take ‘em, I gotta’.

After I finished foolin’ round in the gym I went to the back to get dressed. Verne, one of the only crumbs I can handle in this place, was getting’ twinkied up to start sparrin’.
He told me to "Take Five" and I shook his hand.

Carlos Chavarria

Dear Editors:
I read your advertisement on craigslist. I decided to send some of my work to see if you are interested. My name is Robert Gibbons. I recently moved to New York City from Florida. I am a published poet. I have been published in the Nomad's Choir, Rogue Scholar, Riverdale Press, Side of Paradise, Line and Stars, and many on line journals. Thank you for your time and patience in reviewing my work.

Thanks again,
Robert Gibbons

Write up a storm
(for Hurricane Gustav)

the unseen eye
attracted to the mélange
of jazz and jambalaya, the
rhythm has entered a
blues period.

the unseen eye holds
the handle of a jumbo
gumbo pot lazily stirring
the air as wind and rain marinates,
Lake Pontchartrain becomes
a big wok.

the unseen eye
cries alligator tears of rain,
looting the shore
like sand crabs and
slave raiders exploiting
the bounty. Oil slick riggers
travel the length of the Mississippi
from the Gulf Coast to Minnesota.

For the Senator seeking the office of President
(For: Maria Ranier Rilke).

For the senator who seeks the office of President
if you want to go the mountaintop,
you must see Jesus walking the street with one-hundred recyclable cans,
bound by a crucifix
If you seek more than the Oval office and the Lincoln bedroom
you must go past Lafayette Square, past Andrew Jackson on an upright horse, where blonde-haired woman wearing tailored suits, carrying upscale lunch bags, past chiseled –faced men with buzz cut and power ties, talking on an unreachable cell phone.
For those who dare to administer the Executive Branch of Government,
don’t drive through the tenement with executive tint rolled up separating you like a river. If you go to West Virginia Avenue and Clay Terrace there are no Camelot horses and Hawaiian shirts.
If you seek highest ascendancy in the world,
then you will find out the stone will not be rolled away.
In fact, you may be stoned.
You may be the allegorical suffering Christ figure, Bigger Thomas
standing on a Chicago roof.
Don’t forget about Malcolm, Medgar, Mandela, and JFK. Martin had bombs beneath his steps. Even he understood that the king must sometimes be crucified for the sake of the kingdom. Crucify him!

Recount
(tribute to historic Florida)

At the end of the archipelago there is an expressway
where the heat is so hot you better find yourself a
shade tree, plant yourself, then maybe a cool breeze
will pass by. Where saw grass still grows and you better
stop if a family of ducks are crossing the street. The
whole state is fish bowl and we recount those days.

We recount those days while yet in the third grade, the
first time we saw snow, it was historic, wet, bleached,
sand-stoned colored snowflakes fell from the sky.

We recount those days when yachts would dock near Old Port
Cove, when mobile homes crowded Singer Island, eroded
beaches allowed an invasion of lemon sharks, propeller-
marked manatees, and an explosion of mangoes. Wallace’s
ideas are stranded in the Bahamas, lot in the triangle and
Hemmingway’s cats are on a hot tin roof.

We recount those days when discovery was a real as Ponce De Leon.
He discovered me as I discovered myself and conquered my coming of age.
Spanish grandmother would hold her children close, wouldn’t let go.
She named her Florida. Only exotic Cuban plants and red peppers grew.
The smoke is still rising from the Wacissa swamp. No one knew its origin.

We recount those days when bean pickers and corn packers shucked,
shelled, and jived way into the night. Even, Zora went walking up
dust tracked roads. Sugar would drip from the cob of corn. We
settled black muck. It grew everything. Hurricanes and tornadoes would
make their annuals visits blowing Tallahassee roofs and drowning cypress
swamps.

We recount those days when Northern birds migrated, bubble gum pink flamingoes
sat proud atop lime green art deco buildings. Blue herons would wade up Palm Beach
Lakes. Now snow birds just leave their droppings-their snow.

We want to recount all the dead, and the past, all the graveyards and plots built above ground. The ones lost at sea when the hurricane and Great Flood came.

We want a recount for Belle Glade, Palm Glade, Palm City, and every palm tree with a coconut and every nut that fell from grace and made an impact on the ground’s floor.

We want a recount fro FEMA city, Little Havana, Little Haiti, Turtle Key, and very topless woman, muscle boy, Lancôme babe that struts, strolls, and cruises Ocean Drive.
For Ocala, Tallahassee, Wakulla, Sarasota, Pahokee, and every Native that ran into the swamp and hid from Andrew Jackson during the Battle of Orleans.


Finally, a recount for the disheveled, dismembered, disbarred, disenfranchised, and dissed who wash car window for a living carrying big red paint buckets beneath a Miami bridge, only eating a grapefruit and an avocado, drying their sweat-drenched bodies in the coolness of the night. For the drifter, the drifted, the beach bum, the hum drum, the ones who fell overboard, drunk from pain, lost at sea, the sea anemone, the sea spray is only temporary. The sun is the light. The dolphins will sing and the sea will be green again.

Survivor’s Staircase
(September 11th)

Take me up those stairs,
out of this pain, each step is
worry, each step bury the past.
Take me up those stairs,
each step is creaky, each step
is weak, the noise give sound
to what was, but what will be.
Take me up those steps,
this rain, is falling constantly,
each step to finish, each step
diminishes.
Take me up those stairs,
fix this staircase as it winds,
it wails, it pains me to
imagine, fathom a
way.
Take me up those stairs,
as I find a way to climb,
not look behind, to
travel, to unravel
this mystery,
this is a painful history.

The Long Road to Justice
(Thurgood Marshall)

there are so many roads to travel these days,
filled with attraction, but one particular road,
the long road never ends, it winds, it curves,
even spirals, sometimes unfinished pavement
makes travel stagnant, idle; road blocks
often create traffic jams, because of this road,
the long road should open game for on-
coming traffic, like any road-it’s controlled,
lanes are blocked for construction, some traffic
has to merge into one line, to unify,
there are no expressways here, no easy access,
some want to ride the speed lane, to cut the line,
not to wait their time, even road markers are unclear,
fluorescent yellow, kelly green haz-mat signs
are plastered everywhere, they are disregarded,
even ignored, though the speed limit is set,
lead feet accelerates, road rage overtakes,
suddenly collision, causing lanes to be blocked
until help arrives.

No windows

No windows
No windows
On my end of town
There are no windows
On my end of town
Jus gulags of cells
Salvation Army bells
No ticker tape parade
Just a statue of Lincoln
The patina has fade
There are no windows
No windows
On my end of town
No Wall Street Bull
No subway canopy
No freshly painted park bench
No manicured trees
No window on my end of town.

MY BELOVED
By Cindy L. Keller

What a light that glistens in your eyes.
It's the light of the Devine that I see.
A place where Heavenly Angels have awakened me.
Azure oceans deep - shallow unto thee.

Oh dearest one, my only love,
hearing the sound of your name, brings the rhythm of love.
My spirit is light, dancing high above;
lifted gently by the wings of you - My Beloved.

Your mystical hues boldly mask Autumn's bloom.
Infusing - encapsulating me with the crimsonest of reds.
My heart (an overflowing fountain).
My soul (you have fed).

The new moon shines brightly from above.
Still waters double the joy of a Celestial love.
In passion - mortal heat warms the blood.
Encircled in the arms of you - My Beloved.

Thank you,

Cindy L. Keller