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 men

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"You are in a deep well"

You are in a deep well.
The only way out is to float to the top.
The rising water is a dream.

One climbs over the rim.
The well is a silo.
The ladder is luck.

He walks to the lake.
The only way across is a sail boat.
The wind is volition.

She lands on the island.
The road leads up a hill.
Gravity is reality.

They watch stars appear.
The only way higher is imagination.
Thinking is different.

I look down.
Something remembers.
You are in a deep well.

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**Copyright 1998 by Will Sand. (wsandtt@redshift.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author**

Awake

It's dark.
Smoke peels out in front of my pasty,
white face.
My darkness hangs loosely from me
as if i weren't there
(i'm not).
Echoing silence embraces my tactful ears.
It's dark.

The road i walk is hazy
for miles and miles.
The scenery is foggy up ahead,
so where am i going?
i find myself in front of your Home,
a sleeping vagrant.
There are no lights on.
It's dark.

The only light comes from the pasty,
white moon
and the dim ashes i gently extrude
onto Mother nature.
A car approaches-
i look you in the eyes until
the headlights get too bright.
It's dark.

There's a sidewalk, but i know it ends,
so i stay on my road
and walk the opposing wind.
It sends my smoke back upon me.
i know you're scared
(you should be),
but i'm alone and but one, and
it's dark.

Drive with your headlights off-
it's the only way you'll see me.
i'll just leave a token at my haven
and be along my way.
A homeless vagabond on
his road to Home,
i know it's time to sleep.
I'm dark.

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**Copyright 1998 by Dyrk Hawke (dyrkhawk@bright.net).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author**


Alone

I like to be alone.
When I am alone, I am more beautiful.
I do not need to meet some expectation,
Be somebody's image of
Butterfly woman
Or flower girl.

In nature, everything has its charm,
Even crinkly iguanas and
The opaque wings of insects.
Alone, I judge myself by these standards.

In my own mirror,
The thin skin around my eyes is not age,
But the translucent beauty of a rabbit's ears.
Gray circles are not gray at all,
Simply shades of purple and blue
Borrowed from the sky over the lighthouse.

Cellulite, with no one there to name it,
Reveals itself as beautiful ripples,
The worn edges of mountain peaks
Reflected in waves of polished stone.

Alone, I see
The white spots on my fingernails
Are not Grandma's lies,
But swishes of seashell clouds in
A salmon colored sky.

The awkward cup of my heel
Is not bone or foot,
But a perfect fit with the palm of my hand,
An unexplored edge of my body.

By myself, I know that
All folds and imperfections
Are the awesome imprint
Of an extraordinary leopard, or
The draping skin of some exotic creature.

Because, when I am alone
Even the iguana parts of me are beautiful.

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**This work is copyrighted by Kimberly Isaksson (GoodPoet06@aol.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author**


Conjuring

I wish that I could tell you something
about silver moonlight spooned down
the walls of a water fall on a cold spring night,
but can you be here? Can you hear?

The red flame burns cold on my wrists,
and some sweet sound twists out of my ear,
here to await the silence that will tell us
we were there.

It is lonely now
that the piano tinkles over fire creakling,
and glasses echo melting ice. Nice,
but lonely, with only a corpse of you,
since the you of your living now
cannot sprout the you of then whom I address.
Beautiful is our necromancy.

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**This work is copyrighted by Louie Crew (lcrew@andromeda.rutgers.edu).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author**


Indian Clay Pot

Molded in hands of care
Old Indian lady
In a mountain village
Brown and gray swathes
of mother earth
A simple vessel, a work
of love, and life

Broken in the modern world
In a moment of forgetting
Dropped and shattered
When singular purpose
was distracted, in a
stupid argument over trivialities
Reminiscent of modern life itself

Then, as if God given
A loving hand, large
Seemingly clumsy put it
back together, more or less
Strong resin and copper wire
stretched tight around
the neck, restored
Imperfect, yet somehow better

Symbol of the connection
between old and new
The deep mystery of life
Of ancient tribal lore
Transcending cultures
Shaman and old ways
A simple clay pot
Transformed in a healing
A son's caring gesture
Beauty in renewal
Rebirth of an
Indian clay pot 

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**This work is copyrighted by Michael David Coffey (Mdcoffey@aol.com).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author**


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