It Is Not Enough
by Julia Hones
It is not enough
to take a breath,
you need to justify
each molecule your nose inhales.
The audience is waiting
for your speech;
It has to satisfy their cravings,
a happy ending at its core.
If you don’t fit the mold,
you will have to reveal the undertows
that hold your soul,
but when silence is the answer,
they will accuse you
of conniving in the missing parts.
gazing at the stars is not enough;
You are compelled to choose
a white or black color,
and if you pick the gray one
you are destined to stay outside.
by Lorraine Walker
A room swollen with darkness
Heartbeats increased as we all become
Just waiting in line.
A tiny flicker of hope was held in my hand.
Some form of light shone on me-
If only for a moment
I had its undivided attention
And it made me someone.
On the Train
by Amy Barry
His brow pressed
against the fog-damp window,
small railway stations
slid past into the dark,
illegible place names,
of their first meeting
in his soul,
to her charms,
lying in each other’s arms
in a room filled
with silence that
threatened to explode.
Smiling, she asked,
‘What do we have in common?’
He concentrated, then replied,
‘Words are like magic,
connecting two strangers.’
by Charles F. Thielman
Beveling Her Edge
Half-moon skating over
a gust-ridged lake.
The murals of her dreams
crossing wet canvas,
relics pulled up switchbacks,
a tide-line of silvered agates.
Light shines through veined wings
as the blue voice of her dream buoys
beyond a seventh wave, driftwood rolling in.
Awakened by two blue jays arguing
over the value of each sun slant,
she’ll spend 8 hours beveling created edges.
Often catching herself day-dreaming not
far beyond alarm-edged sleep,
she’s on schedule to carry a rose stem
of needs into happy hour’s dissolve.
City Light Flickers Over Cement
Lines of emerald and opals glitter
and spark across sidewalk
inside the glaze from a window display.
Day-light having left the upper struts
of five bridges, his chameleon spine
beneath the city’s darkening dome.
Downtown staccato, enzyme weave
through arms of tungsten, Friday night
pulling wing-stretch from work-week
fossils. Revolving spotlights reach for
moon-lit contrails as a bus thunders
down the transit mall into a stop.
Doors accordion open releasing various hungers.
He gains the corner across from his hot studio,
easel visible in a third floor window, canvas
angled to catch the rivulets and ricochets
of urban light. Ingots and emeralds kedged
over avenues reined linear as his city’s voice
belts out mirage after mirage. He flexes hands
and fingers, his walk over downtown hills
for a breath of fresh sparking ideas only
his thick sable brush could express.
Vaccines for illusions inhaled, he paints
the edge of the tower’s shadow, moon
waxing, a forest of raised arms and hands
just above the bricked city square as the fans of the stars dance, gusts whipping fountain spray.
by Joschua Beres
I dream sometimes of sending the Moon back in pieces
I remember sifting our thoughts
through our teeth at night
filling thirsty, eager ears
with the essence of each other
until Midnight found my tongue
tripping on the jazz of your flesh.
you had a rabbit heart then,
before the Heroin, before
our love became six-feet deep.
I have spent every waking moment
racing as far from your memory
but years are far -
further than I go,
and I think this marathon is over.
there are astronauts still waiting to meet somebody
way out there
speaking in Sputnik radio transmission lingo
bouncing their electronic morse code out to Neptune
beckoning the Mothership to get here
and get here QUICK!
somewhere, Jackie Kennedy can't forgive herself
so she dreams of chopping her tongue off
giving it to the Salvation Army
so nobody will ever know
that the City of Dallas warned her
«DO. NOT. COME. HERE.»
they say when we sleep
we are students of the dream.
we are teachers of the dream.
I dream sometimes
of sending the Moon back in pieces
to reverse the tides
just for THAT year.
to meet John Coltrane
when I meet your lips with mine.
but time has become a Rorschach test
sometimes I see you flexing your heart
swallowing everything around you like
a black hole, taking my ability to love with you.
sometimes I don't see you.
sometimes Gravity is getting stronger
soon my sanity is going to crash down
like a five thousand pound bomb
with the urgency of napalm.
soon I am going to unbind the gravity
you have on me from six feet down
so I can breath in Space
and who knows - maybe I will get caught
for forty years and an eternity
in the vast wilderness of Tesla's dream.
perhaps, it is too late for me
because a long time ago
I was buried with you too.
your constant resurrection mocks our mortality.
your primordial dance is mimicked
by the homeless Vietnam hero
drowning in the brown tar river of heroin
before he nods off, with holy arms,
into the ecstasy of blackness and drool;
escaping deeds made medals, and like you,
the bombastic suburban smug of day.
like him, we have declared you mad,
the instigator of misfortune. gelidly confined
to the asylum of space for your hysteria -
without even a crust of bread to hold you,
or water to free your parched lips to speak.
but if I were the ocean, on the tiptoes of waves
I would rise to greet you like some mystic,
bash open your skull, and suck out
its sagéd wisdom. so laconic
it would tongue-tie Herodotus and Plutarch
holocaust their envy, and reduce them to ashes.
oh, silent chronicler of man!
you have seen us sludge from vapid ooze
to stand the humane destroyers of worlds!
great cities have shined in your mimetic light,
and have disappeared in the brilliant
atomic flash bang of the synthetic suns
we have employed to shock-treat dazzle you.
you have known every god,
and thought yourself a god of omens.
how it must birth-pain you
to see some among men rise to gods:
as they are worshiped for their money.
you smiled when Adam cried
at the beauty of Eve;
and have laughed - toe tapping, knee slapping,
at the comedy of our collective cannibalism.
you fancy that your face has been
the envy of constellations, who have broken planets
and hurled them at you in their anger.
but it is said that you are just an addict
to the tragedy of man. a delusional star,
frozen in sun-fed stone.
in reply, you hold up a mirror.
and as we have tumbled, stumbled
drunkenly forward with our blind faith
and our judging, selfish hearts full of selfless love
to manifest the destiny of our future,
we have sent you a bouquet of astronauts and starships;
caressed your pale cheek, and overnight
transformed you to into Helen.
the conquered prize of our Cold War.
but there on high you sit confined and smile
because long after you have been claimed,
long after our corporations have
bent to their knees to drink from your lap
and, fingering your pleasures, leave you,
abandoned like some wadded-up whore on the Eastside -
our labs and empty buildings,
cobwebbed in your lunar dust,
shall keep you company.
and you will wear our waste and ruins
like jewels and dance. while your barren mother
the earth, long divorced by humanity,
looks on, empty and cancerous,
from across the distant gloom.
The River with the Street
Poehemian: a poet or artist who does not adhere to the norm; a bohemian of poetry or art; a poet or artist who is quite possibly (subconsciously or consciously) inspired by the great Edgar Allan Poe.
"With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things that escape those who dream only at night." -Edgar Allan Poe
"All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development,
invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Experience has shown, and a true philosophy will always show, that a vast, perhaps the larger portion of the truth arises from the seemingly irrelevant." -Edgar Allan Poe
"The death of a beautiful woman, is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world." -Edgar Allan Poe
"The true genius shudders at incompleteness - and usually prefers silence to saying something which is not everything it should be." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term Art, I should call it 'the reproduction of what the Senses perceive in Nature through the veil of the soul.' The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of 'Artist.'" -Edgar Allan Poe
"It is by no means an irrational fancy that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present existence, as a dream." -Edgar Allan Poe
"There is an eloquence in true enthusiasm." -Edgar Allan Poe
"I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Never to suffer would never to have been blessed." -Edgar Allan Poe
"It may well be doubted whether human ingenuity can construct an enigma... which human ingenuity may not, by proper application, resolve." -Edgar Allan Poe
"All religion, my friend, is simply evolved out of fraud, fear, greed, imagination, and poetry." -Edgar Allan Poe
"I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat." -Edgar Allan Poe
"We loved with a love that was more than love." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Years of love have been forgot, In the hatred of a minute." -Edgar Allan Poe
"And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams, Are where thy dark eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams -- In what ethereal dances, By what eternal streams." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Can it be fancied that Deity ever vindictively, Made in his image a mannikin merely to madden it?"
"The most natural, and, consequently, the truest and most intense of the human affections are those which arise in the heart as if by electric sympathy." -Edgar Allan Poe
"The customs of the world are so many conventional follies." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of to-day, or the agonies which are have their origin in the ecstasies which might have been." -Edgar Allan Poe
"Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence— whether much that is glorious— whether all that is profound— does not spring from disease of thought— from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect." -Edgar Allan Poe
"The realities of the world affected me as visions, and as visions only, while the wild ideas of the land of dreams became, in turn,—not the material of my every-day existence-- but in very deed that existence utterly and solely in itself." -Edgar Allan Poe