Honeyed Words, Voice of the Tempter
by Brian Anthony Hardie
Coffee couches surf the denim
Plague, or sorcerers of belonging and a
Forgotten brainwave. Ticking slow,
A reggae slumber in an
Erie state of malicious
Pondering, deep in an Oregon
Horror.
Hearing you, inner void, is
Not a life to interpret. My
Silk life drains human
Nerves while the sirens soundscape
My palms.
They hold a dialect starving
For comfort in an accent treasured
By satin sin.
Truth subverts through whips alive
And the dull spikes need. Light moments
Intriguing the past. Hollow trees
Savoring the lie, strumming the
Eyes of anger pending rage under
Your cruel sky.
Is such like wind the grief of
Romance? And
Why such a burn in the ache
Of our heart?
Madness scattered black pedals
On the gates of intimate
Gardens. Ending with a
Melody sung flat to the hills
Put to rest by a trembling son.
Nov 3, 2008
Relax, J.Grey
Relax
by John Grey
On a warm afternoon,
my blood flutters
in a butterfly's wings.
In the guise of a wildflower,
my hands rise
in a thin green stalk.
My breath is free
to join the other air
at any time.
My heart beats
like a tree grows.
Where I lie,
my body is more
soft, dry grass.
I don't so much
look up at the sky
as release my eyes
among it.
by John Grey
On a warm afternoon,
my blood flutters
in a butterfly's wings.
In the guise of a wildflower,
my hands rise
in a thin green stalk.
My breath is free
to join the other air
at any time.
My heart beats
like a tree grows.
Where I lie,
my body is more
soft, dry grass.
I don't so much
look up at the sky
as release my eyes
among it.
Battered City, G.Beck
Battered City
by Gary Beck
The explosion caught me by surprise and knocked me off my feet. I was one of the lucky ones. I hadn't reached the building yet. The blast, shock waves, flying glass, metal and concrete shards killed I don't know how many, and wounded many more. I may have hit a wall with a thump that would leave me bruised for weeks, but I was intact. A quick personal body search confirmed my instant diagnosis. I tested the various parts of the apparatus and found they still worked. Everything hurt, but I got up and joined the other walking wounded, who were going to aid the victims with the best survival chances, at least until emergency services arrived and took over. If they arrived. Secondary explosions went off nearby, indicating that al Qaeda had closed the access routes for ambulances and fire trucks.
This seemed to be the standard type of terrorist attack that had become painfully frequent. A medium-size office building without any particular political, economic, or military significance was targeted. A suicide bomber detonated himself in the lobby at rush hour, then improvised explosive devices were set off nearby to prevent assistance from reaching the site. I had developed some skills in evaluating survivor's chances and although I still had misgivings, I tried to the best of my ability to practice humane triage. It was a harsh process that hardened my heart to suffering, but it was the only choice, except for shirking responsibility to my fellow victims. They needed my help. I might need theirs soon. You never knew these days.
This was one more tragedy in the series of organized attacks that had recently swept the city. The first series targeted open-air markets. The pattern was simple. A suicider detonated himself, killing and wounding dozens. When the crowd panicked and stampeded, a second bomber detonated himself and killed many more. After several markets were devastated, people shopped elsewhere. The next series targeted cineplexes. Bombers detonated devices filled with nails in three or more screens at the same time, killing hundreds. People stopped going to the movies. The most recent attacks were the unexpected assaults on average workers, in average buildings, and was sorely testing the morale of a people under siege.
I managed to grope my way through the smoke and set about the horrible task of separating those who had a chance to survive. Other men and women were doing the same thing and we worked quietly, without supervision and cooperated whenever we reached the same victim. Blood, broken human bodies, and severed parts were everywhere. The moans, cries and screams of the wounded were getting louder. Facial expressions were either anguished or bewildered. We did our best for hours. At last the sound of approaching sirens told us that help would be here soon. I stared at a terrified young woman's face and whispered soothing words, as I tried to stop the arterial flow above her missing leg. Help would not arrive in time for her. EMS finally took over. I knew there would be no work today, so I headed for the subway, fervently hoping they wouldn't bomb it before I got home. I couldn't help thinking that it was time to pack up the family and leave New York City.
by Gary Beck
The explosion caught me by surprise and knocked me off my feet. I was one of the lucky ones. I hadn't reached the building yet. The blast, shock waves, flying glass, metal and concrete shards killed I don't know how many, and wounded many more. I may have hit a wall with a thump that would leave me bruised for weeks, but I was intact. A quick personal body search confirmed my instant diagnosis. I tested the various parts of the apparatus and found they still worked. Everything hurt, but I got up and joined the other walking wounded, who were going to aid the victims with the best survival chances, at least until emergency services arrived and took over. If they arrived. Secondary explosions went off nearby, indicating that al Qaeda had closed the access routes for ambulances and fire trucks.
This seemed to be the standard type of terrorist attack that had become painfully frequent. A medium-size office building without any particular political, economic, or military significance was targeted. A suicide bomber detonated himself in the lobby at rush hour, then improvised explosive devices were set off nearby to prevent assistance from reaching the site. I had developed some skills in evaluating survivor's chances and although I still had misgivings, I tried to the best of my ability to practice humane triage. It was a harsh process that hardened my heart to suffering, but it was the only choice, except for shirking responsibility to my fellow victims. They needed my help. I might need theirs soon. You never knew these days.
This was one more tragedy in the series of organized attacks that had recently swept the city. The first series targeted open-air markets. The pattern was simple. A suicider detonated himself, killing and wounding dozens. When the crowd panicked and stampeded, a second bomber detonated himself and killed many more. After several markets were devastated, people shopped elsewhere. The next series targeted cineplexes. Bombers detonated devices filled with nails in three or more screens at the same time, killing hundreds. People stopped going to the movies. The most recent attacks were the unexpected assaults on average workers, in average buildings, and was sorely testing the morale of a people under siege.
I managed to grope my way through the smoke and set about the horrible task of separating those who had a chance to survive. Other men and women were doing the same thing and we worked quietly, without supervision and cooperated whenever we reached the same victim. Blood, broken human bodies, and severed parts were everywhere. The moans, cries and screams of the wounded were getting louder. Facial expressions were either anguished or bewildered. We did our best for hours. At last the sound of approaching sirens told us that help would be here soon. I stared at a terrified young woman's face and whispered soothing words, as I tried to stop the arterial flow above her missing leg. Help would not arrive in time for her. EMS finally took over. I knew there would be no work today, so I headed for the subway, fervently hoping they wouldn't bomb it before I got home. I couldn't help thinking that it was time to pack up the family and leave New York City.
Sitting Shiva in a Hotel Lobby, D.Mahoney
Sitting Shiva in a Hotel Lobby
by Donal Mahoney
For a year this image has haunted me.
Over and over I hear on the gramophone
Cohen put in my ear
“Feature this:
On a crowded elevator
a strange woman in a baseball cap
unbuttons your fly.”
That image is on the ceiling every night
as I sit shiva in the lobby
of this small hotel,
a hookah, like a tired cobra,
coiled at my feet,
a shamrock in my buttonhole
dead from the last parade.
Night after night,
I think about this strange woman
as each hour I watch
the doors of the elevator
part and give birth.
I observe each new guest carefully,
hoping the woman in the baseball cap
will tire of the rain and ride up
in the elevator and register.
I want her to sit in the lobby
and talk with us.
We who are guests here forever
have eons to hear
what she has to say.
We have paid our rent in advance.
We can afford to sit here and see.
by Donal Mahoney
For a year this image has haunted me.
Over and over I hear on the gramophone
Cohen put in my ear
“Feature this:
On a crowded elevator
a strange woman in a baseball cap
unbuttons your fly.”
That image is on the ceiling every night
as I sit shiva in the lobby
of this small hotel,
a hookah, like a tired cobra,
coiled at my feet,
a shamrock in my buttonhole
dead from the last parade.
Night after night,
I think about this strange woman
as each hour I watch
the doors of the elevator
part and give birth.
I observe each new guest carefully,
hoping the woman in the baseball cap
will tire of the rain and ride up
in the elevator and register.
I want her to sit in the lobby
and talk with us.
We who are guests here forever
have eons to hear
what she has to say.
We have paid our rent in advance.
We can afford to sit here and see.
Oct 10, 2008
Sealed Moments, S.D.Turann
SEALED MOMENTS
By Santiago del Dardano Turann
Each moment holds its revelation:
They mostly fade away
And wither in the mute contraction
Of time's unending play
On cliff sides of extinction.
Man leaves the half-unmolded clay
To melt beneath a thousand
Thin frazzled thoughts that through the day,
A waving magician's hand,
Are so much wind-torn hay.
What is the key to that green land
That gives life to each moment?
Is it lost in the starry band
From which it can't be rent
To fall as dew upon the sand
A silver secret sent?
By Santiago del Dardano Turann
Each moment holds its revelation:
They mostly fade away
And wither in the mute contraction
Of time's unending play
On cliff sides of extinction.
Man leaves the half-unmolded clay
To melt beneath a thousand
Thin frazzled thoughts that through the day,
A waving magician's hand,
Are so much wind-torn hay.
What is the key to that green land
That gives life to each moment?
Is it lost in the starry band
From which it can't be rent
To fall as dew upon the sand
A silver secret sent?
Those Who Dance...Cayci/McCormick
Those Who Dance to the Rhythm of Their Own Music
By Üzeyir Lokman Cayci
Translated by Joneve McCormick
Those who nourish themselves on meats, dairy products and desserts
Cannot estimate you at your fair value.
Even if stone cracked, you cannot make them open
The windows of their farm …
People like you are not included in their center of interest
You do not exist …
Hereafter you must know
That they do not have time to bless you!
Their eyes are always fixed from above you
While they bow
With smiles above their double chins
Before the sovereign...the sultan.
Do you think for an instant that they acknowledge you?
If you ask my opinion on this subject
It is because the ends of their twine
Are in the hands of other people.
Don't take exception to the fact
That they are taken for kings!
Do not wait for them
In the wrong places
Vainly hoping
They will consider you a man …
Even if you write hundreds of letters
To these men of the closed doors
Intending to see or speak to them
You will not receive a single response …
Be wary and attentive;
Above everything
Allow them their haughty airs.
By thinking themselves important
They will look at you scornfully!
They well like fondling
Each others' backs …
It is no longer to the point
To listen to their dialogues "with admiration"
To extol their writings "enthusiastically"
To reward their facts "by clapping" …
Do not waste your time
Or put your attention here …
Think of other things.
By Üzeyir Lokman Cayci
Translated by Joneve McCormick
Those who nourish themselves on meats, dairy products and desserts
Cannot estimate you at your fair value.
Even if stone cracked, you cannot make them open
The windows of their farm …
People like you are not included in their center of interest
You do not exist …
Hereafter you must know
That they do not have time to bless you!
Their eyes are always fixed from above you
While they bow
With smiles above their double chins
Before the sovereign...the sultan.
Do you think for an instant that they acknowledge you?
If you ask my opinion on this subject
It is because the ends of their twine
Are in the hands of other people.
Don't take exception to the fact
That they are taken for kings!
Do not wait for them
In the wrong places
Vainly hoping
They will consider you a man …
Even if you write hundreds of letters
To these men of the closed doors
Intending to see or speak to them
You will not receive a single response …
Be wary and attentive;
Above everything
Allow them their haughty airs.
By thinking themselves important
They will look at you scornfully!
They well like fondling
Each others' backs …
It is no longer to the point
To listen to their dialogues "with admiration"
To extol their writings "enthusiastically"
To reward their facts "by clapping" …
Do not waste your time
Or put your attention here …
Think of other things.
Laptev Sea, R.Wink
Laptev Sea
By Richard Wink
An artist picks up a piece of broken glass
he plucks his body hair
like guitar strings.
His mother shows concern by bringing him a tray of cheese on toast
Careful, we are talking about a tortured artist
there should be squalor
and pitiful wallowing
and yet what can we hear.
The sound of a running water
a nice hot bath
with bubbles spilling over
the side of the tub
Visit- http://gloomcupboard.com
By Richard Wink
An artist picks up a piece of broken glass
he plucks his body hair
like guitar strings.
His mother shows concern by bringing him a tray of cheese on toast
Careful, we are talking about a tortured artist
there should be squalor
and pitiful wallowing
and yet what can we hear.
The sound of a running water
a nice hot bath
with bubbles spilling over
the side of the tub
Visit- http://gloomcupboard.com
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