Spider
By Donal Mahoney
Warm, wet, wrapped
in each other’s
arms, legs,
still for a moment,
we rest,
a spider spent,
lost in its web.
Jul 7, 2009
Silence, B.C. Baer
Silence
By Brian C. Baer
We heard you walked down to the basement and held the cold barrel beneath your chin. Your parents still have pictures of you throughout the house, but down here, the only thing to remind us of your presence is that small hole in the ceiling.
We rolled out our sleeping bags below that mark in the old drywall and lay still, staring up all night. We never spoke. I don’t know, maybe we thought we could hear from you down there where you had stood, that maybe you would do the talking. We had questions, and your parents avoided the topic as a kind of make-believe coping method.
Dawn slowly rolled over the horizon, brightening the basement through a small window nestled against the ceiling. Our ears had become so trained in the moonlight that we picked up every creaking floorboard, every wind gust, every breath from the person next to us, and could, if only for a second, pretend it came from you.
As we could hear your parents moving around upstairs, we all sat up and looked at each other in silence. We had come to you for answers, for explanation, but again you had told us nothing.
By Brian C. Baer
We heard you walked down to the basement and held the cold barrel beneath your chin. Your parents still have pictures of you throughout the house, but down here, the only thing to remind us of your presence is that small hole in the ceiling.
We rolled out our sleeping bags below that mark in the old drywall and lay still, staring up all night. We never spoke. I don’t know, maybe we thought we could hear from you down there where you had stood, that maybe you would do the talking. We had questions, and your parents avoided the topic as a kind of make-believe coping method.
Dawn slowly rolled over the horizon, brightening the basement through a small window nestled against the ceiling. Our ears had become so trained in the moonlight that we picked up every creaking floorboard, every wind gust, every breath from the person next to us, and could, if only for a second, pretend it came from you.
As we could hear your parents moving around upstairs, we all sat up and looked at each other in silence. We had come to you for answers, for explanation, but again you had told us nothing.
Deep Well Story, N.Melissa
Deep Well Story
By N. Melissa @ HoneyBee
A spider limped by, grumbling to me
“It was a beauty, such a pity.
A bloody fool decided to spoil it for me.
My preys were writhing, while I plan dessert,
but now all is gone, all in the wind.”
Then it exclaimed when it saw that it was me,
the bloody fool who fell in and through the Web.
“Alas it was you, what a bloody fool indeed!”
And so I apologized and admitted my state
while it huffed away, much disgusted.
A fly buzzed over, exclaiming to me,
“Oh my, oh my! Why, it’s my savior here I see!
Thank you Good Sir or it’s the end of me.
But then my Good Sir, you’re not too good yourself.”
And I admitted, “Yes indeed, I don’t feel good indeed.”
“It’s alright, it’s alright, Good Sir don’t you fret!
My friends and I, we’ll take good care of you.
Surely I’ll tell them of you and my gratitude!
For now you wait here while I spread such to them.”
And so it buzzed off, full of such gratitude.
A worm popped by, staring up at me.
“Ah dear me, you’re my second shock for the day.
But I’ll tell you anyway, that the sky is falling!
The chunks had just fallen; there’s the large and the small.
First the large then the smalls, and spared me just by inch!
Had I not looked up, I may have ended up like you.”
I told him, “I’m glad that you managed to make it.”
To which it beamed and wiggled away.
A mouse bumped its’ head and squeaked to me,
“Whatever in the world are you doing in here?”
So I said “I’m sorry” for being in its’ way,
saying that I was lost while looking for some cheese.
“Ah, I see, I see. It happens to me too,” said the mouse to me.
“So I do understand. And those awful traps that they set up for me,
I’m lucky to be here, still able to run free.”
I told it “How lucky” and it agreed heartily
Then off it scurried, after offering bits of its cheese.
An owl perched above, peering down on me.
“Have you by chance, seen a mouse with a cheese?
It ran from your cellar, scared by the lots of you there.
How lucky of me, he jumped in like you did.”
So I told him “I’m sorry, indeed I did see,
But as now you can see, there’s no other but me.”
for I pitied my new friend who gave me some of its cheese.
The owl sighed and flapped away muttering,
“I needn’t to be told what a blind fool I am like you”
“Ah there he is!” I heard them from above,
after all the voices that I made up in my head.
“That ungrateful bastard, who tried to steal our cheese.
Like his unworthy old hag, always up to no good!”
“But we got him Momma, got him for good!“
“What a fool indeed, thinking that he too owns the food.”
“How lucky for us, he’s a fool and he jumped.
There’ll be no need of a funeral, as the priest will condemn.”
And then they walked away, talking about cheese for dinner.
http://incompletemeaning.blogspot.com/
By N. Melissa @ HoneyBee
A spider limped by, grumbling to me
“It was a beauty, such a pity.
A bloody fool decided to spoil it for me.
My preys were writhing, while I plan dessert,
but now all is gone, all in the wind.”
Then it exclaimed when it saw that it was me,
the bloody fool who fell in and through the Web.
“Alas it was you, what a bloody fool indeed!”
And so I apologized and admitted my state
while it huffed away, much disgusted.
A fly buzzed over, exclaiming to me,
“Oh my, oh my! Why, it’s my savior here I see!
Thank you Good Sir or it’s the end of me.
But then my Good Sir, you’re not too good yourself.”
And I admitted, “Yes indeed, I don’t feel good indeed.”
“It’s alright, it’s alright, Good Sir don’t you fret!
My friends and I, we’ll take good care of you.
Surely I’ll tell them of you and my gratitude!
For now you wait here while I spread such to them.”
And so it buzzed off, full of such gratitude.
A worm popped by, staring up at me.
“Ah dear me, you’re my second shock for the day.
But I’ll tell you anyway, that the sky is falling!
The chunks had just fallen; there’s the large and the small.
First the large then the smalls, and spared me just by inch!
Had I not looked up, I may have ended up like you.”
I told him, “I’m glad that you managed to make it.”
To which it beamed and wiggled away.
A mouse bumped its’ head and squeaked to me,
“Whatever in the world are you doing in here?”
So I said “I’m sorry” for being in its’ way,
saying that I was lost while looking for some cheese.
“Ah, I see, I see. It happens to me too,” said the mouse to me.
“So I do understand. And those awful traps that they set up for me,
I’m lucky to be here, still able to run free.”
I told it “How lucky” and it agreed heartily
Then off it scurried, after offering bits of its cheese.
An owl perched above, peering down on me.
“Have you by chance, seen a mouse with a cheese?
It ran from your cellar, scared by the lots of you there.
How lucky of me, he jumped in like you did.”
So I told him “I’m sorry, indeed I did see,
But as now you can see, there’s no other but me.”
for I pitied my new friend who gave me some of its cheese.
The owl sighed and flapped away muttering,
“I needn’t to be told what a blind fool I am like you”
“Ah there he is!” I heard them from above,
after all the voices that I made up in my head.
“That ungrateful bastard, who tried to steal our cheese.
Like his unworthy old hag, always up to no good!”
“But we got him Momma, got him for good!“
“What a fool indeed, thinking that he too owns the food.”
“How lucky for us, he’s a fool and he jumped.
There’ll be no need of a funeral, as the priest will condemn.”
And then they walked away, talking about cheese for dinner.
http://incompletemeaning.blogspot.com/
In Passing, H.Day
In Passing
By Holly Day
I wish she’d come back as a vampire,
or a zombie, or even a dog. I just wish
she’d come back. My grandfather
is so alone it’s just not right.
It’d be something to see my grandmother
floating through the air, white as a sheet
cloaked in black, fishnet hose, Elvira breasts
lips half-parted over razor-sharp teeth
or stumbling across the yard, arms held out
awkward in front of her, fingers weakly grasping
with carnivorous intent, eyes open, unseeing
death perpetually rattling in every moaning step
or running up the back steps, young again, a pup
leaping against my grandfather’s legs
snout upturned in a sloppy kiss, every bit a dog
but with my grandmother’s soul inside, peeking through
every once in a while
to let the world know
she’s still here.
By Holly Day
I wish she’d come back as a vampire,
or a zombie, or even a dog. I just wish
she’d come back. My grandfather
is so alone it’s just not right.
It’d be something to see my grandmother
floating through the air, white as a sheet
cloaked in black, fishnet hose, Elvira breasts
lips half-parted over razor-sharp teeth
or stumbling across the yard, arms held out
awkward in front of her, fingers weakly grasping
with carnivorous intent, eyes open, unseeing
death perpetually rattling in every moaning step
or running up the back steps, young again, a pup
leaping against my grandfather’s legs
snout upturned in a sloppy kiss, every bit a dog
but with my grandmother’s soul inside, peeking through
every once in a while
to let the world know
she’s still here.
Forever as Nothing, C.Winfree
Forever as Nothing
By Catherine Winfree
The boy looked around the marketplace. A child couldn't name it. People were shouting, running, knocking on fading doors, and holding up a wrinkled, overused picture. But he could feel it.
"Have you seen this woman?" they would desperately question. Often a threat would slip through the lips of the interrogator.
Havoc. That's what he felt, an unsettling urgency.
Hell. That's what he saw, a frenzying calamity.
It seems only right for the child to notice her. Children seem to notice all the wrong things. He looked across the plaza. She was silent, invisible, nothing. A wide straw hat covered her face as she gazed at the ground, leaning against the stone wall, appearing as if she was built there.
Shouting.
People were shouting.
There was a difference in this shouting today than in the others. For one, it was not the merchants trying to buy off their goods; it was the police trying to find the criminal. Secondly, the boy could feel it.
The sky was soft and dull.
Cloudless, cold, and pail.
Like a white sheet stretched over to hide the face of the dead.
The woman felt a penetrating stare; instincts told her. She lifted her chin. The boy saw tan skin, but it was not dark like his. She started walking.
Effortless.
She made her way to the boy. Bodies subdued in human commotion around her, but not one touched her.
And the shouting. He knew they shouted for her.
A small smirk remained pasted to her face like the way she appeared pasted to the wall, forever invisible.
She stood over the boy. He saw up into the dark cave of shadow surrounding her face. His mouth dropped. She had blue eyes. No one has blue eyes.
No one alive anyways.
The boy did not know the reasoning for this, why the pail demons had to die. Blue eyes mean one thing: Defiance. But the boy did not know this.
She bent down to him. He starred wide eyed into the pail faced woman. Her eyes did not look safe, but stealthy. Full of secrets. She raised a finger silently to her lips, and winked. A secret seemed to spill with the movement.
She walked away the same way she had come. The boy felt something cold and hard in his gripping fist. He looked into his dark skinned hand. In it, laid a coin. He looked up to find the woman, to thank her. She was gone. He searched the wall.
Nothing. She was gone.
They won't find her, he decided.
Never.
She will be hidden.
Forever.
Forever as nothing, except to a child.
By Catherine Winfree
The boy looked around the marketplace. A child couldn't name it. People were shouting, running, knocking on fading doors, and holding up a wrinkled, overused picture. But he could feel it.
"Have you seen this woman?" they would desperately question. Often a threat would slip through the lips of the interrogator.
Havoc. That's what he felt, an unsettling urgency.
Hell. That's what he saw, a frenzying calamity.
It seems only right for the child to notice her. Children seem to notice all the wrong things. He looked across the plaza. She was silent, invisible, nothing. A wide straw hat covered her face as she gazed at the ground, leaning against the stone wall, appearing as if she was built there.
Shouting.
People were shouting.
There was a difference in this shouting today than in the others. For one, it was not the merchants trying to buy off their goods; it was the police trying to find the criminal. Secondly, the boy could feel it.
The sky was soft and dull.
Cloudless, cold, and pail.
Like a white sheet stretched over to hide the face of the dead.
The woman felt a penetrating stare; instincts told her. She lifted her chin. The boy saw tan skin, but it was not dark like his. She started walking.
Effortless.
She made her way to the boy. Bodies subdued in human commotion around her, but not one touched her.
And the shouting. He knew they shouted for her.
A small smirk remained pasted to her face like the way she appeared pasted to the wall, forever invisible.
She stood over the boy. He saw up into the dark cave of shadow surrounding her face. His mouth dropped. She had blue eyes. No one has blue eyes.
No one alive anyways.
The boy did not know the reasoning for this, why the pail demons had to die. Blue eyes mean one thing: Defiance. But the boy did not know this.
She bent down to him. He starred wide eyed into the pail faced woman. Her eyes did not look safe, but stealthy. Full of secrets. She raised a finger silently to her lips, and winked. A secret seemed to spill with the movement.
She walked away the same way she had come. The boy felt something cold and hard in his gripping fist. He looked into his dark skinned hand. In it, laid a coin. He looked up to find the woman, to thank her. She was gone. He searched the wall.
Nothing. She was gone.
They won't find her, he decided.
Never.
She will be hidden.
Forever.
Forever as nothing, except to a child.
The Gratitude...R.S. King
The Gratitude of the Dead
By Robert S. King
Some murdered men rest in pieces.
I am he who rakes this puzzle of flesh into one pile,
trying to fathom the loose fit of violence,
feeling a million cavernous mouths
relieve history of its debts.
What is eating us is seldom bright or beautiful.
So I say the bowels of earth should be full of light,
that I should bury this dead one with glow worms,
their light dripping down from my shovel,
curling up into little halos
around his brilliant peace.
He might even thank me
were his tongue not tied with worms.
By Robert S. King
Some murdered men rest in pieces.
I am he who rakes this puzzle of flesh into one pile,
trying to fathom the loose fit of violence,
feeling a million cavernous mouths
relieve history of its debts.
What is eating us is seldom bright or beautiful.
So I say the bowels of earth should be full of light,
that I should bury this dead one with glow worms,
their light dripping down from my shovel,
curling up into little halos
around his brilliant peace.
He might even thank me
were his tongue not tied with worms.
A Horn Unheard, E.Miller
A Horn Unheard
By Eric Miller
Hattie Williams poured herself two fingers of whiskey, as she always did at three o'clock, fifteen minutes before her taxi would announce its arrival with three honks of the horn. She eased herself onto the sofa, lit a cigarette, and held the photo of Jenna, the seven year old granddaughter of her employers.
She smiled as she remembered Jenna's father, as a boy her age, swimming in the family pool, off the patio upon which she looked through the large window before her. She was so happy that Jenna and her mother had stopped by to swim in the pool. She had just waved goodbye, after having received the most wonderful hug from Jenna. She felt that Jenna was her granddaughter and that her father was her son. As for her employers, Dr. and Mrs. Godfrey, well they were family.
Hattie, the great granddaughter of American slaves in Georgia, had taught herself to read, had raised six children, and had cleaned houses for 50 years, until "the aches" limited her to "tidying." The Godfreys were the only family who still employed her every week because they knew how important it was for Hattie to have something to hold on to.
The television was emitting the endless blabber of political discussion, centered, as always, on the gender and race of each candidate. Hattie used to say that she "never much followed politics, because it just seemed to get everyone all riled up," but on this day, she watched and listened with a new found interest. To choose between gender and race was overwhelming to her. She wanted the woman to be President, but she also wanted the Afro-American man to be President.
She closed her eyes to look deep within for the answer. Her lips formed the faintest of smiles. She knew, at last, what she would do, for whom she would cast her vote, and whose election would be a greater achievement for her country.
She did not hear the taxi's horn.
By Eric Miller
Hattie Williams poured herself two fingers of whiskey, as she always did at three o'clock, fifteen minutes before her taxi would announce its arrival with three honks of the horn. She eased herself onto the sofa, lit a cigarette, and held the photo of Jenna, the seven year old granddaughter of her employers.
She smiled as she remembered Jenna's father, as a boy her age, swimming in the family pool, off the patio upon which she looked through the large window before her. She was so happy that Jenna and her mother had stopped by to swim in the pool. She had just waved goodbye, after having received the most wonderful hug from Jenna. She felt that Jenna was her granddaughter and that her father was her son. As for her employers, Dr. and Mrs. Godfrey, well they were family.
Hattie, the great granddaughter of American slaves in Georgia, had taught herself to read, had raised six children, and had cleaned houses for 50 years, until "the aches" limited her to "tidying." The Godfreys were the only family who still employed her every week because they knew how important it was for Hattie to have something to hold on to.
The television was emitting the endless blabber of political discussion, centered, as always, on the gender and race of each candidate. Hattie used to say that she "never much followed politics, because it just seemed to get everyone all riled up," but on this day, she watched and listened with a new found interest. To choose between gender and race was overwhelming to her. She wanted the woman to be President, but she also wanted the Afro-American man to be President.
She closed her eyes to look deep within for the answer. Her lips formed the faintest of smiles. She knew, at last, what she would do, for whom she would cast her vote, and whose election would be a greater achievement for her country.
She did not hear the taxi's horn.
I Beg You, O.K. Osunsan
I Beg You
By Olutayo K. Osunsan
By faith I have loved you.
A love that denies its power
To silence the restless spirit.
I have loved you with love
That speaks only with action.
A love that will always be found.
And by this love I beg you
To only love me half as much
As I have always loved you.
By Olutayo K. Osunsan
By faith I have loved you.
A love that denies its power
To silence the restless spirit.
I have loved you with love
That speaks only with action.
A love that will always be found.
And by this love I beg you
To only love me half as much
As I have always loved you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
.jpg)
.jpg)
