It is cold comfort,
when we lose, to hear the kind ones say,
"They are not really gone"
or
"They are in a better place."
Left behind,
alone,
we cannot see
"the other side"
as anything
but
a closed door.
We try,
sometimes,
to batter down the door,
or listen at the keyhole...
hoping to hear
a loved voice.
We sleep,
worn out by tears,
in hopes that dreams
will give us comfort,
change the emptiness
to presence..
if only for
a little while.
As the days plod by,
we grow used to the
blank space;
living pulls our minds
to other things.
We do not forget
(memory is all we have)
we only dream
less often,
and look again
for open
doors.
------------------------------------------------------------------------- Copyright 1999 by Terri Rolan. (TRolan@aol.com). Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author. -------------------------------------------------------------------------
Always protecting itself
Reluctant to let anyone get too close
Past the perfect disguise
Of stems and thorns
Is a beautiful flower
Much more delicate
Than it appears
I see more of this in you
Than the rose
------------------------------------------------------------------------- Copyright 1999 by Jerry Lee Lindsay(WxxxD@aol.com). Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author. -------------------------------------------------------------------------
The blue tarps stretch like butterfly wings
from the side of the white Datsun,
just in time for night to fall
and blanket us in dark velvet.
We feel rich, surrounded as we are
by the earth's abundance.
Beach grasses make our bed,
soft and yielding,
a place to lay our heads,
that is inviting.
The rain cascades and runs
in rivers down the tarp,
plopping divots in the sand.
We are dry and grateful,
surrounded by water,
lavish
offering of the universe.
In the morning the Forest Service
stops and tells us we are wrong.
We must sleep only on the pavement
of the parking lot,
or far out on the beach.
We have hurt the grass.
I think: only a white man would sleep
on concrete,
or make his camp 20 yards from his pony
in the pouring rain.
You can't tie a tarp off to the wind.
The Forest Service says laws are made to protect people's rights.
I wonder who he's talking about,
the people, maybe,
who come here to play frisbee
and leave their trash along the shoreline,
or maybe the RVs who belch poison into the air,
but our campfires are the danger.
There's no point in explaining this.
It'll only get you put in jail.
We leave our precious grass,
I leave a strand of hair, burnished copper on the dusky green,
my color all I have to offer;
in thanks,
for the sweetness of the night.
We wish the Forest Service a good day.
------------------------------------------------------------------------- Copyright 1999 by Kristie Shelloner (orleans@pcweb.net). Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author. -------------------------------------------------------------------------
Springtime in Kosovo like a smashing symphony of tambourines and unbound violins lost while weeping over charred battlefields cymbals slam and bang and never ever sleep. They play the same tune over and over and the woodwinds dropped out a year ago leaving banging and clanging. Cover your ears Skopje as the band marches in diminished in size but the sound is still great and carries the souls of one hundred and fifty thousand refugees of children who are no longer singing and mothers who no longer bother to cover their ears. It clangs and bangs and marches on in tedium over mountains in lines it pulses and never forgets in distant stares is almost forgotten. And you who yearn for the silence will regret your wish when cymbals silent let in the thoughts now abated by this musical season. The conductor laughs and bangs and clangs and gave up the ending long ago. He goes on because he no longer can stop. He goes on because the smashing symphony keeps time with his beating heart. It is all he has left. If he lets go, he dies.
------------------------------------------------------------------------- Copyright 1999 by Angela Koskie (akoskie@sfcg.org) Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author. -------------------------------------------------------------------------
Swept by waves of eternal time,
Where ending unites beginning,
Beyond the universe sublime,
Nature sparked a living thing;
Utterly majestic in thought,
Aching beauty pulsing with light,
From a miracle nature wrought,
Where there exists no day or night;
A fiery burst in deep cold space,
In cataclysmic agony,
An immortal soul without face,
Cries vibrating in symphony;
Across dimensions of darkness,
Lost between somewhere and nowhere,
Beyond starbursts that are endless,
Grew nature's star child like a flare;
Celestial destiny rages in,
Intense with its tenacious zeal,
Great angels appear lacking sin,
Before the star child god they kneel;
Where comets race and hot stars dance,
Scores of miracles resonate,
Heaven forming particles prance,
Spiritual thoughts germinate;
If nature had eyes they would weep,
On wings of haunting reverie,
With a stupendous flashing leap,
In rapture star child came to be
------------------------------------------------------------------------- Copyright 1998 by Robert Jaunsen (jaunsen@4dcomm.com) Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author. -------------------------------------------------------------------------
The miracle of love
the source of our being
the gift's the giver's pleasure
inspires wondrous feeling
for whenever seeing
of warm smiling eyes
unexpectedly receiving
a glance that belies
hidden meaning
hearts race to fly
coming together
distance withers to die
forever enraptured
in each other's care
scented as rose petals
filling the air
tasting of kisses
together we share
loves never lacking
as soon as we dare
------------------------------------------------------------------------- Copyright 1999 by Brian D. Oslick(BDO1964@aol.com). Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author. -------------------------------------------------------------------------