A Rickety Bicycle
by Linda Benninghoff
My father's grandmother quilted in quilting bees,
his father, a country doctor,
gave him few presents--
a rickety bicycle
for his sixteenth birthday
that he rode to school.
He came east to have a career
and left everything behind,
went back three times,
found his mother too sick to recognize him.
Still he bicycled
and slept under his grandmother's quilt
dreaming dreams
of his childhood
when night was falling over the small, rugged houses
and he would lift up his face
not knowing the future
only that his family was near
and dawn would break
over the Indiana town.
Copyright 2004 Linda Benninghoff (Benningln@aol.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
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Untitled
by M. William Kuser
He whose breath casts shadows along the untrodden path,
Whose glance reflects the mountains in the valley stream.
Autumn embryo fights for life in her winter's womb.
She the one able to melt men's hearts like liquid lead,
Whose stare calls forth the divine eye of humanity.
Autumn embryo seals itself in her hibernation tomb.
We the frozen figurines encased in the infinite snow globe,
Whose lives like snow tossed by the gentle shake.
Copyright 2004 by M. William Kuser (kuserm@hotmail.com).
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Halves
by Janet Lynn Davis
In the first half, I lived
for striving; within my means,
within my own reaches;
for even complexions
and exotic vacations;
for ancient steeples and paintings
by masters; for bare smiles
of stone people in steel towers;
like a gemologist
in search of the new Hope;
for a future date—arrival!
In the second half, I shall live
for life; as a sad child
missing a week of bread;
as a happy child who's found
a new nest in the oak tree;
for imperfect poems
and incomplete pictures;
like a convalescent,
with gaps for missing organs
but dark eyes of knowing;
for one pair of seconds at once
till I pass into surer times.
Halves of a whole need not
be equal parts after all.
Copyright 2004 by Janet Lynn Davis (hipjan@earthlink.net).
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Who has the answer
for women of warby Deidre Da Silva
Green gypsies crawl through
dirty streets- calling for broken babies
searching, digging, in search of pieces of life before
war
Their stubby fingers grope for
Grab at the scraps of what once was
Home.
Glass shards pierce blackened skin
adding yet another drop of blood to the cause.
She has only one question.
One thing
to ask anyone who will pause long enough
to listen.
"When will there be peace?"
"do you know??" if so please, please tell me"
"When will there be peace?"
Copyright 2004 by Deidre Da Silva (ddasilva03@yahoo.com).
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"Marta"
by Mark Tyler
Marta is music that slowly curls in
through a cold window-
brushes against a numb cheek with sudden warmth.
Hands and fingers
that stimulate
-love-
that simulates fingers and hands
duality that comforts
in the face of fear
flash of passion
that is frightening-
invigorating-
terrifying
dreams of a life so familiar
and so far away
dreams of things not impossible
dreams of questions and answers
the idea of a voice in the barren darkness
imagination roams
across foreign lands
give myself to imagined hands
walk together on ancient sands
and dare to make forbidden plans
of two lovers huddled in a booth
sharing love and wine and truth
words and passions never wasted
and Marta is love
never tasted
Copyright 2004 by Mark Tyler (kapact@xtra.co.nz
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Dusting the chandelier
by Alessandra Gallo
Looking down
from the top of the ladder
under a rainbow-lit ceiling
I see myself in miniature
quietly combing dolls' hair
on mum and dad's bed
humming rhyming words
long time ago forgotten
I balance on one foot
to reach the top tear-drop
stagger - hang - wheel
on crystal clear icicles
multicoloured all over
from tip to toe and feel
for a very short instant
happy like a child
Copyright 2004 by Alessandra Gallo (alessandra_gallo2@yahoo.co.uk).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
Visit the authors website at http://www.lessthanperfectmoments.com
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My Own Shape
by Cathleen Daly
I have to follow my own shape
and oh funny! how it is!
my shape is made day to day
not in one religious overture
not in one cookie cutter swoop
cookie cutter me not
edges finding each other, me not
outlines coming together to capture me whole, not
the lines want to meet and make me into an object
they are intent
there are other people's shapes you can follow and
pour
yourself into so blithe, such cream for the whipping
and you can squeeze their orange for them!
they won't mind a bit!
you can find a life pre-carved
and graph paper comes with it!
stationary supplies are endless!
but my shape is a twisted revelation
my life is a dagger
a ruthless pinning
me to an exacting and slippery truth
my life is an ear
a listening
with all the tunnels and twisting inward
with the tiniest delicious drum
to feel the world
to faultlessly feel
Copyright 2004 by Cathleen Daly (beandaly@yahoo.com).
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Letter to the Editor: Cherie Staples (skyearth1@aol.com).