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Igor's Revenge
©2005 Nancy Wilcox
The doctor frowned at Igor’s face,
still twisted in an evil grin.
"I asked for ribs, you basket case,
this is mandibles and a chin."
So Igor shrugged and limped away,
all disappointed in himself,
got down the parts wanted today
from the rickety odd-lots shelf.
He muttered as he dragged about,
"The doctor’s always angry here;
I wish he’d learn to take it out
on the corpses he holds so dear."
As lightning struck the rod, "You dunce!
Where’s the liver I found last night?"
"Why, master, you had that for lunch,
sauteed with onions on the side."
War Speaks
©2005 Nancy Wilcox
I am not flesh, nor shall I be,
but vultures hold me dear.
Shadow soldiers follow me
to whisper, "Victory’s near."
I forge the sword, I draw the blade;
I reek of death and pain.
Frightened nations make the trade
and lock the final chain.
Trumpets sound, you cannot run-
this bargain’s sealed in blood.
Your young men fall beneath the gun
to crest the scarlet flood.
I am no god, nor shall I be,
yet all the demons bow to me.
The Best Time
©2004 Christine Nayler
the summer visitors
have returned
to the city
the big rock
that overlooks
the shoreline
is empty
it's so quiet
i can hear the still water
and the flaming leaves
of autumn
deepen the blue
the beauty
of all this
is mine alone
to enjoy
now
in september
no one else
goes to the beach
Bland
©2004 Sandy Reynolds
I look into the pines,
the firs, the willows bared,
I see a forest less than grand,
an autumn bland and cast
of nothing more than straw and leaves
and needles by the walkway-- memories
of what was once a budding spring,
a summer thriving.
A neighbor shouts, a barn owl swoops,
green has turned a yellow leaf,
on this gray and flat November,
I am a burnt sienna brown.
Heart Sandwiches
©2005 Michelle Garvin
Honey flows sweet in flowery words,
dripping from hidden fangs; a sugary poison.
Flattery and praise lull trusting prey
into a stupefied cloud of well-being,
unaware the knife has already penetrated
deeply into the spine.
Armed with deceit and treachery
the experienced predator
wields kindness and compassion
to stealthily carve a quarry’s heart,
for sacrificial consumption.
But life’s spiral spins
a sticky web.
Tacky silk to trap
the marauder in a self-made snare.
The blameworthy must face
consequences for con sequences.
When you’re held in the spider’s cocoon,
I may feel pity...
...Nah!
Piracy
©2003 Jeff Meyer
In the corners where mother forgot,
we practiced our taboos,
perfecting bitter rebellion,
distilling it down to some
sweet balm to sooth the wounds
of missed expectations.
And in our experiments
behind the stairs,
under the porch,
in our hearts,
we promised ourselves,
swore to each other:
they will never make me bend.
Now you live over the store
you inherited from your father,
dealing in antiques
you never knew
and never loved.
I tend the farm;
I'm the only one,
since my brothers left
three years ago.
I curse the rain that feeds the dirt
which yields the stalk that bears the fruit
of my next forty years.
I saw our children
under the porch this morning.
I sent your lad to mind the store
while you rested;
I brought my boy back
to help me in the fields.
Scrapbooks
©2002 Tina Marie Thames
Pictures tumble
from boxes of
forgotten reminders.
Unsorted , confused,
remembering why
they came to be.
Looking at faces
in the endless flood
of faded memories.
Scraps of a past
in a box.
Cutting and cropping
of afflictive bygones,
pasting false smiles
to the blank pages
of an empty book,
failing to see
any reasons for
their need.
I place my
hollow smile
among the rest,
more neglected lies
to stand times’ test.
Phyllis
©2005 Mark Thomas
Phyllis looks much older than her years.
Downs Xanax and smokes a joint
as two hungry children cry.
Oblivious, she sleeps peacefully.
Mom's dirty, half-naked kids run wild.
It's six! Their father is home!
He walks past their outstretched hands
to caress a cold beer.
A little boy and his sister.
Both are victims of today.
Where will they be tomorrow?
Graffiti Artist
©2002 Janie Hubbell
He wore his skin
like an eighties beggar
sleeping in a box
or on the floor
he reached high
before he fell.
His genius was in his hands
but with his eyes closed
he might as well
have been blind.
Graffiti artist,
came in through the side door
rode the smack train
to the end of the line,
wasted his talent
looking for paranoid equilibrium,
black man on a fast track
burnt into ashes.
His od(e),
like dancing
on the edge
of razor blades:
young was dandy,
art was candy,
but all that was left
when the lights dimmed
for last call
was thick red graffiti
running in the New York rain.
Christmas in Australia
©2005 Kethry
It’s Christmas in Australia
We’re dustin’ off the ute
With Santa in his stubbies
We know things will be beaut
With shorts and thongs and beaches
And weather blazin’ hot
Some tinnies in the back seat
We’re sure we’ve got the lot
It’s Christmas in Australia
The flies’ll have a blast
As snags upon the barbie
Will draw them down too fast
With wings and eyes a blazin'
They look like kamikazes
So we all slap and wave away
Those blowies and the mozzies
With parties by the dozen
And piss ups by the score
It’s Christmas in Australia
We holler out for more
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