May 97

Issue # 06 from May 1997
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Issue# 05 for April 1997
I would like to thank the authors of the following poems for their contribution
and wish them much success!

Read and Enjoy

And if you do enjoy a poem, please E-mail the author.

Fear
© Krista Brotzel

I'm Afraid.
Afraid to be alone,
Afraid to be loved.
I'm scared he will love me,
scared he will leave me.
I'm frightened to have no friends,
I'm frightened to make new ones.
I'm afraid to open up my heart,
Afraid to keep it closed.
I'm scared to be honest,
Scared to lie.
I'm frightened to tell my friends how I feel,
Frightened to keep it from them.
I'm afraid.
Afraid of all the fears I hold inside,
Afraid that no one will ever take those fears away,
Afraid that someone will.

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a little box. that's all
© mike eng

don't you ever wonder where all those bottles go,
those dreams that, as a child, you did throw
overboard,
corked and preserved in dirty glass, a
note,
for someone to dance upon.
it's not really the words written, but the
thought of touching another dreamer across the grey waters
with a few sentences scribbled quickly on
a scrap piece of scrap paper that happened to be in
your
back pocket that day.
you linger on this dream of someone reading your
dream of dreaming with someone...

do we suspend our hope and breath upon the
grace and carriage of an incessant but eventually
crashing wave?
what if this bottle never makes it anywhere?
but
d
o
w
n?

what if the skin-colored cork that hugs the bottle tightly
loses its strength and can't hold onto your dream any longer?
it dies, and the dream drowns far below.
below the waves that wanted to carry it across this distant sea.
water rushes in and soaks the note,
ink bleeds and sinks somewhere near the bottom, perhaps all the way, and maybe
even still within your dirty bottle.
somewhere near the bottom, murky and impossible.
it's cold and dark and lonely down there where all the
dead dreams lay to rest their weary souls.

dreams of someday walking on the moon,
of finally catching the tooth fairy in her flight across and
under bedroom pillows.
dreams of being able to fly with her.

dreams of a faraway land where love, not patience,
was a virtue.
dreams of finding and believing in a new constellation
of the midnight blue-black sky,
and naming it after you.
dreams of hearing your soft voice whisper into my ear
that breath that tells me you love me.
dreams of holding your hand in mine in this instant
and five and twenty and fifty million eternities from this
instant.
dreams of having these dreams be enough to fill a bottle,
and send it along.
dreams of having someone to dream with.
dreams of sharing these dreams with you,
my favorite company,
together, like shadows upon the sun.

do you ever wonder what your shadow does
when it sits right behind you?
what is it thinking?
does it wish that you would turn around,
so that it may turn its back on you?
you'll never see your shadow's face...
do you ever wonder what your shadow does
when it sits right behind you?
what is it feeling?
does it wish to simply look over your lonely shoulder,
and watch your thoughts trace upon this evening breeze,
without ever uttering a word?
and will your shadow always be your companion?
can you count on it?

there's a field sitting before me,
and after me, i'm sure.
if you lay out on our blanket,
you can see for years up into the star-glassed worlds above and
surrounding us.
before and after.
orion's belt is always the easiest to find,
and the hardest to forget.
remembering...
running my fingers through your long soft hair,
your gentle skin touching against mine.
i can even hear your heart beating if i listen hard
enough.

even now, as i sit shivering beside my
shadow, shivering right beside me.

did you see that?
i think my shadow was crying...
i can't ever be sure, but i swear that my shadow just
shed a tear...
i wonder what is wrong?
i don't want my shadow to cry...
i love my shadow...
it's just that...
well...
he seems a bit, heart-
broken,
maybe.
lifting his gaze up to the pale moonlight rushing forward,
and wishing that this spring breeze
would carry the scent of his fallen shadow-tear
for miles and miles, a delicate task.
fragile,
for miles and miles, and into
your bedroom, where it would finally let go,
his shadow-tear falling gently upon your cheek.
its touch would tell its story.
its presence would never say a word.
but i swear that if the wind and waves were as
steady as the heart that threw that dirty bottle overboard,
you would receive this tear that my shadow longs to send.
but you never can tell about these things, can you?
i put his tear away in a little box that once contained a ring, once.
a ring that you gave me, once.
my shadow still wears this ring, by the way.
my shadow wanted to make sure you get his gift.
i think my shadow really loves you.
why would he go to all the trouble of telling me?
and making me promise to let you know that he was thinking
about you, as i wrote to you,
as i dreamed of you.
he was dreaming of you, too.

he just wanted you to know that.

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but you know that, already
© mike eng

you know what's funny?
i can feel the wind between my toes...
it kinda tickles, but feels good.
a nice tickle...
you know how much i love that.
i really love spring, with all its life
poured everywhere like water through
cupid's heart.
i love the way she shadows of the swaying branches
wave at me; the way the sunlight seems
alive, in all its grace and presence.
i love the feeling of our blanket against my face, too.
but you know that, already.

eeyore says it's the afternoon. we had so many beautiful afternoons,
together.
come to think of it,
we had beautiful mornings and evenings
and late nights...
we've been together at every minute of the day,
and you were special in every single one of them.

this blanket is so big!
i have so much room, all to
myself.
you used to get mad at me for hogging it,
remember?
then you'd tickle me, and i'd roll over to share
the soft embrace of our blanket.
well...
i don't know what happened.
maybe the blanket got bigger or something because
now, there's all this room.
there was never enough room, before,
remember?
maybe someday you'd like to lay out on this
bigger blanket with me.
i guess just give me a call when you want to.
i'll be waiting,
but you know that, already.

my back doesn't hurt anymore, either. maybe i finally stretched it in the right way,
but i don't remember doing a single thing!
it's funny, because it was always hurt when i was
with
you.
maybe that was just because i wanted an excuse to be
touched.
i think we all need an excuse to be touched...
i love the way your hands feel on my shoulders,
but you know that, already.

i still have that piece of black and tattered yarn that you tied
around my wrist.
you tried it onto me in the parking lot at denny's,
once.
it's still holding on, and i'm surprised it hasn't
fallen off, yet.
but i remember when you tied it on, because i
kissed you after you finished tying it,
but you know that, already.

i still wear your rings on my fingers,
all the time, and
even when i sleep.
and it's funny, because they still look pretty on me.
they still fit perfectly, even though they feel a bit
colder
now.
i think it's because you gave them to me.

i still have this necklace around my neck. it means, "the power of two,"
but you know that, already.

furha, the wind is so cold against my skin! i think i want to curl and cuddle with- oh... i'm
sorry.
there's no one here this time.
oh well, that's okay.
i guess i'll just shiver, and i apologize if
my handwriting is a little shaky.

i have four pictures of you in my wallet, still.
that's an awful lot, but do you think it's too
many?
maybe i should take them all out, but then
there would be four empty spaces that are
stubborn
and refuse to hold anyone else's smile but yours.
besides, i always liked your pictures the best.
maybe i'll just keep them in there, for now.
i always thought you were the most beautiful,
but you know that, already.

"i wouldn't say i miss you,
but my pillow answers to your name
now."
i think that's how it went.
i think you told me that,
once.
does your pillow still talk to you?
that's pretty funny it still answers to my name...

god, it's cold out here, furha.
i wonder why it's so cold.
the sun is shining deeply, and everything above is
blue; cloudless.
but, i'm freezing...
that's funny, because i'm never cold.
maybe it was just that i was worried about you being
cold, so much that i
never noticed that i was cold, too.
i always felt just fine, especially on this
blanket.
i don't know what's wrong with me. it's pretty funny...

hey, i just thought of
something.
or maybe sitting here with my cheek against this
fabric reminded me of this.
you asked me to marry you when we were
sitting on this blanket together.
i remember because the tears running down my face that
day were cold against the wind.
that's why i remembered that.

i didn't know what to say, all choked up and
trembling.
it's funny how some things never change, huh?
a tear just fell onto the paper, and my cheeks feel
bitter.
but, no one asked me to marry her, so why am i
crying this time?
it's funny, you must have thought i was so stupid for
crying because i was happy.
so maybe now i'm making up for it because i'm crying
because...
well, i don't know why, but it's definitely not because
i'm happy.
it's funny that i'm crying for no reason. but i guess we all cry for no reason.
maybe it's just my turn to have no reason. sometimes, i think you don't need a reason.

well, maybe if i have no reason, then
i should try and stop. yes, i should definitely try
and stop,
but you know that, already.

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Echo
© mike eng

exit, stage left!
it is time to begin the next production! places, everyone,
Places.
Places, to be, places to run to,
Places to see, places to miss.
Places, to No One.
We finally belong nowhere, but still...
Take your places!

Bring into focus, please, the purpose of this Setting.
Remember, it is to be Lonely, let's do a good
Job, please?

Alright, the opening scene...
Dammit! Places everyone!
Oh, there you are!
Alright, good. Let's do this thing.

"i don't have much of a choice, do i?" nope. sorry. i'm afraid not.

"There are times in a man's life when he must scream
to realize that no
one
is even
there."

This is where you scream, facing the faceless audience,
the climax of this scene.
Be very dramatic! Sell it!

his echo,
bounces back from the empty walls of this empty auditorium
&
through his empty ears and empty mind and empty body just a cavity.
hollow.

perhaps the theatre is empty because this is just a Rehearsal.
opening night, man, it'll be packed!
the audience will sweat from the body heat and emotion I will stir
with my Performance!
the theatre is empty simply because this is a Rehearsal.
yes, that's definitely it!
perhaps no one has ever set foot in his auditorium.
this is the theatre of silent footsteps trampling over each other
to get out. We are afraid of your play, and don't want to think of it.
no one has ever set foot inside of your auditorium because there are
no doors, you idiot!
shut up.
perhaps your Loneliness is Part of the Script.
did you ever think of that?
like the ink on the page, like the characters upon the stage,
like the voices in a rage, like setting of a cage.
it is all a part of your Script.
Loneliness is Your Character!
Now, you stare into the empty front row, listening to
your quickened breath echo back at you.
it is hollow and bodiless.
the Blinking of your teary eyes can be heard, too.
even your darkest Thoughts can be heard, here.
this is a room full of Scripts and Lines and Musical Scores,
Jokes and Orchestras and Encores,
that will never be Heard.
oh Well...

and you begin to rehearse the scene one more time,
No scripts this time. Let's do it from memory.
Feel it, now!
Jump into the heart and soul of Your Character.
It must be perfect.

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Daemons
© Arn Bullock

Our daemons,
Where do they lie hidden,
To leap upon us?

Are these daemons
Exterior to self,
Stealthily stalking paths
That parallel and intersect our lives?

No!
Daemons exist within.
Each individual has their own
Perceptions of reality,
Reality viewed through prisms of
Past experience and values.

To know your daemons,
One must pursue the quarry down
Synaptic corridors,
Through the labyrinth of subconscious
To their dank dens.

Diligently search and you will
Unearth them in each their cave;
Kneeling reverently before Holy Cross,
Standing lonely when hand of love beckons,
Sitting timidly before flashing neon - RISK,
Turning angrily from self's mirrored image,
Trembling fearfully before the censure of others,
Seeking crowds to abolish solitude.

Can you flee to Distant shores, Line of white crystal, Bottom of bottle, Surfeit of sex?

Flight spawns its own daemon-
Knowledge of flight.
A vision of daemon pursued
By other daemons still within.
Only one flight absolute-
Firing neurons terminated
Through closure of death.
Better to face
Your daemons,
To know them.

Track them to their lairs,
Shed the darkness that surrounds
With purposeful focus of intellect,
Search of soul and spirit,
Evocation of salient emotions,
Delvination into distant past,
Conversations with self and others,
Reading to comprehend
The universality of your daemons.

Illuminate and understand,
So when your daemons
Dare to skulk from subconscious
Into present of conscious self,
You may confront and battle
Knowing their form and substance.

As they sidle forth
Make combat.
Lock eyes with
Opaque yellow orbs,
Taste fetid breath,
Grasp slime of scale,
Avoid slashing teeth
And ripping talons,
Accept flickering tongue on face
Dripping acid of destruction,
Take daemon by swishing tail
And force it into beckoning
Daemonic mouth.
Vertebrae by vertebrae Push it down into writhing form
Until daemon has devoured foul self,
Reduced to size that you may chase him
Back to his lair.

Free of this daemon
You are strong in self,
Ready to confront the next
Which will inevitably come forth.

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Perpetual Illusion
© Rachel Adler

All the world
Through my eyes
Is gray.
I sit on the rock
On the beach
On the sand,
The waves pound against the shore.
It is an angel
Holding hell's hand.
The man who's been sitting by my side
Asks me why I don't just jump in already,
I've been sitting here for 17 years already.
"And a half." I remind him.
But I can't yet,
It isn't time.
So I move my rock forward.
All the world
Through my eyes
Is gray
I sit on the rock
On the beach
On the sand
The waves pounding against the shore,
It is an angel
Holding hell's hand.

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Child
© Rachel Adler

Raindrop waterfall
Dirt washed away
To build the sandcastles
Of yesterday's dream
In the ocean she sits
And ponders
The everlasting question of why.
When, who, what, where, how
Aren't definite, but still guessed.
She wonders why
Because it has not been yet
Nor ever could be.
But who could care less?
It's all just a dream,
All just fades over time.

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September 18th
© Rachel Adler

Shock vibrations,
There is a pain in the lower middle,
Growing, growing.
Awoken into the turmoil, the body cringes.
It runs, can't contain itself.
And the world spins around-
Grotesque pieces of reality
Threaten to show face
Above the surface.
And the pain expands.
In rapid circulation, the world darts before
Terrified eyes.
Backwards, forwards, backwards
Round and round,
Over and over,
Gray, white, black
Flashes before
And there's no escape route
Banging, bashing
Into trapping walls.
Swirling, swirling in confusion
Don't know where, don't know how
To escape this anarchy.
Throw head forward, cracking open
Fall to the floor and
Scream.

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~~~~"DOG"~~~~
© Ron Baron

The 'Dog' was bred and trained for fighting;
given to me . . . .in a time of war;
loyal to me . . . .to any degree -
together we fought. . . . and traveled. . . .afar:

Through jungles and swamps, over mountains we 'tromped'
till the fighting was over and done.
I trusted my life. . .in peril and strife;
my love . . .in the end. . . he had won!

When they told me the news. . . that he could be mine,
to keep him - my heart jumped for joy!
My wife was now pregnant - a joy all it's own;
our first . . . . .I hoped. . . . . .was a boy.

My wife had our baby, but it was so sad-
through labor in childbirth she died.
The baby was saved, and all through the night-
'Dog' . . . . and I . . . . .both cried.

I moved to the mountains - a cabin for three:
just the baby, 'Dog', and me.
'Dog' quickly learned; the babysitter became,
The best . . . .I ever. . . . did see-

No matter what happened, in trouble or strain,
'Dog' . . . . always acted. . . The same.
He guarded the baby - as it were his own;
like a Mother. . . 'Dog'. . . . became.

But one day while hunting, far out in the woods-
I realized. . . . . .the time I'd forgot;
neglected to remember, the baby and 'Dog'-
for hours . . . .food . . . .they had not.

I came home astonished. . . . .the stillness was strange,
the place. . . . was a terrible. . . . .wreck!
'Dog' on the porch , raised his leg, and I saw!-
blood . . . . .on his paws . . . .and neck.

Searching and Screaming!. . . . . I ran all about
as I looked for the baby, in vain-
Blinded by fear, I could only see 'Dog'
the blood . . . . hot rage. . . and pain!

Then rushing inside quickly - over the mantle
the shotgun. . . .loaded. . . I found;
dashed back to the porch in wild frenzy of thought;
I needed. . . . just one . . . . single round!!!!

'Dog' with sad doleful eyes, sat so still,
He patiently awaited the un-wavering Kill!
Then as I squeezed. . . . and fired the shot-
his love . . . and loyalty . . .I forgot.

The trigger was pulled and I couldn't have stopped-
far too late was my desperate. . . try;
while hearing the shot, in echo I caught:
A tiny . . . . Baby's . . . .cry---???

I rushed to the bedroom, flung open the door-
most certain the sound came from there!
And found my young son. . . in the dresser drawer;
un-harmed. . . . was every. . . . .hair.

My son I grabbed up! . . . and bolted back where -
in a pool. . . . on the porch. . . . there 'Dog' lay.
Obedient he'd been, to the very end-
in death . . . . to my . . . . . dismay.

The blood left a trail from his neck and paw
t'ward the end of the porch. . . . .then I saw !
The blood had come from wolves, he'd fought!
They wounded . . . his neck . . . and paw.

My heart nearly BURST!. . . . .My tears flowed like rain;
in pain. . . . .I analyzed. . . . . each track;
'Dog' hid my son, before the battle he fought,
then KILLED . . . the whole . . . .wolf pack!!!!!

My Son's now grown. . . and he does own:
a dog whose breed's the same,
but none Loved more. . . . than saved my son;
'Dog' . . . . .was his only. . . . name!

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" The Navigator"
© Ron Baron

The billowing waves of an angry sea
and the wind swept flow of the tide,
Was the weather in which it seemed
my Life I'd chosen within to reside.

The stormy past of my youth was spent
in chasing the pleasures of Life.
I'd salvaged not money nor fame nor power,
nor family or children or wife.

And now on this night - of - all - nights came to be -
tossed by the waves of an angry sea -
A vessel blown hither and 'yon by the gales,
and the Captain - none other than me.

Yes, the Captain indeed was none other than me,
in a stupor of drunkenness - hopelessly:
While the crew in dismay found no course they could lay,
and the ship in the storm drifted aimlessly.

I called for the mate, navigation to plot,
and was told he was tossed by the waves and was lost,
Navigation and plot was a thing I'd done not
during all of the oceans I'd crossed!

Where could I find one who'd shoot the star' ,
to know our position, perhaps where we are?
For days now engulfed by the storm
we were forced many miles from our course. But how far?

Then came a calm voice and there strangely appeared,
a man as from nowhere. . . . . .standing quite near.
He said navigation He surely could do,
If I would ask - He would steer us so true.

Then looking so deep in His eyes I perceived,
that God somehow sent Him for me to receive.
And bending one knee as if praying I asked,
the task of navigation be relieved.

The crew sensed His presence, His strength, and His power,
and rallied, attending Him hour - after - hour.
He plotted the course as if already known,
and wild waves and winds seem to cower.

He hauled in the 'main sail ', the 'jib' set just right
and spoke calming words through the perilous plight.
He steered hard the 'rudder' and clung to the 'wheel'
'til soon we survived through the night.

As dawn broke the winds and the wild waves still stayed,
but somehow my spirits were no more dismayed.
I looked at the book on my bed where it layed -
'Twas the Scriptures! - All night I had prayed!

I went to the helm and I stood there with Him
as He guided 'My Ship' through the waters so grim:
My soul spoke these words, and somehow He heard,
"What a Savior to me You have been"!

I spoke with Him long through the days ahead
and His words somehow deep in my soul were fed.
And I know on that night through that perilous plight
were it not . . . . for the navigator. . . .I'd be dead!

Now it's been many years since that 'night - of - nights came,
and the navigator of ' My Ship ' is still the same.
And the billowing waves and Life's angry seas -
Together . . . . . . .we've managed to tame.

We've sailed many gales, through tempests and storms;
through miles of Life's oceans 'round the poles and the horn,
But with Him by my side it's as though I reside
in a Life that is somehow reborn.

'The Sea' is so treacherous and Life is so frail
but a whale of a navigator is He;
Others have asked of His name and His past
and I told them - their navigator He'll be -

Now if He can fetch such a wretch as like me
from out of the waves of 'Life's angry sea'
He'll do just the same . . . . If you'll only claim
"The Navigator" . . . . . . ..such is He!

So don't go afloat . . . . in Life's perilous boat,
through the billowing waves and the angry seas,
Unless just as I - on some night by - and - by,
you give Him . . .full control . . .on bended knees!

"Words are the tools men use,
to sketch dim glimpses of their souls"

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The Sun
© Mike Rees

Ice of years too many to remember
Gathered during an eternal December.
No sign of life, desolate and bare
A barren land where nothing grew there.

The wind of change carried a single seed
What right to grow, what right to feed ?
In a land of dark and cold it had none
The chances of life decreasing from one.

A ray of hope, a light so bright
From way up high pieced that darkest night.
The light burst forth in the virgin sky
Would it survive or would it die ?

Ice turned to water in the rays of the sun
Life came to the land which previously had none
First came a seed then a bud
Life was growing as it should.

From buds to blossom and then to leaves
First came the birds then came the bees.
In the heat of the sun a tree grew there
Strong at the root, true and fair.

A land from the past beckoned the sun
Which one to choose light only for one.
In the fading light the leaves turned red
Too little warmth an underfed.

Night never came and the suns light returned
The tree grew strong and yearned to be burned.
Branches outstretched growing free
To reach the sun, forever happy.

The light of the sun grew paler by the day
The sun looked around time for some hay.
Clouds of doubt blocked the light once again
The rain of terror, the rain of pain.

The droplets of misery so tiny and small
The tree stood ready preparing to fall.
Roots now rotten and full of decay
Soil corroded and slipping away.

Lighting striking at the trees heart
Piles of splinters, tearing apart.
A fire raging across the plain
Baron and desolate once again.

All that remains is a stump of a tree
A scarred reminder of what could be.
The ice once more covers the soil
The land now poison, bitter and spoilt.

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BLOW-OUT
© Elizabeth Williamson

The clanking cattle gaze at me...
they graze in the pasture beside the road
as the heat pricks the back of my neck.
They harmonize, baritones and all,
as I lean against my useless Dodge.
Sun-soaked metal warms my jeans
heat spreads through, blossoming every pore
until everything sings with sunshine.
I laugh at the blown-out tire and kneel,
while wet-nosed cows and bird alike
chew a noonday meal.

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A LITTLE NOSTALGIA NEVER HURT ANYONE
© Elizabeth Williamson

Sometimes I still go there.
It hasn't changed over the years...
although it seems a bit smaller.
This playground is filled with ghosts.
We used to creep out of the house--
my sister and I-- late at night...
climb the park trees
soar on the swings
twirl on the bars.
The slide was usually slick with rain,
and we would efficiently wipe it dry
with pajama-clad backsides,
then lie breathless on the gravel floor
and count the fading stars.
Pitch on our hands
gravel in our hair
mud between our toes...
we wore the freedoms of childhood.

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THE OLD BARN
© Elizabeth Williamson

The barn rests alone in the field by my house
and is deserted by all but the mice.
The walls still carry remnants of red paint,
and remain strong and upright.
Sunshine pours through the battered roof
and rests on the straw-strewn floor,
coloring everything yellow.
The ladder that led to the loft above
was taken away long ago...
I have improvised
with sweet-smelling stacks of hay.
I pull a straw out from the rest of the bale
and bite down. The golden flavor
is concentrated sunshine.
Up in the loft is an oversized window
where I watch the rest of the world.
I have gazed at many sunsets here,
sitting with my bare feet dangling outside,
the wood rough and weathered against my shoulder,
straw lending molten glints to my hair.

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