Candle

    (for Mary Jane)

by Luke Buckham

there's a girl escaped from lunar places
working later than sleep
at the all-night convenience store
inside the big mask of blue neon.
she smiles a genuine smile
among the human masks sometimes,
and when that happens
all the lights in the world
focus painfully on her.
her face shines like a wet cliff made of chalk
where the waterfall tumbles constantly
over the evaporating rock.
I think she's my sister from
a different womb I can't confirm.
how can we know why certain people
connect to something in our depths?
some are flaring candles
among the eyeless marble,
the whole universe of light
surfacing in their face as soon as it moves
past sundown to become an echo.
she stands behind the counter, a thing comfortably on fire
as the flame of her hair heightens,
but it burns the wax of my body down
while she stays steady as a telephone pole,
her eyes the lonely lamp far above my head
moving through the error of electronic night twilight,
her flame a battered but bright sunflower
carried by a child running away from home
with nothing but the cold brightness
of knowledge left to eat.
I want to tell her something horribly important
but I'm not sure what it is.

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Copyright 2003 by Luke Buckham (aworminmywall@hotmail.com).
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Illumination

by Gary Lehmann

My father knelt down on one knee to light the candle from a match.
He smiled at me as he raised the paper lantern's base to expose the fragile taper.
"Now you must be careful not to let the candle fall over, dear," he said.
With that, he balanced the strap of the handle on the end of a long pole.

I joined the line of other costumed children waiting for the parade to begin.
Our parents flanked us on either side quietly admiring the gentle sight
of so many candles in so many delicate hands casting out such gentle illumination.
"I must not falter on the pathway," I thought. "I must be very careful."

Just as the parade began, my eyes filled, and I started to cry uncontrollably.
My lantern wobbled precariously on the end of my stick. I could hardly see.
There was only the image of father with his head buried in the maid's breast,
his hands had lifted her skirt, and he fumbled there for something awkwardly.

I backed out of the kitchen undetected and let the swinging door down noiselessly.
With trembling hands, I stood there for some time listening to the maid's silly giggles.
"I must not falter on the pathway," I thought. "I must be very careful."
A desperate torment gripped my heart. "I must not falter on the path."

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Copyright 2003 by Gary Lehmann(glehmann@rochester.rr.com).
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Philosophical Shortening

by Richard Ballon

The dough swells on the sideboard.
It takes time to let this feeling rise.
To fold the mix before it forms a crust.
To place this loaf in the high heat of haste
would scorch the moist sheen,
and leave the inside clammy as a wet glove.

The temperature is set,
and patience, a prerequisite.

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Copyright 2003 Richard Ballon(richardb@admin.umass.edu).
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The Burning Question

by Richard Ballon

Is it because we expect more
that what's around us
is simply not enough?
The flame that licks the log,
if poked too soon for blaze,
is snuffed
and the hearth is cold and dark.

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Copyright 2003 Richard Ballon(richardb@admin.umass.edu).
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Shakespeare in Tears

by Dr.Nilanshu Kumar Agarwal

Shakespeare in Tears
by Dr.Nilanshu Kumar Agarwal

Shakespeare is in his grave
Away from the mad rush of life.
Enjoying eternal slumber.
No, he can't; he can't.
Shakespeare is in tears.
Shakespeare is moaning.
Shakespeare is market-friendly.
Write a thesis on the myriad-minded genius
And ensure a job.
Literary research merely prostitution
No new aspect is explored.
Mere repetition and repetition.
A dissertation on the bard of Avon
Nothing better than a prostitute
Having sex with many.
A true researcher an eunuch
Unable to share the vamp.
Mocked he is.
Mocked he is.
And Shakespeare is in tears.

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Copyright 2003 by Dr.Nilanshu Kumar Agarwal (nilanshu1973@rediffmail.com).
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