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The gryphon lined its nest with such
As none will see again
But treasured most the deepfelt words
Sung from the hearts of men
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At the Zenith
by David J. Milligan
Through early morning
Misty dark, two stars at the zenith,
"The road overhead,"
To Arabia,
Of "old times." Abu Ma'Shar,*
Maybe he saw them too.
Still bright sentinels
For weary eyes, eternal
Light the dharmic path.
* - medieval Arabian stargazer. The word "zenith" has a strange origin: we derived it from Latin "cenit," which supposedly was a scribe's somewhat clumsy version of the Arabic term "samt arras," which literally means "the road overhead."
Copyright 2000 by David J. Milligan. (wy605@victoria.tc.ca).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
hopping
by George Wallace
from twig to bud
toward each other at
the garden edge
two returning song
birds glitter with spring's
first morning
as if in their miniature
ancient hearts they know
this moment belongs
(as to all fervent creatures
of the earth) to them & deserves
sure celebration
not remorse over what
was lost in the last fertile season's
necessary relinquishing
& hearing them as i have
this morning it is enough for me
to know loving you
that they sing
Copyright 2000 by George Wallace. (Ggeorgewallace@aol.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
The Road Inside Myself
by Derek DeHart
The sun is beating, beating screaming,
screaming tortures upon my face.
The road is calling, calling sprawling,
sprawling out inside my mind.
The trees are breathing, breathing seeming,
seeming like there is no end.
The life is growing, growing flowing,
flowing quickly from my grasp.
I'm on the road inside myself.
My life is far behind.
The sun is killing me, my friend,
But the trees are being kind.
The God is crying, crying lying,
lying to all who hold Him dear.
The road is fleeing, fleeing seeing,
seeing all that forsake its name.
The earth is hurting, hurting churning,
churning right before my eyes.
The hope is waning, waning fading,
fading from the able mind.
I'm on the road inside myself.
My hope is far behind.
The God is killing me, my friend,
But the earth is being kind.
My life is creeping, creeping seeping,
seeping from my battered soul.
The road is knowing, knowing showing,
showing me I cannot win.
The trees are hurting, hurting yearning,
yearning for a learned man.
The sun is moving, moving losing,
losing every ounce of light.
I'm on the road inside myself.
The sun is far behind.
My life is killing me, my friend,
But the trees are being kind.
My hope is searing, searing nearing,
nearing the end of its brutal course.
The road is screaming, screaming teeming,
teeming with the dead's lost minds.
The earth is shining, shining crying,
crying tears of bitter spite.
The God is dying, dying biding,
biding time 'til all is gone.
I'm on the road inside myself.
The God is far behind.
My hope is killing me, my friend,
but the earth is being kind.
I'm on the road inside myself.
The world is far behind.
Reality's killing me, my friend,
But madness is being kind.
Copyright 2000 by Derek DeHart. (ddehart@heidelberg.edu).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
[Editor's Note: Derek has previously published poems under the name "Dyrkhawke."]
Strange Fruit
by B.J. Brown
Oh Lady Day.
Handcuffed heroin hospital,
At forty four,
Mr. Dufty writes,
Goodbye,
On the front page of the post,
She was just singing,
She was only,
Singing,
Tearing hearts out,
After a year of hard time,
Not a dry eye,
Sold out!
Just an another star in the road,
A stepping stone,
Who died in chains,
And I can't help feeling,
This
Uncertain something,
She sang so hard,
Coughing up horrible things,
From deep within,
But something never surfaced,
Something unsung,
I have seen the truth in the photos,
Truth can always be found in the eyes,
And pain can always be found in the voice,
In her heart wrenching voice,
That tears through me,
I know sweet heart
I know.
Copyright 2000 by B.J. Brown (Fink1975@aol.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
Where have all the twizzlers gone?
by Liz Lewan
Where have all the twizzlers gone?
I look around and see
They've been replaced with salad
Or anything fat-free
What happened to Saturday bowling
With all my best girlfriends?
The night is suddenly reserved for couples
talk of boys just never ends
What happened to my porcelain face?
Now bombarded by big red spots
I never wanted to cut my hair
But I just can't stand the knots
Where did my baggy sweatshirt go?
I cannot seem to find it
Now I'm suddenly wearing a tank top
That is a little too small to fit
Where did mom and dad go?
Why don't I really care?
I begin to think of other things
That I never thought were there
What happened to those disgusting creatures?
Who were referred to as guys
Something about them is different now
Besides their voice and size
The phone never used to ring
At least it never was for me
Why is the receiver suddenly glued to my face?
I don't know how that could be
I just want to go to school
And not have to worry at all
Why are people loading makeup on their face?
What's suddenly so cool about the mall?
I don't like the way it is now
People are different then how they were
The thing that scares me most is that
I'm just as different I'm sure
Copyright 2000 by Liz Lewan. (HtLewansky@aol.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
Hazard of Dancing With Sirens
by Jeffrey J. O'Brien
Being with a poet
may be hazardous to your health
the Marlboro Man seems
to be saying;
as I speed past
his billboard,
grotesquely placed on I-70.
Poets talk about things,
things everyone wants to forget,
the day Mom died,
the day she leaves for good,
the day you were so depressed,
it felt as if your soul melted away.
Ironically, poets use beautiful
words, imagery, and metaphors
to conceal their loneliness,
for them poetry is a bad girlfriend,
she causes so much emotional pain
the poet hates her for that
like a moth to light a poet always
returns to his love.
My trip through the rapids
of the river of life continues,
continues for another day
my raft is nearly sinking
but my will remains
strong like the sun,
reflecting off the unrelenting current.
Sun burnt, wet, and renewed;
I return to the confines
of suburban life,
a much needed respite
from our prepackaged, prefabricated,
suffocating western world.
Forever my river will remain
uncontained and liberating
still able to freely create
and destroy,
without being tupperwared
in a suffocating container
insulated from reality.
Copyright 1999 by Jeffrey J. O'Brien (Sagestr69@aol.com)
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
How Be It With Thee?
by Ronald L. Haun
I may not love any but that I love God too:
Not children, plants, dogs,
gladiolas, cats, frogs nor walls freshly painted
yellow to match the daily sun,
hearts of gold or even lonely money.
I may not love at all lest I love God.
How be it with thee?
I may not love beauty, country,
poem, novel or sweptback hair;
fresh mountain air, strength, will, purpose,
baseball, son or daughter--
none may I love but that I love God too.
How be it with thee?
Nor may I love you as beautiful as you are,
but that I see God through you.
Though I wish it were not so
you are forever safe from me.
I dare not have you lest I risk eternity.
How be it with thee?
Copyright 2000 by Ronald L. Haun. (Ronalot23@aol.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
S. Dali's Clock
by Gary Pence
Clock watching
slow, halting jumps
of the minute hand
in perfect rhythm
to my tapping fingers
Impatience
Shaking my head
as the hour hand
creeps downward
minute by minute
My vision blurring
as the clock becomes
a manifestation
of Dali's mind
Dripping
sliding down the wall
Time spilling
across the bare floor
Copyright 2000 by Gary Pence. (gpence@eaze.net).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
Table of Contents
Letter to the Editor: Cherie Staples (skyearth1@aol.com).