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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Manor: Mall Grazers | Mould: Myself or someone else? | Phillips: AM SPINNRADE (At the Spinning Wheel)
Davis: Core To Core | Johnson: The Game Was Shame | Yosh: art eats me

Mall Grazers

by Tammy Manor

They shop by Cosmo
The frauds that they are
buying this weeks nailpolish
and following the flock into Contempo Casuals,
so they can spend $50 on a pair of badly made jeans
Each driving home in their expensive car
to the same house as their neighbor
they pretend to be different
because it's "in" to be different
though difference can not exist
anymore
How can they be happy
starving their bodies hollow
trying to seek happiness
grazing the mall
following all
killing what's left
of themselves
they turn into
so called "perfection"

Copyright 2001 by Tammy Manor (Poetgrl78@aol.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
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Myself or someone else?

by Bethany Mould

I'd like to think that what you see,
Is purely me,
My personality.
It's strange to feel that I've been corrupted,
By people who have interrupted,
My thoughts, my dreams,
And placed a little part of them in me.
It's strange to feel that the real person i'm meant to be,
Has been changed, mixed up, and churned out,
With little pieces of everyone else,
And that with every word that comes out my mouth,
I'm speaking for everyone I've known in my life.
Am I myself or someone else?

Copyright 2001 by Bethany Mould (FooStarGirl@aol.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
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AM SPINNRADE
(At the Spinning Wheel)

by T. R. Phillips

Spin, spin! Ich bin.
Spin 'til skein's full.
Run full skeins 'til
skeins fill bin. Run!

Fill all bins 'til
time steals skill. Spin!
Pull wheel 'til skin
peels. . .skin. . .pull!

Pull 'til pain fills
bins. Pain! Pull . . .
wheel still spins. . .
. . .still spins!

'Til time steals skill,
pure gold pain fills
each bin. Ich bin!
. . . skin . . .

Run . . .pull . . .
. . . still spins . . .
Run . . . pull . . .
still . . . skin!

Copyright 2001 by T. R. Phillips. (Tphips@aol.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
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Core To Core

by Autumn May Davis

I want another race
with the one impossible to track
comprehending my fortunate madness
amounting to more than heaven

I want that impressed feeling
from spins of incredible indulgences
as he continues to sweat beads over some form
of time and desire

I want my secret kept with this ambassador
reaching beyond the realm of keeping forces
as you move from place to place, checking out
like a watch still ticking, still counting

I want to know the reason
why you lost that last round
was it this heart for someone else's
or sadly, your servant to thought?

I want you
don't you dare leave only the flame
the last instant recorded in impossible time
for someone else to break

Copyright 2001 by Autumn May Davis. (great_dame_autumnmay@hotmail.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
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THE GAME WAS SHAME

by JJ Johnson

One held his legs while she worked;
another held his arms.
They were laughing
while they struggled,
disrobing the six year old boy.

He trumpeted his displeasure;
gasping and grasping in the air.
But to the stronger sisters it was fun;
to him, it was hysteria.

His shirt was gone;
so too were his socks and shoes.
Pants came down fast, then his shorts.
The game was shame.

It was not easy to get the dress over his head.
He fought them all the way.
They turned him onto his abdomen
to button the cotton foppery.

On his back again, now came the makeup.
Heavy lipstick, rouge and powders.
Rough hands making rough lines.
He wet the front of the frock.

Now, out the door he was pushed.
Friends on the street saw him.
Laughter came, from behind the door
and from the street.

Locked outside, he beat upon the glass door
until it shattered, raining shards.
Bloody hands, ran red down the fabric;
tears ran down his face.

Later in the shower, the tear-stained makeup
was slow to melt away.
The humiliation went more slowly.

Copyright 2001 by JJ Johnson. (gnbf@tampabay.rr.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
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art eats me

by Yosh

a dancer
is a controller of self space they can exist in
at one congruent moment's axis

a singer
is a controller of self sound and diction
noting the keys to success are practice

a writer
hmmmmm
got me there

a painter paints
a lover loves
a hater hates
a master debater, mass debates

I have been reading a new way.
two books together
switching back and forth.
one fiction, one non,
working a new thinking twitch.

I love to eat.

I mean,
what kind of role will I really
play in your life?

I mean,
doesn't the baker's roll really
keep you alive?

a teacher teaches.
a learner learns.
I am hungry
will wait my turn.

eat me. eat me. eat me art.
chagall, garfunkel, ginsberg, sartre.
tom wolfe, ailey, whitman, poe.
matthews, anastaisio.

I am hungry,
who is new?

new restaurants' open
a poet-jew

gulp!
I am being chewed,
and am in your teeth

how do I taste?

a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away
I was covered with extra cheese
to trick you into thinking
I was better tasting than I am.

But I am complex carbs
and sweet, like a yam

a movie moves
a novel is novel
a digger digs
and uses a shovel

I am cooked in a way
where I am grilled so the
natural juices flow out
of me

a writer
is a user of ingredients
causing an emotional reaction of taste
forcing each reader to take
a little something different
off the dessert tray

Copyright 2000 by Yosh. (Yoshmail@aol.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
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Table of Contents

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