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Winter's Morning Ramblings
by Vivian Cassina
As the solid slam of the storm door jars me to reality
I return to the Franklin seeking the warmth you have taken away
I reach for your cup, half consumed...still waiting the feel of your lips
And I too, wait your return as thoughts drift with the snow upon the step
I remember the quiet squeak of the screen of last summer
And I am carried away in thoughts of gone by days, and you and I,
Sitting on the verandah, sipping Absolut lemonade
And watching the lighted bugs fly in the night, afraid to touch
As our souls melted in the heat and formed as one
Then autumn came, and the leaves began to fall
And with them fell the fears of being revealed
We grabbed our sweaters and welcomed the cool
As others braced in the chill, we grew closer
And shared in the warmth, for our hearts were full
Now, as winter has come we stand bare
Our garments of denial lying about us on the ground
The cold has wrapped us and once again
We must take up our cloaks for the protection
The starkness seems to necessitate, and so
We bundle tight or lose the last of our life's fire
The Franklin crackles and reality returns
The flames aren't out. He hasn't gone away
I fill your cup and feel the warmth of your lips
And pray it's winter's gloom and spring will come
Copyright 2000 by Vivian Cassina. (PoemsbyViv@aol.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
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Between the Lines
by Ronald Haun
When you live and love between the lines
you seldom hear, "Dear" and "Darling."
The terms are merely understood,
taken for granted, like the roof over your head.
And you read in her tones, smiles or frowns
the endearments you never knew you missed.
But then the years roll by and one day it all changes.
Unexpectedly, somehow to someone you become "Dear",
honestly, openly in a most melodious voice.
Suddenly you are "Darling."
And in the deepest, oldest part of you,
an ancient child put away long ago
awakens from a very long sleep
and begins to hum in resonance
to the woman who seems to know just your song.
And your erstwhile lover may read your absence between the lines.
Copyright 2000 by Ronald Haun. (Ronalot23@aol.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
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Chicago Blues: Sittin In at the Kingston Mines
by Gregory James
"Ya gotta get that potato chip grip, my young brother",
Willie Pooch said. As I struggled with Pentatonia and
flat fives and thirds. "That is
what matters most". I thought he meant
jealous avarice, or excess, or tightness. But
grreazy approach of the flats
on my Fender Strat is what he meant. swing me
Hot, boy,
swing me
Hot, the
shuffle groove
seems to say;
the third triplet of
the holy three taller, more
pronounced,
with occassional grace
notes psalm'd in;
the city
wind howls with the hard
two-four, the snap-sizzle-
snap of the
snare.
We call it the Chicago shuffle.
"Play your soul boy, and stop thinking so
much" he said.
"...it is what it is.
The kings, son, ain't
just
--mine."
Copyright 2000 by Gregory James (Themrhappy@aol.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
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Letter to the Editor: Cherie Staples (skyearth1@aol.com).