Jeff Norris shoots

Austin Belanger writes

Coffee and Reminiscence

I sit at my cluttered desk,

A representation of my hidden mind,
Thoughts remembered in a cacophony of synapses firing.
There are no witty remarks today,
Nor sarcastic prose,
Only my coffee and memories.
Through the din,
One light shines.
It is the light of a smile
That once guided me out of the storm.
You have left the lighthouse now,
It will never be tended by another.
But so strong was your light
That it is seen in your absence
And by your memory.  

My journey has missed
Many a jagged end upon the shores of reality.
Thank you and be blessed,
My light.
For though I miss your radiant glow,
I only wish for you to shine forever.

Grant Guy writes

he was as blue as jazz
he pomped his way down bleecker street as blue as jazz
the women hurt for the blue as jazz
they could taste his blue as jazz
they felt in their bodies his blue as jazz
they reached out for his blue as jazz

he knew
he knew
the women could taste his blue as jazz
he knew
he knew
the women ached for his blue as jazz

blue as jazz

The Lone Sax -- Melissa Leslie-Quinones

Arlene Corwin writes

How Much of Life…?

How much of life is fear determined? 
Wakeful days, the sleeping nights
We know so little of,
Fear when even friends are near,
Invaded, oft pervaded by its ambience,
Its atmosphere –
How to transcend it?

Fear -- Maciej Hoffman

Duane Vorhees writes

WITHOUT YOU BETH 
                        MY LIFE
 

Beth:
I miss you often.
These paths unmapped and all my everythings nones,

(near me still your spirit hovers
but -- unattached!)

standards weighed by a crooked butcher's variable pound.

*

Breaths used to lift dolphin-like
from our depths
like frost balloons toward the sun

in/and/out, those breaths of lovers
with joys unmatched.
up/and/down/and/up/
an ocean-rhythmed merry-go-round.

*

Death.
Abyss-dropped coffin.
Everyone wept. Someone mumbled a little Donne.
Then they handed round the shovels.

(An egg unhatched:
without you Beth my life's another burial ground.)

*

Faith?
My fists clasp-softened, fingernails ripped --
faith, you say?
A black-habit nun who whispers yes but means never.
Faith's record's scratched:
Here's how a faith radio with no aerial sounds  :

dah shoots

LightSwell 06

Photo ©DAH

Ayoola Goodyness Olanrewaju writes

habit

for you...

i drill my heart 
a hole for the whole of you
a fool for your full...

but instead of pouring yourself in
you take me
a whistle of mockery
and blow me the laughter of your friends...

they blow me too
and play me rhythms of a fool...

a play thing
your toy for games...

your habit.

a song

after we must have smoked
half of the sun
with sticks made from polythene in poetic sacks
and become heat
or fire
or martyrs...

we shall pound our remains
into a sweet night song
and a rhythm of a new dawn...

not for the pharaohs who brag of golden shoes
or the cleopatras who pride fortresses in silver satchels
or for shogunal spirits in the shrines of mints...

it shall be the song
for freedom in the clefts of infant cries
for peace in the holes of broken cisterns
for comforts in the valleys of discomforts
for celebration in the hamlets churned by the noise of desolation
for answers in the prayers of mourning mothers...

a song for posterity
in the smiles of the moon...

 And I Again Loved The Moon -- Julija Tumelytė