Street Corner

Human waves flood the streets.
Businessmen jockey upstream,
subject to the fleeting whimsies of artificial light.
Worshipers cycle through Rockefeller’s cathedrals,
sequoias of steel erupting from the urban canopy.
They pierce the sky and break open the last lonely clouds.
The window to the world beyond is sealed:
Color blindness prevails.

Now uncomfortable, i shuffle along in solitude with the other lemmings.

-Bill Griffiths

What would you rather have?

i don’t love you as if you were my teddy bear, or cashmere, or fireworks.

i don’t love you as if you were my teddy bear, or cashmere, or fireworks.
i love you as one loves the night, the penumbras keep you hidden but stars,
my eyes, still manage to find you
between my head and my heart, soul and shade.

i love you as a woman loves a man
in the way that we do things
calmly, quietly, lovingly.
my soul tends to run up walls
but yours soothes me
it keeps my tempo at the even pace.

i love you with no questions or exclamations
i am overbearing, i’m sure
but i cannot love you with half of my heart
or half of my soul
i cannot love you in any other way
our love cannot be defined
for our intimacy is infinite
so close that the blood that pulsates through my veins is yours.
so close that the breath i breathe is you.

-Sarah Nielsen

Who’s the Better Duck?

Summer’s Love

Is love a word that just entices pain?

Behind the peaks and underneath the fire

Lies lost passion, leaving nothing to gain.

We are now hindered by our desire.

The sun goes down and the air begins to cool

Earlier and earlier every day.

I believed those words that made me a fool,

The careless, hopeful, promises of May.

Now broken by the deep December cold

Our memories lie, lonely in the snow.

Longing to discover something to hold,

We search for the answers we’ll never know.

Like was it worth it, was it worth the pain?

And will we ever feel like this again?

-Justin Miller

City Block

The silouettes of square, steely buildings

Pour black shadows into the streets.

But the shadows aren’t mixed and whipped into soup,

They don’t mingle amongst themselves and form a book group.

They don’t spring flowers with shiny red dots,

Or transform into lepercuans or killer robots.

They sit and they wait, without a great stir.

Yet they strive to know why they stand so tall.

-Justin Miller

Japanese Footbridge

Bright rays of dusk

deepen the soft blues

and illuminate

the fiery oranges,

remaining is a bridge

made obscure by

the Autumn haze.

Still water underfoot,

torpid lilies drifting

with a breath of wind

under cool shade.

Precision in nature,

depicted with vigor

and sharp emotion.

Suggestions seen only

in the stark contrasts

of sunshine and shadow.

-Tim Westcott

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Ring

It was a gift for my 13^th birthday.

I never knew where it came from

Or who owned it before it came to us,

But it was a link

Between my grandmother and me.

A circle in the middle,

A purple orb.

Surrounded by triangles of bright light,

Embedded in a circle of pure gold.

Grandmother’s ring, now mine.

She and I add up to two,

But there’s a third between us.

My mother is the geometric mean

That unites us.

Forming a line of continuity

Like the circle that is the ring.

There are no words to describe

The exact shade of purple.

In the amethyst that crown the ring,

Not aubergine, not the color of a bruise.

Maybe it’s the color of love.

I see her wearing it

Center stage of her life.

The sound of her voice rising and falling,

As she greets the other players

In the drama of her life.

Or perhaps she wears it as she contemplates

The meaning of life and love,

And all the other things just out of reach.

Perhaps the flash of the diamonds

Can make mysteries clearer.

Or else she wears it when her mood is purple.

And she needs some brightness

To life the cloud.

A gift of love, picked just for her,

Can have that power.

She thinks about the millennia

It took to form the stones,

She looks at.

Stones that lay deep under the earth

Until they were discovered,

And taken from their graves.

It came to her in February,

In the depth of winter.

The air bitter the sky deep gray,

And spring impossibly far away.

It’s shown like the promise that winter

Could not last forever.

Her skin was smoother then,

Her fingers strong and supple.

The ring enhanced the beauty of her hands,

But time has taken that away.

A web of veins travels through her hands

The skin hangs looser at her knuckles.

But her hands are steady,

As they were when she first wore the ring.

It flashed and danced

Catching the light,

As she spun around to the music,

On their anniversary.

The light and her joy, reflections on one another.

Over the mantle, in our living room,

A portrait hangs.

Two women, two generations

And both share my blood.

The hand with the ring rests on my mother’s shoulder.

The ring is mine now.

To me it is the circle of life.

My grandmother, my mother

And all the generations that came before.

Who knows how many, perhaps as many

As the stones that catch the light.

When I open the drawer where I keep it.

-Lanning McDonald

Should The Current Word Have Polls?

It’s all in Your Head

It’s all in your head,

Nothing more to be said.

 

“She’ll be up high after’s she’s dead.”

Well, it’s all in your head.

 

“Life will never be sped.”

No, it’s all in your head.

 

“There’s nothing to dread.”

Oh please, it’s all in your head.

 

“His wish ought to be read.”

Am I gonna’ have to say it again?

 

It’s all in your head!

Then what’ll happen when your head’s gone…?

-Stephanie Marrie