November 12
by Frances LeMoine
yesterday she saw the last of fall
in a glimpse of crimson
and fast approaching primer gray
and thought to welcome winter
with
a cold shoulder
Copyright 2004 Frances LeMoine.
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author.
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Who Is Betsy Kingsmith?
by Paul Murphy
who you are, a mirage on a motorway
a get rich quick scam
something too good to be true and naked
on a car bumper, an imitation of something sexual:
hooker, policewoman, spy. deep Southern drawl;
a woman's name, a Confederate balloon
hoisted to rouse the vicinity, empty pants, vacant
chair.
a photo reversed lidless eyes.
images of Sheridan, broken shaking,
an upside down ironclad, line of bayonets
or tattered flags, Southern cross.
Antietam, Potomac – names that seemed
just as many pink or white spots:
host of pixels or manic pointillism
penumbra, iron shavings, tumbleweed
emptied barns, fields torn by the wind.
Copyright 2004 by Paul Murphy.
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She Kneels in the Snow
(in memory of Layla)by Cris Lee
She kneels in the cold snow,
her eyes reek of shattered desperation,
as the tears stream down,
once again he hit her,
never in the face,
wouldn't want the bruises to show,
as she hugs her body
pain slices through her ribs,
how did it come to this,
why did she ignore the warning signals,
the jealous streak, temper that flared so quickly,
after he hit her the first time, she vowed to leave,
but his pleas of forgiveness swayed her soft heart,
so she stayed, and he continued to beat,
using her as his own private punching bag,
but today his rage would not be satisfied,
the blows kept coming and coming,
until he exhausted himself and
she fled outside,
and here she kneels in the deep snow,
the pain washing over her,
"If I can just rest," she thinks,
laying down on the ground, the coldness feels good,
it numbs the pain of the many bruises and broken
bones,
silently she falls asleep,
never to wake up again.
Copyright 2004 by Cris Lee.
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Wisdom of Le Mer
by Michael Levy
Men in deck-chairs, sat on the beach,
each a world leader, in politics and religion,
one exclaimed.................
The roar of the ocean, blocked out his intercourse,
not to be rude ... all approvingly nodded their heads in agreement,
each in turn, expressed their extreme, dogmatic viewpoints,
only to be drowned-out, by the thunder of the waves,
After a two hour debate,
unified, all jubilantly shook hands,
harmoniously hugged each other,
and agreed......
it was the most successful meeting ever held.
Copyright 2004 by Michael Levy.
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Journal
by Alessandra Gallo
What a joy it is
to smell the pages,
recall the many colours
of the clothes I used to wear
stir up memories of the taste
of ginger lip gloss
pressed with a kiss
on October 6th.
I curl myself onto the sofa,
take another sip of orange juice
then turn the page
to find a picture of my old cat,
stroke her for a while,
my eyes closed, I smile
at the feel of youth
on my fingertips
Copyright 2004 by Alessandra Gallo.
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Reinvention
by Jeffrey Lee Williams, Jr.
Within the depths of my soul,
It's...
No, I cannot say that
It is not me
Its boring, useless and cliché
It's repetitive, corny and dull
This is rewritten trash,
Recycled vomit
No, I cannot do this
I don't want to be this person
Repeat what has already been said a million times
By a million people
On a million pages
I need refreshing
I cannot mimic what I have seen
Rather experiment with what I am afraid of
I cannot read drivel anymore
No more sad and sappy stories with a plot that leads to love
No more "I was hurt" stories,
Recovery stories, survival stories
No more "my mommy beat me" stories or my daddy touched me stories
I can't read about it and I won't write about it
There are no bleeding hearts
That metaphor has been used and abused
I will change the face of creation
With this,
The dawn of a new era
The era of unadulterated,
Genuine and sheer
Creativity
Copyright 2004 by Jeffrey Lee Williams, Jr.
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My Lake and My Lady
by Joseph Benedetti
My lake on a late January afternoon,
lies beneath a shroud of mist and coat of ice and snow
adjoining the desolate, silent path that guides my way.
I stop to watch a sleek Mallard's graceful descent,
yellow legs rigid landing upon the frigid lake,
suddenly slipping, then sliding and slithering about.
Slowly gaining composure he turns himself right,
white stripe and brown breast coated in a fuzz of wet snow,
agog as surely he ponders, as surely as do I,
My lake? My Lady?
The naked trees and granite-glazed sky are as if
in a coma, stolid, unaware or indifferent
to the loss that makes me kin to this floundering creature.
Soon wings lift him in flight and I resume my walk
delicately through slush to stop at a special place,
and let a tear escape at the site of a worn gray bench.
Situated to face upon the lake's expanse
this port of weathered wood anchored to concrete pillars
displays carved initials of lovers long lost to this space.
Much more than just a place to rest, it is an icon
for cupid's frolic among forever vows made and
soon forsaken as Fall made brittle the leaves of Summer.
More I can't bear I purge my thoughts, my senses
of this winter sight, her summer touch, a life's embrace.
My tracks with haste I trace to flee this sad reminiscence.
Yet a few steps away my ears refuse censure
and listen to flapping wings intrude, as soon I see
fast approaching my Mallard friend with another behind.
Settling on the slats of pine they find their haven
viewing the stillness of the frozen lake aglow from
a red sliver of shimmering light from the setting sun.
Soft winds toss my hair astray and my mind to sway
thrusting my heart towards feelings return, not to wonder,
when, or why, or where, but only to know that they'll be there – My Lake and My Lady.
Copyright 2004 by Joseph Benedetti.
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Letter to the Editor: Cherie Staples (skyearth1@aol.com).