Laura Daniels, Gentle Grasp

In the Morning

A shadow of illumination slivers
through the left corner of my blackout shades.
What the heck? It can’t be morning already.

Further investigation is needed.

I tunnel out of my quilted cocoon.
My eyes unlatch, always a good thing.
Oh, yeah, morning has erupted.

I lift my head like a slow-moving crane
probing for the green digital numbers.

7:12 – not feeling that number, need to do better. 

Okay, let the games begin.
What is an appealing time to leave
my berth and venture into the latrine?

7:17 – a balanced number, still too soon. 
7:20 – a tiny round orb, but too early for philosophy.
7:25 – two plus five, math is fun, but not yet.

I finally settled on 7:30 as today’s launching interval   
and wait patiently for the clock to catch up.
If I miss it, there’s always 7:33, I do love a double-digit.

Further details

Jeremy Gadd, Late Arrivals

The Fragile Flower

Freedom grows in several varieties,

often cross fertilizes and self-sows,

and, when compared to subjugation grey,

its blooms are colourful and vibrant.

Freedom’s seeds float everywhere

like weightless, white dandelion puffs -

as light as liberty on sunny day -

they often waft over totalitarian walls

and tend to germinate wherever

they fall, allowing dissent,

freedom of choice, always

encouraging an independent voice.

But freedom is a fragile flower

requiring constant attention, 

nurturing and protection

from encroaching weeds like

menacing despots or approaching

oppression; for freedom often

vacillates before a storm and,

sometimes, wilts when too warm.

Despite this, freedom's fragrance is

extremely rare, valuable beyond

compare, worth every effort to cultivate

- the alternative is to live in thrall,

emasculated by mind control, 

enslaving serf’s shackles or

restraining chains and iron ball,

which, surely, are anathema to all?

Further details

J. R. Solonche, The Consolations

The Consolations

We must be consoled.

We must console ourselves.

Every day we need consolation,

for we would not be human if we did not.

Some of us know the consolation of religion.

Some of us the consolation of philosophy.

Some of us the consolation of music.

Some of us the consolation of art.

Some of us the consolation of drink.

Some of us must know more than one to be consoled properly.

I know the consolations of music, of wine, and of poetry.

I know the consolation of the warm embrace of the music of the wine of poetry.

Further details

Lance Mazmanian, Nine Fun Times

Kilcoe

Imagine a rowboat on Roaringwater sparkle. Imagine drape of crystal Cork shade, while boat makes land on tiny beach of cheer. Imagine a bottle of Knappogue 16, so many shadows in a mystery stretched over wild wild eve. Imagine Kilcoe’s interior voluminous, dreamily decorated impeccably adorned. Imagine the nature of Kilcoe’s mind, its owner’s prestige with tales in twilight, his stars and moons of glory and valour (curious, too) trademarked indeed with time enduring. And a wee sugar pinch, of the funny.

Tall slice of tower, peach

and orange sulfate with
reining master in lovely silk robe.

Further details

David Earl Williams, The Absurdilachian

Bill Bergman Synder, Obit

Bill Bergman Synder (1924-2008)

dark and allegorical by nature(d)

perfector of ingenious schemes

personable yet abrasive—

       robust n copywrit n trademarked whenever possible

“… UNLEASHED a wave of soul-searing

yesterday morning after an ego-driven interview…”

“I ha’ de-evolved a game-er, a vocal-lary

       for me personal-bly oft-sides o’ my Deady

       for Eye Yam a show unto hit-self, a mark-ed x-

       change, n abrupt, “I yam”…” & etc….

Initially despairing he

                                     filled with bitter blue-

                                     eyed hope as he aged.

once-woebegone he became successful through

       adopting offensive strategies and teachings

and, once married to each: Charles Mansion,

       Wendy-O!, Will O. Wisp, and Rona Bare-

        It-All each of whom and of himself he spoke

        with disdain and love

all of whom remembered him-

                                                  ripping phones off walls

                                    demanding creative ways

       encouraging them to “improvise—

       moments of truth”

They all went on after him to their own methods and schemes,

       as though they were all tree branches leading back

       to the trunk that was him…

… “Bill was the very thing…”

“a romantic relationship and a daughter…”

“a teacher, a whirlwind of wisdowment…”

“a second-run maskerpiece…”

“a unique-of-a-kind O, Kid!...”

1)  Boxer-genius

2)  Chronic Lymphocytic Wordspout

                                                             Icon

                                                                      dead

                                                                      of all

                                                                that he could

                                                                       handle

                                                                    and more…

“the voices, the smells…

my bed at night…

dreams, money, th’ hired-archy—

it is all as real as—

it is all as fake as—

as I—

            and, now—

                                  it turns me off…”

                                                    THE END,

                                                     B. B. SNYDER,

                                                     Copyright ,

                                                     SNYDER COMMUNICATIONS,

                                                     2001, A.I.

Further details