HARLEQUIN
 |
| Felicia Olin, The Jester |
He plays his jest upon a stage of hearts,
Too poor a player to be more than clown,
A comic shadow working at his part
To keep away the silence and break down
His own misfortunes to amuse. He takes
The leading passions of a heart and
Juggles them until, on cue, they break.
He slips on a banana peel of love and lands,
With much commotion, on his face.
Turns all to laughter and since life is spent
In Folly’s grip why dull the jest with grace?
But this inconsequential ornament
Well has earned his comic epitaph:
She was beautiful, I made her laugh.
Hugh Moore
THIS KANSAS
 |
| Michael Berk - We're Not in Kansas Anymore |
It’s the
mind that is first to go:
As
thoughts wander, the flesh follows,
The
ticking clock’s worn rhythms slow,
A shell
remains, the rest hollows,
Horizons
fade in swirls of dust,
Futures
recede, prospects barren,
Age sits
down hard like barnyard rust,
Little to
hold, nor to share in.
What
tipping point the decision
To leave
such life and go hither,
That one’s
spirit seeks revision
And deep
roots begin to whither?
When sown
seeds no longer matter;
No food on
this Kansas platter.
Mark Flotow
KANSAS DIVERSION
I post
this note for whomever’s concerned:
"I
lie buried back in my Union state,
For which
I fought, wounded and then returned,
Minus part
of a hand, my cruel war fate.
Chickamauga
old dreams haunted me still,
Of
contorted comrades, which stole my rest
At the
neglected farm I tried to till,
And left
that plot for this place far out West.
A
soldier’s thoughts were part of my baggage.
A Kansas
decade passed here in my bed
With old
visions from my mental ravage:
Thus I had
stopped living and so instead
Was dying
right after the Civil War;
My bones
now are East on a grave-shaft floor."
Mark
Flotow
LOVE WAS YOU
"Gravitation cannot be held responsible for people falling in love.” Albert Einstein
 |
| Click to listen to Tom's song |
Love was you, all comfortable and familiar.
It
was the way you carried on conversation, your being aglow.
It
was me knowing precisely who you enjoyed talking to.
It
was understanding who would “get” you and who wouldn’t even try.
And
how blessed those were who would let you in.
It
was the way you sat in the driver’s seat, casual but in full command
body
cocked toward the rushing wind, where you had to drive
with
all the windows down and passed the dogged habit on to me.
It
was the way you held your fork and pen and how your fingers worked
carefully
with everything you touched. How you embraced me each night
and
every morning until your failing arms could cradle me no more.
It
was your clarity concerning solutions to problems, your unyielding
go-get-’em
attitude under the weight of cars and roofs that had to be fixed
while
deep down you knew your body couldn’t.
Love
was decades of life pulling on your muscles and nerves,
but
those fluorescent orbs never stopped smiling. It was your hair all Einstein
and
Don King-like and your furry chest and arms that I stroked until your body
died.
You
once said, “What happens matters.” You happened. And it definitely mattered.
You
were a beautiful part of my story, the only thing that we ever truly own.
Right
now I love you more than the grief can erase.
Love
was you, all original and fresh.
It
was a mutual attraction that did not fade, a continual and complete place
that
was adventurous and never awkward, where we always knew that we were loved
and
always understood how beautiful we were.
Love
was you. Who will now know that I am beautiful?
Anita Stienstra
 |
| Mary Ellen Strack, Breaking Light I |
The day begins at
the breaking of dawn
colors spread across the sky
floating through the clouds
Thoughts of inspiration
fill the mind
expand the heart
yesterdays pushed aside
making way for the woman
seen before you
flaws and all
mistakes acknowledged
not held onto
for today has just begun
it's light shines with hope
chasing the darkness of night
I move forward always
always toward the light
toward the breaking light
K. A. T. Corrigan
 |
| Linda Post-Lucas, Deep Reflections |
SHATTERED IMAGE
In the shards of mirror, I examine
(as through the lens of a microscope)
the anatomy of past lovers,
illustrations they left etched in my mind;
each full of color faded to pastels
with moments of brilliance
that surprise me in reflection.
This one, he said he liked my left foot
or perhaps it was the right;
the turn of ankle leading to shapely calf…
and the muscle and tissue clinging to the bone…
hardly romantic.
He said it was fit for a ruby slipper
or perhaps it was glass;
that image, the delicately crafted image
he created,
has been shattered.
All that remains in my memory
is the image of my left foot – or
perhaps it’s the right –
cupped gently in his hands
as he whispers platitudes
and fairy tales
he never meant to live
with me.
Siobhan Johnson
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