Monday, March 2, 2009

March 2009 page 2

Content Links

Links by contributing poet:

Joy Leftow
Janice Brabaw
Heller Levinson
Demetrius Daniel
Tatjana Debeljacki
Brenda Cook
Kush Arora
Sarah Cabrera
Joseph Goosey
Stephanie Edwards
John Yamrus
Yahia Lababidi
Don Stabler
Tiziano Fratus
David Cheezem
Charles Hice

Links by contributing artist:

Bettina Burch
Teresa White
Willow Gray
Alex Bustillo
Meme Arte
Randall Radic
Anatholie Alain

Links by accepted submissions:

january 2009
Tribute to John Coltraine
Spreading Wildcat Fire
Coney Island
with (hilarity)
with (electronics)
from loquacious this easel
I Want My Cuchifrito
A Whisper, Perhaps, From the Universe's Dark Side
I shut them out, those memories
Bitch-speak: Several Condescending Ways to Say NO
The World poem
Expressing Oneself
¡Ella sin el en el sillon verde!
she loved the literary types…
in dog obedience class…
I saw my face
Fanciful creators
A Conversation with Pol Pot
Absense of Snow
Flowers Fade
Forking Ill


january 2009 by Bettina Burch

I have been published in international and local magazines and newspapers; have my work in several private collections; have attended the Museum School, Harvard University, and have my B.A. from Principia College.

For more information contact:


One poem by Dubblex

DubbleX currently resides in New York and has been writing his entire life and playing music. His artistry helps keep him sane. DubbleX teaches special education students in public schools.

Tribute to John Coltraine

Rip rocken
Sure shocken
Be boppen
Get things poppen
Drown in the avalanche of sound
Smooth riffs of saxophones
Drum and bass a cacophony of tones
Jazzy melodies and 20-minute solos
In the flow it goes
Listen to him blow up and down the scale
Climbing to the top the cat sure can wail
He's a musical genius, tremendous
The bass and sax make you tingle and relax
He's a legend of jazz
Pushing it to out of breath
His breath control circular breathing
Look close, you can see his chest heaving
Covering the night club with a musical flood
Sound so bold and bright playing deep into the night
Fingers quick in a split kicking off licks
He makes it look so easy and sound so ready
Accompanied by a throbbing bass and drumming pace
Like busting through darkness
His sound drips then gushes
He lived that lush life high as a kite, drinks or smack he could play that sax
Expressing emotions and feeling his be bop beat no one else could compete so unique and complete be free style or off the sheet
he captured the vibe of city streets
Back in the day that man could play
Fast or slow sweet and mellow
He played like the sound of a sunrise
He played like the sound of the dawn
Quiet like whispers of nightfall
The beat of heavy rainfall, deep in the jungle call
Notes squealing and squeaking like his instrument was speaking kept peaking the next level seeking
Made you feel something playing music sounding like running so stunning backed by drumming bass fingers strumming
He uncovered explored and opened sounds to his sax roar
want more want more
how that melody did soar in score after score
The cymbal and the high hat the toe tap
Plays filling the empty spaces a colorful oasis with rhythm chases
guides our ears through a maze of amazing solos the way you blow
Like no other like no other
Saxophone smothered
There you go again blowing like a northeasterly wind
So free so easy so easy so free
Holding those high notes making music float playing in the haze of your dope
Your music stands the test of time
It is everlasting forceful blasting
I like to listen to you in my different mind states help me escape
I want to ride that Blue Train
With My Favorite things
Making that soprano sax sing
Want to make my Ascension with Giant Steps
To the Afro Blue Impression
To Meditations
Got to hear that Love Supreme
From the Blue Note to The Village Vanguard
You were kicking it heavy and hard
Getting down with Monk and Miles
That free jazz invented your own style

One poem by Joy Leftow

“Poet Laureate” of Washington Heights, Joy Leftow is a double alumna at Columbia University and has her second Masters from CCNY in Creative Writing. Joy’s style is - in your face reality. When Joy is not busy doing people & cat rescues, she meets her muse & reflects on relationships with more sarcasm than you’d get in an entire season of Seinfeld.

Spreading Wildcat Fire

Caught on fire ~ sizzle with desire
Cause havoc when I prance cross city streets
Barely escape slaughter as I
suddenly appear out of nowhere,
the sun gleaming in my hair
You barely miss me as I spin past your fender
You smile and wave goodbye
And are glad for I
Suspend the silver gloom around you
Momentarily the
Sunshine of my heart beats
Scarlet on top purple beneath
My true colors
For you I throw in some sunset red
I tattoo myself on you
Winged fairy of time
Imprinted on your soul & memory
I raise your energy
The twitter stops
Nervous laughter
I speak my first line
Only fool falls asunder
Lightening strikes twice
And Jill came tumbling after
Jack fell down
It's beyond the fruits of my labor
She probably meant to save him
Either that or she wanted his crown
I surrender…
I learn to connect to unconnected to survive to live
In ways I couldn’t see how to before this

One poem by Janice Brabaw

Janice Brabaw is an established production coordinator and production accountant in the television field. She currently lives in Brooklyn, New York with her menagerie of cats and fish and plants. She is the author of two books that detail her struggle with depression, borderline personality disorder, and binge eating disorder - And Again: A Memoir of a Life Disordered and a collection of poetry called Universe, Disturbed.



It starts in my shoulders
I find myself stooping, slumped
Blades retracted, too close
Cramped, I am withered and hiding.

Then my jaw, clenched, tight
I try to release and relax
opening and closing my mouth
like a silent little gold fish

It manifests through my arms
down to my finger nails
This buzzing, anxiety in my veins
I feel like I am shaking when I'm still

Rarely does it reach my stomach
Somehow it skips to my bladder
Sends me trembling through the house
I don't close the door anymore

My biceps are conductors
and the electricity prickles and pulses
I am fizzy, tortured soda pop
Threatening to erupt, to explode

I'm not always sure
why lightning strikes
or why I can't shake
the thunder

Coney Island by Willow Gray

Willow Gray lives and works in NYC. A former architect, she currently makes images and objects, often including text.


Three poems by Heller Levinson

Heller Levinson lives in NYC where he studies animal behavior. He has published in over a hundred journals and magazines including Sulfur, Hunger, Talisman, First Intensity, Laurel Review, The Wandering Hermit, Ampersand, etc. His most recent publication, SMELLING MARY (Howling Dog Press), has been nominated for both the Pulitzer Prize and the Griffin Prize. Please visit www.hellerlevinson for more information.


hilarity, ...     remorse

calumny           adjutancy           alembic

the calculus unremitting & curly


landfills purring fortifying credit

stoppage on a par with demonstration the King is dead

distribute wake-up calls democratically

arousal is intersection spiced with anticipation

the time to repea(n)t is when graciousness steals bases umpires storm the fields in holy

garb rant for conclusivity

interference the penalty box diameter insufficient

the road to no road aptly


electronics, ...     horseless

ness                     age of

geographical erasure                 current upbraid

conducting ion wattage cathode ampere chariot amber nunnery mummeries bloated in

inundatory mimetic mnemonic coat

pow-er ...

the here of the here is here not

which is to say

that the is of the here is is not

which is


where do we go from here

transmissions in exchange for abolishment? the history of electronics is ever greater


to have a beer at a deep rich mahogany bar in Brooklyn thinking of Walt Whitman is

electrical but is not electronics ... history will define Homo sapiens sapiens as that species

which ushered artificial intelligence onto planet earth ...

mud and pigs are not electronics, are they a form of counter-conductivity?

               instantaneity closets                 the withdrawn

                     screens replace mirrors

                               incantatory coventries belie

smelling Mary is electrical but not electronic

as we mounted the horse, electronics mounts us

spurs us, reins our lives

ruling the visible we are ruled by the invisible

sensorial reset

subterranean jollities

annihilation javelins

savage the way we surrender

from loquacious this easel

westward drill

intent with summons

counterfeiting larkspur melodies

numinous geographies


the low ground

canvas misfirings

pigments mistressing

ignorant of station

(containerships necklace the seas

                -- bleed matriculates

banking pneumatic corollas


windspray vineyards

the trump magnificence of sunsledding overlords





with color

One poem by Demetrius Daniel

Demetrius Daniel is a spoken word artist and musician residing in Washington Heights. He has read throughout New York City in venues such as the Nuyorican Poet’s Café & the Knitting Factory. Demetrius has read at the Monkey Room & the Archway. He has also hosted a reading series at the formerly known Bahamas Restaurant back in 2003 & the “WORD” series at the OSA church from 2004 to 2005. In 2006, Demetrius was a featured guest on Rockland world radio as well as the local TV show, “The New Yorkers.” He has performed at the Uptown Artstroll since 2005. Demetrius also plays trombone with the Latin jazz bands Masacote and IC Express. He has a CD entitled “Words Speak” on He has also been published in the “Silent Journey.” Demetrius teaches English and poetry to middle school students at Eleanor Roosevelt Intermediate School. He has also featured at STAINS lounge in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. He has been a featured reader at STARK’s and Nightingale Lounge’s Saturn series. Demetrius currently plays in the band DEEP INTENT. He currently features at various open mics around New York City.

I Want My Cuchifrito

I want my cuchifrito
While my bed’s still warm
Sun’s golden rays gleaming
I want my cuchifrito
After hitting the snooze button
Alarm clock still screaming
I want my cuchifrito
Afternoon, during lunch break
On top of long mahogany desk
Between sheets of paper
I want my cuchifrito
Before the supervisor finds out
And like Biz Markie says
Catches the vapors
I want my cuchifrito
In the evening
Just after tedious talk shows
Before nightly news has begun
I want my cuchifrito
Right after Letterman, Jay, and Conan’s
Final joke or pun
I want my cuchifrito
Uptown, downtown
Spring, winter, summer, or fall
I want my cuchifrito
Walking down the block
For no good reason at all
I want my cuchifrito
Tender, a little oily, and caliente hot
I want my cuchifrito
Always hits a righteous spot
I want my cuchifrito
With that African-Caribbean…
Pinch of European flavor
Tasty titillating juices
Exploding, I must savor
But lately, my doctor says
You simply have had cuchifrito one way
It’s way too much
Why don't you try it differently?
Cuchi grilled, cuchi baked, or cuchi raw
Not too spicy and such
I guess cuchi-Frito
A little variety
Will have to do
Just remember though
Like the song says
I will always

One poem by Tatjana Debeljacki

Tatjana Debeljacki, born on 23.04.1967 in Užice. Member of Association of Writers of Serbia UKS since 2004 and Haiku Society of Serbia HDS Montenegro-HUSCG&HDPR,Croatia. Up to now three collections of poetry have been published: A HOUSE MADE OF GLASS, published by ART – Užice; YOURS, published by NARODNA KNJIGA Belgrade and VULCANO by Haiku Lotos, Valjevo.CD-BOOK, A HOUSE MADE OF GLASS. ART+ Uzice. "AH-EH-EEH-OH-OOH" published by Poeta Belgrade. 2008.


I will conquer the fear of flying
I will jump with the parachute of kiss
While walking I’ll dance to the drum rhythm
Dream in the clothes of the penguin
Thumb through the book
Goodbye my sixteen years
with premises in the mind
that I will carry them
in my fifties
real and modest
and at least once a day
I will laugh out loud
Really enjoy
In intimately woven world
When the moon passes its seventh round
And Jupiter falls on Mars
Our world will be the leader
And love will be the path for the stars
That would be the time when
Aquarius is born
To my grandchildren, grand-grandchildren
I will tell stories about times
When people were people.

One poem by Brenda Cook (Bebe)

Bebe Cook lives in Texas comes from a southern U.S. oral tradition of story-telling. She has placed in local and national poetry contests and continues to write poetry to record her own rooms and moments in order to bring that tradition to the page. Her work has appeared in Flutter Poetry Journal, Autumn Sky Poetry and Six Little Things. She enriches her writing with the diversity of gardening, photography, and working as an environmental scientist.


The blues
      live, so I learned
in the MoPo district of New York

                              City; inside a seed of a bar. A room
                              sliver, long and thin like a bass
                              reed dressed in red.

                        No Cover:
                        two drink minimum,
                        strictly enforced. A pick-up bar,

      packed full of young
                              loose ties
                              lusty hearts. 

                              I sit
and shuffle a deck
                                          of cards, purchased
                                          at a novelty

                  shop two doors down; George Bush in drag
                        on 52 cards. I came

for the blues. 
A tiny Asian women
in a midnight dress
out from behind 
the crushed crimson curtain;
                  a     songbird with a deep

                              She opens
      her mouth and sings.

                              I feel her melody,
      her siren speak, 
      her soul slides
                              along my chords, baby
                              she can belt the blues. 

                                                      You strike the
tuning fork.
                                          I feel the metal vibrate,
                              hear its melodic hum
                                       and I answer it
                                                   with my own.

      Your harmonic signature resonates. 
            I hear
      the pitch, feel
      the tone. Who
      the signature? Who is
                        a harmonic
                        shadow? Am I
background noise
or the 4th
overtone?                                 I long for the resonance
                  of the words
                  brought to life. My muse 
                  dresses in scarlet, her spiked toes
                  tap, and sometimes she croons

                   to me. 
I just want to be the blues.

A Whisper, Perhaps, From the Universe's Dark Side
by Alex M. Bustillo

Alex M. Bustillo was born in Miami, Florida in 1965. He graduated with a Bachelor of Arts in English from Florida International University. He resides in France, where he is he is a business coach and trainer. He develops blogs for visual artists. He has recently started to work on photo and image manipulation in the "mandelbrotia" Blog . Alex has no formal training but is intensely curious and somewhat ironic. He has lived in Latin America, Canada, Italy and The United States.


One poem by Kush Arora

Kush Arora is a 22 yr old Indian national and a student of engineering in India. Writing is his passion, Tagore and Gibran are some of hia favourite writers.

I shut them out, those memories

‘Gilded tombs do worms infold’
-- William Shakespeare

I worded them out, those memories—
When they came to me
To ask of their rightful place
In a corner of my heart
Instead of honouring their needs
And listening to their voice
And giving them permanent abode in my heart
I promptly shut them out:—
Didn’t listen to them; instead ‘taped’ on them my voice
As I ceremoniously put on them the coruscant crowns of poetry
Which became their yoke and their cage
With time, they were so flattered with their riches
They turned themselves in their image:
Their shrieking were numbed so
It sounded like a bird’s sweet call
And my heart it no longer battered
And so it no longer mattered

So, instead of preserving them in my heart
I preserved gilded tombs of them in poetry
Poetry speaks for them now and they are mute
Mute; perhaps shied away because of the wiles and ways of Poetry
They lack charm and sophistication
And decent, social ways
They rather let Poetry speak in their turn
As she knows its way around
The hearts of others and mine better, you see

Well, the Bard said it true,
‘Gilded tombs do worms infold.’
In poetries
I worded them out, those memories—
I shut them out.

Geisha by Teresa White

Teresa White is the author of two books of poetry: In What Furnace and Gardenias for a Beast, the latter endorsed by Billy Collins and in the running for the Pulitzer Prize in 2008. Teresa is finalizing the manuscript for her third collection due out later this spring. Read more about Teresa at her


Three poems by Sarah Cabrera

Sarah Cabrera is ready to emerge from her private diaries and journals. Poetry is her meditation, therapy, art and weapon of choice. As a psychology major, law student, student organizer, social activist and feminist, she finds it necessary to strive for mastery over words and her own voice through poetry--not only for purposes of persuasion and strengthening debates, but also to stretch and test the boundaries of logic and her imagination. To her, writing poetry is its own reward--an exercise of personal freedom. For her, a lot of irreverence is necessary for creativity. A total opposite of the culture of conformity in most law schools. By and by, she writes to reclaim the precious space in her head and her own humanity from the intrusion of the cold clutter of legalese and repressive unwritten norms of society.

She is set to publish more than 30 of her poems and some sketches in the art & poetry chapbook "When Hephaestus Fell & other poems," to be launched in the middle of March 2009, in Cebu City, Philippines. This project is in collaboration with the Jose Joya Awardee artist, Christian Galinato.

Bitch-speak: Several Condescending Ways to Say NO

Your hard
is so incompatible with
my soft

We are so
that we

You're so weak where
I am strong;
no, no honey we
just don't

Our compasses point
to different
so abort your
just abort.

Oh go
away, don't
waste my time
'cause I really
hate to
have to rhyme.

It's really
tiring, being too
so just for once
get it right:'s not me
it IS you,
don't act so


They came
all dressed and
dolled up.

Pretty ladies in a circle
share a pitcher of
frozen margaritas.
Glasses tipped with salt,
girls brimming
with youth,

She says to one, "Enjoy
and play it
by ear"
to the other
"Drop him,
He is no good"

Then they raise
their glasses, a toast
for the best.

They cross their legs
under their type-A skirts
and move closer
to share secrets
sips and a few

They dry their tears
to enjoy
each others' laughter.

They talk about lovers
and romance--
How to take delight in and
how to reveal.
They tell stories
about families
and plans.
They talk of endings
and beginnings.

They are women
of the mind,
Women of discipline
and women of the heart.
They bloom
with each experience,
each lesson,
each tear they allow to fall
and each mountain they conquer.

Expressing Oneself
by Randall Radic

Randall Radic is an Old Catholic priest, former pastor, and convicted felon. He lives in Northern California, where he reads, writes, smokes good cigars, drinks wine and visits San Francisco as often as possible.


One poem by Joseph Goosey

Joseph Goosey is hiding in the library. He recently lost his girlfriend due to a few poems he wrote about how sexy he finds the girls in the Canadian band, Pony Up! Also, he has a chapbook available via Poptritus Press and thanks you for reading.


For too long
have I tap danced
on the edge
of a decent

I purchased a salad
simply because Lucy
with her large
red spectacles
was browsing
the salads.

It was only
a simple side

No bacon, of course.

It's possible
that Lucy
is a vegan,
not unlike,
so many
other traps.

One poem by Stephanie Edwards

Stephanie Edwards was born in Lansing, MI and is a senior at Albion College, pursuing a double major in English with a Creative Writing Emphasis and Economics. At Albion College, she is president of English honorary Sigma Tau Delta and works as a Poetry & Fiction Editor on the Albion Review, a nationally circulated undergraduate literary magazine. At school, she also works as a writing consultant in the college's writing center. She spent the spring of 2008 semester interning with Member of European Parliament Peter Skinner in Brussels, Belgium, where she wrote political speeches and press releases. She spent the summer of 2008 as a research fellow at Albion College, researching the effects of place on the poetry of James Wright.


On nights like this, some kneel down to pray.

I kneel down in my garden under the stars,

searching through crab grass for something holy.

The word sticks in my throat a little when I try to spit it out:

c-a-n-c-e-r—a six letter word, worth ten points in Scrabble.

Cancer is a crab, fourth sign of the zodiac.

Its children are forced to walk sideways through life,

gifted with hard shells to protect their delicate centers.

Yahoo says Cancers should enjoy this July's "summer good times."

Hippocrates thought the cut surface

of a malignant tumor looked like a crab,

legs splayed out on all sides, invading healthy tissue.

I rip the crab grass out of the dirt, struggling not to leave any fugitive roots

to choke out my tomato plants. The small green bulbs rest peacefully,

wholly unaware that I nurtured (dare I say saved?) them tonight.

¡Ella sin el en el sillon verde!
by Meme Arte

In Meme's pictures the wry humor and tough characterization sharpen the image into a condensation of wit more punchy than brutal. Memes predecessor may be Draumier. Meme's depiction of his principal protagonists possesses tenderness and tension of sexual desire not found in the great French graphic artist.


Two poems by John Yamrus

John Yamrus has been a fixture in American poetry for four decades. Since 1970 he has published 2 novels, 18 volumes of poetry and more than 900 poems in magazines around the world. Selections of his poetry have been translated into several languages including Spanish, Swedish, Italian, Japanese and (most recently) Romanian. His newest book is 'New and Selected Poems' and is now available online at should you like to obtain a copy.

in dog obedience class…

for once,
my little Abby
did everything right.

for once,
she didn’t
bite, jump or pull.

this time
she paid attention
and sat and stayed
and came
and listened…

just like all the other dogs.

i can’t tell you how much
i hated that.

she loved the literary types…

men who used
and understood
the language of words.

this made it
all the more
when the latest object
of her desires
rejected her,

“i’m not your type.


you’re looking for
a straight declarative,

and all i’ve got
to offer
is a dangling participle.”

Two poems by Yahia Lababidi

Yahia Lababidi is the author of a critically-acclaimed book of aphorisms 'Signposts to Elsewhere' - selected for 'Books of the Year (The Independent, UK, 2008) as well as 'Year in Books' (Sun Sentinel, USA, 2007). Yahia Lababidi is also an internationally published poet and one of few contemporary writers to be featured in the encyclopedia of "The World's Great Aphorists" - a compendium of wit and wisdom- by former TIME magazine editor and author, James Geary (Bloomsbury, 2007).


Fanciful creators

What fanciful creators we are:
bestowing shock absorbers on cars
sprinkling tenderizer on meats
and stitching wrinkle-resistant shirts

Such wishful thinking, this
gifting what we desire.

I saw my face

I saw my face this morning
hovering at the base
of a coffee cup

eyes liquid black
and thirsting
lips parted as if

some great spoon
had stirred me to the depths
and left everything, swirling.

by Anatholie Alain

Anatholie Alain is an canadian artist who has been exhibiting her works with galleries in the Ottawa area and currently dabbles with mixed media.


One poem by Don Stabler

Donald Stabler has been writting seriously for about 13 years now and a member of The Ontario Poets Society. (TOPS) For about 4 years and published in their newsletters and anthologies. Don reads for different occasions and parties and likes to surf the you tube poetry videos.


The generation voice
All souls grow dazed
As the brilliant sun
Drifts across the afternoon.
I heard you in a season
Where life was answered
By an excellent question.
On your door I place
Corners of mystery knocks.
The response boldly sings
A spirit chanted to a clear heaven.

Those hours where
The medicine cropped
A chance at continuing.
You who are far.
I bellow like the valley
Antlers cold in a dream.
Where the light comes
To sustain beauty.
And you are divine voice
Like the learning in a silence.

One poem by Tiziano Fratus

Tiziano Fratus (1975) is poet, translator, editor, director of Festival and Edizioni Torino Press. He published nine books of poems in Italy; his poetry has been translated and published in Usa, Argentina, Portugal, France, Switzerland, Poland, Germany, Uk, Slovack Republic, Singapore, Hong Kong. Last books: A Room in Jerusalem (Brooklyn, 2008), Doubleskin (Singapore, 2009), 5PX2 (Edinburgh, 2009). It’s forthcoming the anthology of all of his poetry, La bottiglia di Klein (Klein’s Bottle, Lugano/Torino, 2009).


(From A Room in Jerusalem)

the body is laid on the faded old yellow and blue towel
the years blow on the breeze coming in off the sea accompanying the waves as they approach and break on the reversed edge of the beach
I acclimatize myself to the breathing of the surf
the shrill cries of boys and girls as they play in the water
this raging war seems so far away where fathers and sons subsist with curtailed breath
ready to bombard with technology’s help
the egyptian army and the meager phalanges so arrogantly sent by damascus
while the newspapers of the european capitals brandish yet again the terror of a resumption of the
shoah right where it had been interrupted
the generals from tel aviv write down in secreted notebooks the details of a proclaimed crushing victory
they know the weight of the arab armies
whose equipment and preparation is not unlike that of the fascist army
which at one time had a certain amount of difficulty in conquering albania thus delaying the beginning of the german advance on moscow
I read in the sand the word i s r a e l as it cancels itself
every morning a dark girl wearing a white dress her hair bound by a pink sash
walks barefoot to this protected beach
she sheds a dose of tears and mixes it with the salt water
in her palestinian blood circulates the memory of an israeli soldier
who was killed in one of the wars that enflame the sand and the stones
each morning she kisses the forehead of her newborn son lying in his crib and goes to the sacred place
bound to a love that is now physically rent
with her finger she writes a name that will be cancelled by this evening
it is the destiny of a people

One poem by David Cheezem

David Cheezem owns Fireside Books and, an independent bookstore in Palmer, Alaska. He earned his MFA in creative writing from the University of Alaska Anchorage in 1997.

A Conversation with Pol Pot

So what’s it like, Pol Pot?
Tell us what’s it like.
To be cheered on the streets of Phnom Penh
By the people you would kill?

Pol Pot scraped his toast.
It was very good bread. We baked it at home,
Sliced thick and toasted, perhaps too dark.

Pol Pot scraped his toast, scraped it with a knife.
Scratch, scratch, scratch, the knife on the bread.

Flakes softly fell to the plate: soft and black
Scratch, scratch, scratch. Little flakes, overdone,

Softly buoyed in air until they settle on the plate,
Dead little flakes of dark bread.

Pol Pot smiles, nods for some butter:
“Death is whatever you don’t remember.”

Three poems by Charles Robert Hice

Adult male seeks readers for free poetry by a JesusFreak (the flesh is dead eye am a). Check out my latest works from the CharlaXBio.

Absense of Snow

The way is clear and not encumbered.
No shoving with my feet and labored,
I walk and smell no roses.
I feel my life instead of death.
The sky is blues and sunny.
The clouds are white and far away.
The snow is absent around about me.
I sense the absence of the snow.
It must be what Heaven will be.
No snow or ice or death.
I will kiss you all someday.
When I am there.
Gone away.
To rest.

Flowers Fade

I saw the flowers on the roadside,
they were all so pretty to me;
they seemed permanent to me,
But snow will frown--
wind and rain and sun.
The flowers are all gone.

Forking Ill

John M went camping and took his friend Timmy. Off they went to the Forking River Dam.
They went to the Forking Campground near the Forking Dam. They decided to visit the
Forking City. They had to go to the Forking Market. It was near the Forking Gas Station
closer to the furcating Forking River bending near the Forking swamp turning into the
Forking Quicksanding place there where they turned off the Main Forking Road. They
turned Forking right there. There is a Forking left turn as well but they had to get to
the Forking Store. They bought some Forking Beer made in the Forking Brewery. They were
still in Illinois. Forking, Ill. Ill is the abbreviation for Illinois, so we aer all
Forking, Ill. For now. The men were Forking camping so they bought some Forking beans
made at the Forking beanery. The Forking Meat CO. provided. The Olympic branch of the
Mount Olympus Water CO. Donated the Forking Water. They went to the Forking River Motel
to steal the soap and the towels. They paid for the room and took two Forking Dam
showers. They kept the Forking Dam Ashtray. It has a picture of the Forking Dam River.
The Forking Dam Police were searching for the Forking Dam Campground to arrest the
Forking men. They were not from Forking at all but just out of townies they had come to
Forking Dam to Fish for Forking Fish. They went to the Forking Boat Dok and rented a
Forking Boat the Indian Man in charge of the Forking Boat Dock said you out of townies
speak with Forking tongue. But money green in Forking Dam. Good to see you Forking men.
The Men in Forking Dam City are Forking gay. The Forking City Future Club is Oddfellows
Hall. Eye am Forking, Ill. From all that Forking Fish they gave to me the nibbles and
the bites the love all tied up in Forking Ville. They said that visit day is FrYdaY
at the Forking Prison Institution they have a Forking Fish fry for religion they want
me to go to Forking, Ill. And visit.

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