Image courtesy monmouthcountyparks.com

 

Written by Sean Jenny

I found this while walking through the park.
It was nothing to speak of, not to say there
were no words,
Only, just as we sat on the water’s edge
I let them float on by.

Long ago, poetry was my will…
I remember my first quatrain;
what a taciturn thing. My shadows were
more than its muse.
They were my authors, my illustrators,
and I was their abrasive editor.

If at THAT time I sat by a watery edge
with the muted sky in reflection on your
face
I would curl upon the bench
and bundle you in malformed,
camouflaged phrases as a vagabond of
basic emotion.

But NOW, even through my Carl Jung
Impressions
I bring substantial to the spiritual,
give goal to the emotion,
and speak words to love once speechless.

I’ll wait by the water till summer rolls
’round,
See you then…
______________________________________________________
©Copyright 2012
Sean Jenny
all rights reserved

Image courtesy ralphmag.org

 

 

Written by Ken Carman

You would expect
the ride to start out fast
Slipping down mother’s slippery slide
into the arms
And an unexpected slap

Then
You’d expect the ride
To get slower
Slower
Sllllllllllllllooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwweeerrrr…

So
You might
Intellectually savor
each succulent moment
Melt into the most blessed
beatific
days

But life’s
a slowly sloped hill
You start
Eager to get beyond
the awkwardness
So you push
To go faster
Push
Faster
Push, push, push…

Wait!
What am I pushing for?
Too fast…
Put out your Fred Flintstone feet
Brake!!!
Still faster
Drag!!!
Faster, faster, faster, faster

Until you realize: faster is all that’s left
Then it’s all a matter of… relax!
Enjoy your express ride
Into the gentle baseball mitt called oblivion
“You’re outta here!”
___________________________________

©Copyright 2012
Ken Carman
all rights reserved

Willie Mays’ baseball mitt, courtesy Wiki

Written by Lilith Raymour

Smash
Bang
Crunch
Life accidents
Seem such an affront

Leaving everyone angry
Few amused
Occasionally feeling
Quite abused

Look at the rushing river
Millions of independent souls
Feeding the onslaught
Mad rushing highways

Isn’t it actually more surprising
Midst the manical madness
Heading into the day after
the day after
and the day after that

We don’t….
BUMP
More often?
_________________________________________

©Copyright 2012
Lilith Raymour
all rights reserved

Photo courtesy abcnews.go.com

Written by Ken Carman

What’s that feeling? As if I have to ask: I’m frightened.

Phone rings. Phone rings again.

I am not answering that phone. Who knows who is calling? Oh, it’s Dave. I can see the number on the call screener. Last time he called we got into an argument. We always seem to get into an argument as of late. So I’m not answering that phone.
_________________________________________________

I stayed home yesterday. Just easier. I live on a busy street, cars whizzing by as if they’re bullets seeking human heart, human mind. A bullet to the brain? Now there’s a scary thought. Years of memories, lessons learned, feelings treasured; jumbled up by a small, supersonic metallic mixer as it merrily rips through tissue… changing shape almost like an ever expanding universe shredding what was there before. And the din of the horns. The smell of the poison pumped into the air. The stench of people who dip themselves in disgusting smelling perfumes and colognes, mixed with cigarette smoke curling around their clothes like skunk spray… all topped, like a rancid, moldy, cherry, with alcohol spewing from their every breath: in, out, in out…

So I am NOT going out.

It’s DIS-GUS-TING. And worse, what if I get use to it? What if it becomes familiar, becomes my friend, and I go back to being like… them? Would I eagerly go back to polluting my lungs? Kill off even more brain cells?

Not happening. No, not to me. Guess I’ll stay home today too.
__________________________________________________

There’s that damn phone again. After more than a week you’d think they’d figure, “No one home.” Oh, it’s the boss. No, I’m NOT coming to work. Haven’t you figured that out yet? If I answer it he’ll just fire me. No, I won’t even give you the pleasure of proving what a fool you thought I was, what a screw up. I swear you would sneak up behind me. I’d hear you laugh coarsely as touched your lips to my ear, whispering foul, perverse, things… Then I’d look back as you sternly said my name: standing far behind me… at the door to my office. No, I won’t go through that. Keep all it to yourself. Let it all rot YOUR brain.

I know I left so much undone. What was I supposed to do, take a chance you’d criticize me more?

Knock, knock.

Don’t say anything.

I’m not here.

Knock, knock.

Don’t say anything.

I’m not here.

Knock, knock.

Don’t say anything.

I AM NOT HERE.

Patter of feet fade down the hall outside my door.
_________________________________________________

That feeling. Like rats chewing on my innards. Hunger?

I look in the fridge, but it’s all been there so long. And what about the pesticides they use? What about when the meat imported from China that had e-coli? Cholesterol? Fructose? Sodium? Fat? Razor blades in apples?

I should just throw that all stuff out, but what if I get hungry?

Oh, I am.

But taking a chance? No, I’m not ready for THAT.
__________________________________________________

I hurt.

Knock, knock.

Don’t say anything.

I hurt.

Knock, knock.

Don’t say anything.

I hurt.

Footsteps fade again.

What if it’s not just hunger? Is my liver failing me? Appendix swelling? I hear if it bursts you only have moments to live. Cancer? Oh, God not CANCER. My wife died of cancer. Day after day taking her to the bathroom: she rarely made it. I had to clean up. I had to feed her as the smell of her rotting flesh, her swelling feet that were turning a deep, obsidian, shade of black.

Oh, GOD, no, NO… NOT CANCER.
__________________________________________________

Door explodes open like a mini Hiroshima hit it.

“Who the HELL are you? Get out of my apartment!”

Why can’t I hear what they’re saying?

They’ve tied me down to a gurney.

They all have masks on, dressed like ambulance attendants. FBI agents on a stake out, watching me, decided to make their move? NSA? Secret agencies run by the Left or the Right? TERRORISTS??? Will they torture me? God, please don’t TORTURE ME! Whoever they are… didn’t fool me. I thought I was being watched.

What’s in the needle? Truth serum? What they use to put down dogs and cats?

I can’t move, but now I don’t want to because I feel so bad. REALLY BAD. I feel weak. I’m fading. They’ve poisoned me. Why are you all in such a rush now? Another needle? What the first poison isn’t working fast enough? BASTARDS!!!

What’s that? I can hardly feel it, oh, you’re pushing on my chest. Why are you pushing in my chest?

Everything is fading. Are you death? No, you can’t have me. NO. Get away from me.

OK, what happens now?

I am so, so frightened.
__________________________________________________
©Copyright 2012
Ken Carman
all rights reserved

Picture courtesy lukeromyn.com