Leaving Town

by Terry Boykie

Down a lilac-scented gravelly road
to a clapboard bridge on overload
multiflora rose scrapes my arm
cows heading home to Kliczewski's farm.

Turning right where the willow once stood
sun flashing hot off the Chevy hood
queen anne's lace blooming by the shack
where Goose-girl waves and I wave back.

Caterpillars falling from a walnut tree
covering the carriage of Margie's baby
hay getting mowed by the big black man
his nephew's twins playing kick-the-can

Shutters at Szurkas still needing repair
front door's open, so they're cutting hair
lemonade stand at the crest of the hill
vine ripe tomatoes with every refill.

Brassieres on the line still dripping wet
septic tank digger with a squirrel for a pet
Rhode Island red standing guard on the trail
that leads to the shanty of the pigman in jail.

A stand of oaks with a flock of crows
high tension wires with swallows in rows
Sergeant Yavorski still dressed in blue
his shell-shocked brother fighting World War II.

Maryann staring at a three-legged dog
four brothers playing pirate on a chestnut log
Richie Duggans with a water snake
fire trucks pumping down Whippanong Lake.

The smell of pierogis by Minto's place
prompts more fears of the coming rat race
down by the railroad, I weep out loud
tears lost forever in the pervasive cloud.

Then the mill horn blares once and for all
the game is over, don't forget your ball.

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Copyright 2003 by Terry Boykie (terrysb@starpower.net).
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The Shaman's Story

by Samuel A. Southworth

I have seen a beauty wrecked
and have loved it none the less;
there has been a certain style
that will go with any dress.
But in the proper latitude
and counting on the sun,
it's just a proper slaughter
with the way the deal is run.
For hearts are none but mirrors
and the moon does what it please,
but once there were our heroes
in the north beyond the trees,
and love no more than courage
was the shield they carried on,
when the universe did call
and the dawn became their song.
So set aside lost beauty
and this prying in the past,
our boats are all away now
and the light it hurries fast,
and heroes and their fashions
they may come up halt and lame,
while visions and their meaning
and the need is all the same.
Dance if you will, dance you must,
there's heaven and hell to win--
that dark form ahead--who goes?
'Tis only your sacred twin.

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Copyright 2003 by Samuel A. Southworth (SASouth@aol.com).
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Ashamed Sun

by Raghab Nepal

Early morning when the sun comes up,

And to its misery finds the earth burning.

Hears the news of bomb-blasts in the night.

Sun feels ashamed and tries to hide.

It calls the cloud to cover it,

And remembers the earth which used to be good.

Hiding from a corner, moon calls the sun,

Tells of horrifying killings that went before the dawn.

Sun melts in tear but truth is truth.

It loves not to shine today, and it seems to brood.

The blame is on us, my brothers, he says,

Love and peace lies only in few prayers today.

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Copyright 2003 Raghab Nepal (nepalruckus@hotmail.co).
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Changes Everyday

by Sarah Lord Fairfax

What we thought we would never be able to except
One day we will
What we never believed to be true
One day we do
What we said we would never be able to accomplish
One day we can
For everything is changing fast
And so is who I am
The miles we could see before us
now covered with concrete
where the flowers used to stand
are buildings that they meet
once before an old oak tree
Is now me standing on your street.
Everything is changing
maybe not all for good
everything we thought
we would never accept
Who knew one day we would

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Copyright 2003 by Sarah Lord Fairfax (TJSLFAIRFAX@aol.com).
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The Feast

by Gerald Bosacker

George Washington Jones
sat down at the small table,
with little desire to eat,
but determined to consume every crumb
of the feast spread before him.

The ostentatious setting on starched linen,
promised the finest meal he would ever eat.

All of his favorite foods awaited
under the battered salver's cover
plus a few elegant delicacies
Jones saw only in old movies.

Though he was eating alone,
George had an audience
so he would not disappoint the staff,
although he was imposter,
and this splendid feast was meant for someone else.

No matter.
By the time the State found out that he
did not deserve the almost royal service
and his pick of all food choices,
George would be long gone.

He would not leave an assessable estate,
and for all he cared, they could exhume him
from the prison's burial plot,
and sell his tired bones to a fertilizer plant.

George Washington Jones,
death row inmate number 847653,
had done his duty.

He had warned his keepers
they were executing an innocent man.

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Copyright 2003 by Gerald Bosacker (Bosacker@aol.com).
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Remaining Will Survive
        10% Solution

by Frank Anthony

Three millions killing
being killing in Congo
raping little children
opposing this survival
Thirty million killing
being killed in the US
drugging to counteract
a new affluent society
Three US soldiers shot
occupying US territory
they think we must get
to satisfy this system
a ten percent solution

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Copyright 2003 by Frank Anthony (Newvtpoet@aol.com).
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Going Stone

by Doug Paugh

I'm sick of humanity.
Sick of being kind,
understanding.

I'm tired of wording
the thousand mouths
that say absolutely nothing,
and that's on a good day.

I want my gray to stand
for something. Rage, change,
but not maturity. Screw maturity.
Even if gray is the

single best offer life
has ever made me.
It means I've gotten

past the green. Through greeting
yesterday, my own
patience, assurance.

Right to openly be
ignorant and irresponsible,
completely. My only true wish is to
be under that moss,

collecting shadow
from growth, moisture from
lichen, resting with sticks and being
totally unhuman.

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Copyright 2003 by Doug Paugh (shato095@stny.rr.com).
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