Just Words, E.L.Collins

Just Words
by Elizabeth L. Collins


Who is essentially me –
my picture?
Or the pictures I paint
with my words?
Poems and prose -
lined up in rows.
Some are his story
some are hers -
all just words.

Is the eye the sole
window to the soul?
Or does writing
share more,
bare more,
lay naked the heart
by words penned?
Choose carefully:
may befriend
or offend.

We leave behind
our reflection
when we reflect
our thoughts
onto the page.
Height, weight, sex, age
matter not!
Ideas the only measure -
words our gift,
our treasure.

The Middle of Her Life, M.Amyx

The Middle of Her Life
by Meredy Amyx

Ilana in the doctor's waiting room.
I knew that would happen. Eight, no, nine empty seats in this waiting room and she has to take the one right next to me. It's bad enough that he's called me in to talk about the test results, it's bad enough sitting here just waiting and not being able to stop thinking about it, all the horrible things they could have found, and me only forty-four, the middle of my life, bad enough without being crowded by someone who smells of garlic and wearing that revolting shade of puce that I can't even look down at the magazine in my lap without seeing.

Ilana in the kitchen.
Those damn fools have redesigned the cranberry jelly can. What's the matter with them? Before, you just opened both ends and the jelly slid right out. Now the bottom is rounded and the can opener won't work. Look, you can't even poke a hole in it to break the vacuum. You have to run a knife around the inside, and still it doesn't come. The turkey's done, I've got potatoes to mash, gravy to make, and everybody else just sitting around snacking and drinking, spoiling their appetites, and I've been standing here for ten minutes shaking this damn can and I can't get the jelly out. Those cheap corporate bastards have figured out how to save an extra fraction of a cent with a different can, and they don't care what it does to my life. I swear to God sometimes I feel like the universe saves up all its torments for me.

Ilana on the freeway ramp.
Idiot. He's not going to let me in. I don't believe it. I can't go straight more than another few seconds. The lanes merge. He's just blocking me. He's doing it on purpose. When I speed up, he speeds up. I should slow down. Why should I let him make me? There's someone right behind him. I have to get ahead of him. What the fuck did he pick on me for? He's nobody I know. Fucking idiot. What the hell, who cares, I'm just going to step on it and run right ahead of him and cut him off, and

Ilana in the middle of her life.
Turns out the middle of Ilana's life was when she was twenty-two. She didn't know it then. Now she does.

Life After Politics, J.H.Johns

LIFE AFTER POLITICS
by J. H. Johns

Hi!
I’m Eliot Spitzer
and
I’m here to tell you about
Trojans-

(holds up a condom in foil)

you know,
after a hard day
of governing in Albany-
or even when I’m kicking back
in my Park Avenue apartment-

there comes a time
when I think about slipping into a
Trojan-

yes, Trojans-

and even though I don’t use them-
they are the safest thing
between yesterday and tomorrow-

hey,
take it from me-
Client Number Nine-
try Trojans-

they won’t keep the Feds from getting you
but,
they’re the best insurance you can buy-

this side of Wall Street-

so,
whether you’re just having fun
or dropping a thousand dollars an hour-

use
Trojans.

Summer Storm, J.Grey

Summer Storm
by John Grey

Can't love while the storm is raging.
Thunder's like tanks rolling over the horizon.
Lightning takes pot shots from behind the sky.
Love is on the bed, not under it.
Can't feel good in the middle of something
when our nerves are so anxious for it to end.
The heart can't do double duty.
No floating in its own nectar
when it's pounding against the rib cage,
leaping into the throat.
We are never farther apart
than when we huddle together in the parlor
while the enemy gathers overhead.
I whisper your name,
give your hiding place away.

Unsaying the New Word, C.Mesler

Unsaying the New Word
By Corey Mesler

The new word was found in the wild.
It seemed to be waiting for someone
to pick it up but that is just fancy
on the part of the men who find new words.
The new word was indifferent. It
cared not whether it was to be used or not.
Still, many lined up to be the first to
use the new word. In the line the talk was
mostly about the news, how on Mars
there was an avalanche, how the President
had lost more brain cells. No one really
let on that the new word was all-important.
It was the kind of word that could change
things. But that is better left unsaid.
The new word, to be frank, makes some
people uneasy. Every new word does.
That’s why in this story we will not be
using the new word. Still, we may save it.
One never knows when a new word
will be just what one wants, an absolution.

Closer Apart, S.Newman

Closer Apart
By S.L. Newman

Only freaks come out at night
No regrets of course you’re right
Your gentle voice in sync resides
Uncommon truths can never lie
Orange yellow a purple hue
Beyond what is enough for you
Melting glances hide my face
Even rapture can’t replace
Letting go the one I choose
Crowded garden of statues
Prisoner of tender bliss
OMG Are you serious?

Caretaker of Atlantis, W.Doreski

Caretaker of Atlantis
By William Doreski

Atlas ruled a stony coastline
he called Atlantis. Canals
fed a vast central plain, fruit trees
prospered. The cities featured baths,
palaces, race-courses, temples,
and dredged and well-marked harbors.

Atlas was the son of Poseidon
and half-brother of Prometheus,
but because of greed and cruelty
on the part of five pairs of male twins—
perhaps his sons or his brothers—
the gods evoked a deluge
that overwhelmed Atlantis
and buried its harbors and temples
under mudslides big as continents.

Atlas, father of the Pleiades,
the Hyades, and the Hesperides,
shrugged off disaster and went to work
holding up the starry heavens,
and has done so ever since, except
on vacations and paid holidays.

Meanwhile I’ve spent my whole life
as the caretaker of Atlantis,
what’s left of it: a few marble blocks,
a witty inscription, a plain
of dried mud. I’ve nothing to do
but poke here and there with a trowel
and make sure the dead remain dead.

Occasionally Atlas stoops
from his cosmic task to make certain
I’m still on the job. The sea washes
up and over the muddy plain,
leaving rags of seaweed for me
to sweep into piles to dry and burn,

making masses of flame some people
tell me some mythic personage
might be able to see from the moon.