Monday, June 13, 2016

The School Days are Over




I Will Arise and Go Now
with apologies to William Butler Yeats
I will arise and go now, and go to Classroom 3,
and forty winks have there, while seated down the back;
for MacDonald will drone on like a bumbling honey bee
about potatoes and how they once turned black.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow.
Forty golden minutes till the lunchtime bell rings;
I hope that Roger Whitworth doesn't stab me in the toe
with one of those compassy things.

I will arise and go now, to Hist'ry I will stray,
to hear a lengthy soliloquy on famine lore;
while I lean back against the wall and drift away,
I hope he does not hear me snore.

by Peter Goulding
in volume 4 issue 2

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Monday, June 6, 2016

Desert Life




Lament of the Cactus

"Give up thy thorns,"
the great genius Burbank said.
"In the potted world
we've made for you,
you won't need them."

And the cactus surely knew
that what the seed-man said
was true, eschewed
its genetic predisposition
to be prickly.

A triumph for botanical science,
all agreed,
when they spied the spineless breed,
a cactus no more barbed
than a banana.

Yet this mellow prodigy
was a hollow victory, for without its spikes
the vegetable turned sickly,
a flaccid stump where angels
once feared to tread.

The swordsman of the desert was half dead.
The other half was weak about the head.
Which only goes to show what every cactus knows—
that the spice of life is all
that makes life prickly.

by Richard Schiffman
in volume 4 issue 2

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Monday, May 30, 2016

keeping up with current events




Got Mail?

Honeybees browse the pollen scene,
Then info-dance for hive and queen.

Fireflies flash fluorescent bytes,
To entice she-flies on sultry nights.

While lizard's bobbing throat display,
Is a firewall to keep males at bay.

A fiddler crab will his claw wave,
To chat she-crabs into his cave.

Sir rabbit's thump on hollowed log
Is his lagomorphic website blog.

He-spider taps desire on her internet.
If he miss-taps, that web-mistress has him yet.

It seems many creatures communicate
On their sex and health and estrous state.

But the master at this hashtag jabber
Is a dog and his olfactory member.

For familiaris will, while sniffing, garner,
Info on who passed and if enamor.

So I stop and start when with my dog,
For each pillar and post host canine blog.

And of course my lad will never fail
To pause to send his own pee-mail.


by Anastasia Voight
in volume 4 issue 2

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Monday, May 23, 2016

What a Twit





Shakespeare Tweets
with apologies to Shakespeare (oncely, and twicely)
  #73
OMG I'm getting old.
You know how people say
Summer of youth?
Well I was autumn.
Soon I'll be dead, like winter.
No birds a-chirping here.
If I was a fire, I'd be the
Embers left over.
And soon the ashes of my
Younger days
Will put me out.
Great.

  #130
Dude, my girlfriend, though.
Her eyes are OK I guess,
Her lips aren't really that red though.
Her skin's nice,
But her cheeks don't have a rosy glow.
Her breath isn't terrible,
But it ain't any Chanel.
I don't really hate it when she speaks.
She's nice looking, but I mean
It's not like she's a supermodel.
It's cool, though,
Cuz she's my bae.
  by Risica Caputi
in volume 4 issue 2

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Monday, May 16, 2016

5.16




After the Mayo Clinic
with apologies to James Wright

Just off the highway from Rochester, Minnesota,
my wife bounded from the car to throw up on the grass.
And the voices of those two Indian doctors
reverberated in my mind.
We had come gladly out of a small city
to meet Drs. Patel and Kumar.
We struggled from parking lot to hospital,
where they had been studying her lab results, alone.
They tensed when we walked in, greeted us quietly as dry mouths.
They could hardly conceal their dismay.

We love each other.
There is no loneliness like ours.
At home once more,
I munch through a bag of chips in the dark,
but I would like to hold my wife in my arms,
for she has leaned against me
and nuzzled my left ear.
Her skin is mottled like an Appaloosa,
her wig falls askew on her forehead.
The dark room moves me to caress her long neck
that is rough with sorrow like the clothes of a homeless man.
Slowly I realize
if I buried my wife tomorrow, I would be an egg falling, blossoming
into brokenness.

by Tracy Mishkin
in volume 4 issue 2

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