2015
January 2015
Braying
Throwing bales of alfalfa with an iron hook,
sucked into a throwing motion of thought,
he caught a little murmur of hope,
a tiptoe of wise words about stealing his daddy's old ford truck
and merging saints stories with a stall-mucker's tale.
But the braying of a young mule makes for ill day-dreaming
and an even worse reality.
Holly Allen
................................
All My Peeps
all my peeps
go to church on sunday
praise the lord
and do the shout
like the brothers
who get their drink on
all my peeps
eat and are loud
grandmother's kitchen
is filled with the sound
of busy women
little mouths
and men's bodies/bellies
at rest
all my peeps
look at me and laugh
cos after all these years
I'm still the quiet one
"why you talkin so proper?
you around us now"
and I laugh with them
as the house fills up with
love like a black balloon
Erren Geraud Kelly
..........................................
It's All About
It's a life of folding. pressed down,
gazing into unassuming faces, like clouds,
changing and then reshaping.
Songs are the blankets of thoughts. Small
voices provoke streams of works. Silence
opens the eyes to create volumes.
We protect. holding the candles of our flame close.
Opening up too soon could close us down.
Dreams tempt us for another night.
Its all about who we are.
when were not who we are.
Roger g. Singer
.............................
Finding Night
Songs overflow from doors
opening to the sidewalk
where neon lights
baptize the weak, stirring the curiosity of
a night strung tight
while others pray in alleys
whispering their sins
under a celestial curtain as
stars cross behind the black
of space where not
a molecule is out of place
as cool air covers the tapestry
of the city and liberal
sounds drift to the street
drenching the people
from the day before
Roger G. Singer
.............
Good Company
Off balanced laboring fans push
diner air onto walls
stained yellow
Customers lean over tables, whispering
pointing fingers and then laughing
breaking into the clatter of plates and silverware
Waitress' weave around tables
delivering the beginning of meals.
Counter people nod to the cook
who prepares their regular.
The door opens. Cold air rushes in lifting
napkins and then quickly refill with
tides of faces and hands.
The corner booth is the best.
Roger G. Singer
.................................
Blues Woman
Walking around in tight jeans
and heels she stops to hear the band play
she pulls off her jacket
to show off her tank top
barely concealing her goodies
she runs her hands
through her long
gypsy hair
glitter sparkles
around her eyes
the swell of her
backside
makes me wonder
could she have been
the woman
Robert Johnson sold his
soul to the devil for?
Erren Kelly
****
Marc Livanos
Cedar House Inn
Cedar House Inn of St. Augustine
Mystical verandas magical chimes alternate realms glow in a Victorian light fueled by a lifetime outpouring of preservation, grace and continuity unyielding in its desire to survive.
To tell a story told and retold till it takes hold, the Cedar House Inn celebrates the absence of the outside world.
Its housekeeper, timekeeper, illusionist appears.
She smiles, steps back beckoning your inner child.
Childhood memories of boxed games and casual conversation attract love and the civility of the simple life.
Squirrels in a nearby courtyard scuttle and scurry on gnarled grey cedars with leathered, cracked, splintered skin back to the bark, staring for their next acorn.
Night slowly falls.
Traffic palls The street becomes silent. Next door, a gray dog barks.
A fountain slowly drips, sparking vapors that penetrate souls.
Patrons slowly navigate to their beds, fingering furniture, focusing on old time lights infused by the wonder of days gone by.
A gentle aura floats all around, dreamily repeating, “I need to be here.”
Marc Livanos
****