Welcome to the Gryphon's Nest!

The gryphon lined its nest with such
As none will see again
But treasured most the deepfelt words
Sung from the hearts of women and men

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McCulley : The Whispers of the Peacocks | Copeland: A Wait In Vain
Teodori: 3rd Shift | Fiddaman: No Market for the Rhyme Hacks | Jackson: Convergence

The Whispers of the Peacocks

by Colleen A. McCulley

I see your face
Without a face
I am trying to get to you
But the empty taxis block my step
A lover's frustration courses through my veins
So I delve into your liquid senses
Floating maroon flowered couches float by
me swimming in your river
Hades seems to follow my pulling arms
I want to touch you
I climb out of the coldness to have it all disappear
So I run, my empty steps echo through the lifeless and deserted city
Blackened windows stare through my body
The height of the building shadows the driving passion I feel
I want to reach you
Never ending stairs towards the heavens
Rounding and rounding with every step
It opens to an endless sky, and a child's puzzle below
The wise old womans eyes say to me that you have left long ago
The dreamlife of the peacocks stun me into the foggy steps again
I want to hear you
Down and down I fall, like Eve, until I can see you ahead of me
Like a ice express on a southern route, I collide with you and my destiny
and for a torn second, I have you
Once again I am alone in the lifeless city of tortured souls and battered dreams
and the peacocks
are whispering

Copyright 2002 by Colleen A. McCulley (CrossNYColleen@aol.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
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A Wait In Vain

by K.R. Copeland

There you stood, naked babe in the wood,
a crown of ferns around your nest-like head.
Your arms outstretched, with palms
up-turned toward sky,
a smile at play upon your patient face,
anticipating birds of paradise...
which never came, of course, still, there you stood
For hours, days and weeks, night after night,
Awaiting signs of some enlightened life,
A wait in vain, none came, but squirrels and mice.


Copyright 2002 by K.R. Copeland (lorenz2@ameritech.net).
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3RD SHIFT

by Paul Teodori

Silence and darkness

Silence, silence, silence.
I take the earplugs out.
And the sounds come rushing in:
The neighbor's air conditioner;
The kids playing somewhere in the street outside;
My wife moving around in the kitchen.

Darkness, darkness, darkness.
I take the sleeping mask off
And the room comes into view:
My wife's multicolored clothes in the closet;
The brown dresser in the corner;
The red curtains over the windows.

Like a man gasping for air,
Upon awakening,
I immediately take the earplugs out of my ears
And take the sleeping mask off my eyes.

But the night is approaching quickly,
And the city will soon be asleep.
And once again I will be plunged into
Silence and darkness.

Copyright 2002 by Paul Teodori (paul_teodori@hotmail.com ).
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No Market for the Rhyme Hacks

by Bob Fiddaman

It's no good receiving
pats on the back, they're deceiving.
Or critical acclaim, it's demeaning.
When all I want is fame.

I've gone beyond head swelling.
I'm fed - up with editors telling
"It's not quite what we're selling."
In their Masonic law.

I'm fed up of being christened
at slam events they've listened
where I've shined and glistened.
applause don't pay the bills.

The modernist movement is bull.
The prose I've read is dull.
It's like listening to Jethro Tull
when folk music's not your scene.

I like the stance of Wendy Cope
she gives my writing hope.
She loosens the editors rope.
Although not always.

Surgery events sound appealing
but the 'doctor' could be stealing
my words of heart-felt meaning.
Advice never helps my cause.

Competitions in the daily press.
I send off work to impress.
I'm offered a book for ten pounds less.
Preying on the hacks.

At the publisher's desk sits Mr Boff
with rejection slips - 'Fuck Off'.
They browse and then they scoff.
With no construction to their calls

Copyright 2002 by Bob Fiddaman. (fiddy@blueyonder.co.uk).
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Convergence

by Rebecca Jackson

The snow curls dormant,
a grey scarf,
and my mother's voice
speaks fog
as we converse over coffee
in our respective states.
The driveway beyond the ice-fleshed
panes is hushed with the corpses
of conquered pinecones.
"Be careful," she says, "driving."
Our winter ritual -
how does she always know
the weather 900 miles away
(a mother thing, you'll understand
when you have children of your own).
I am nodding absently,
watching the coffee steam
warm the air,
a strange herald,
a promise of spring.

Copyright 2002 by Rebecca Jackson. (rebecca.jackson.jdj2@statefarm.com).
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Table of Contents

Letter to the Editor: Cherie Staples (skyearth1@aol.com).