Monday, September 17, 2018

September 17, 2018

Trolls: Three Haiku
"...remember, there will be trolls
 who move in. Also remember, sunlight
 is their bane."
—Jane Hawkner
In the dark of night,
Trolls gather to celebrate.
Sunlight is their bane.

Bugs under a rock
Are always surprised by light.
Turn the rock over.

Trump is elected.
We have four years of sun.
Pick up the rock now.

by Jane Yolen
in volume 6 issue 1

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Monday, September 10, 2018

September 10, 2018

Ode to the Bagel Eaters

hearing the express toaster ding ding
letting the waitress know the bagel is done
time for the cream cheese
spread a schmear so thick
that it looks like a glacier formed
one lucky customer receives the bagel
and takes a big bite
and now has a cream cheese mustache
which he doesn't notice
and no one in the restaurant cares enough to tell him

another one is ready for the schmear of a lifetime
a customer takes the two halves apart
and licks the cream cheese first
as if this were a giant vanilla Oreo
the glacier melted quite quickly
what's left looks like the frothed milk of a cappuccino

a rabbi came in for lunch
ordered an onion bagel
with a medium schmear, not too much now,
because it gets everywhere, but not too little because then
the bread gets lonely
when asked what he wanted to drink he ordered
a smallish coffee, not too large, not medium, but bigger than a small
with half and half, and sweet-n-low
it must be the sweet-n-low because it's sweeter than sugar,
which he can't have because he's diabetic but that doesn't matter
because it tastes like dreck in coffee anyway
the guy behind the counter waited to see if the rabbi
was going to say anything
"nu? what're you waiting for?"

a very handsome man with a black beard came in
had a yen for an uber-thick schmear,
you know, where there's so much cream cheese
between the two halves of the bagel that it looks
like two humongous snow mounds, not made to scale
his beard enjoyed the sandwich as well
he had to beat the crumbs out of his beard,
the way one beats a carpet

a woman comes in asks for a toasted bagel with butter
she shamed the cream cheese
it should be noted that the cheesy spread of goodness
committed no crime
other than to be delicious
the other customers stared at her as if she committed
a mortal sin
she took a bite and all eyes were upon her
she smiled and all the poppy seeds in her teeth
looked like she hadn't seen a dentist in years
served her right

by Lady Samantha
in volume 6 issue 1

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Monday, September 3, 2018

September 3, 2018

Sarah on Aging
with a nod to Angelina Weld Grimké
I am the woman with the wrinkled wrinkled skin
I am the laughing woman with the wrinkled wrinkled face
I am losing my mind to thought (no dignity—no grace)
  I am searching just to please
  And gave up praying on my knees
    And I laugh
I am the laughing woman who's never quite felt whole
I am the laughing woman who doesn't trust a soul

by J.M. Green
in volume 6 issue 1

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Monday, August 27, 2018

August 27, 2018

Apocryphal Bard

To be or not to be? Whose question is that?
Not mine said the sweet pea tucked snug in its pod.
Not mine said the queen bee sipping honey through a straw.
Not mine said the oak tree, I am what I am.
Not mine said the pearl, the world is my oyster.
Not mine said the turtledove to its fetching mate.
Not mine said the mountain peak sitting pretty.
Not mine said the black hole, I'm a sucker for nothing.
Not mine said the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker.
Not mine said Hamlet, my creator was mistaken.
To be or not to be? Whose question is that?
Shakespeare's, I think, who was really Francis Bacon.

Karmic Laundromat

Though less than a dustball
in the lint filter of history,
he tumbled headlong
through the cycles of life's mystery
with a half-scoop of alacrity,
a tad lemony and olfactory,
but not a pinch of bleach
to leach the mortal stain,
which all must wear—alack—
upon a shirtsleeve or a brain.
Yet all was not lost;
his grimy mind he tossed
in the shuddering machine
of life's mingled joys and pain,
and he watched love's basket whirl,
the soiled thoughts slowly whitened.
The sudsy swill then drained,
the load spun out and lightened.
And when the time arrived
to dry his damp desires
in Spirit's greater fires,
he lugged the pile
across the aisle
and turned the dial to high.

by Richard Schiffman
in volume 4 issue 2

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Monday, August 20, 2018

August 20, 2018

Who'll Be Chief Scorner?
with a nod to someone from quite a long time ago
Who'll be chief mourner?
I, said the Dove.
Who Killed Cock Robin?

Who'll be chief scorner?
I, said the Critic,
With barbs analytic,
I'll be chief scorner.

Who'll settle the will?
I, said the Lawyer.
Ms. Thrush? I'll destroy her.
Then I'll send in my bill.

Who'll write the obit?
I, quacked the Hack.
I, who know jack,
I'll write the obit.

Who says, I told you so?
I, said the Teacher.
Me and the Preacher,
We told him so.

Who'll gloat without shame?
The Angler affirms:
He stole my worms;
I'll gloat without shame.

Who'll sully his name?
I, cried the Prude.
His very name's rude,
Yet he ducked all blame.

Who'll build on his grave?
I, said Big Business.
Progress is progress.
We'll build and we'll pave.

Who'll rub out all trace?
I, said Fox Robin.
No sense in sobbin'.
Gone to ground's no disgrace.
by Dan Campion
in volume 6 issue 1

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