Search
Check back soon
Once posts are published, you’ll see them here.
top of page
A YEAR OF SUNDAYS
April 2024
The Official Poetry Journal
of AAPC
ARTWORK BY
Robert Payne Cabeen
********************
THIS MONTH'S TOPICS:
Trespass, Downtown, The Wrong Side of Town,
Platitudes, Earthquake, Frida Kahlo
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES:
Post up to five poems on our Facebook page: "The Official AAPC (alt.arts.poetry.comments) Poetry Group: //www.facebook.com/groups/184972343500393
Poems should be original works, and can be on any topic, and in any style. Previously published poems are accepted. If you simultaneously submit your poems elsewhere, you will be responsible for removing them from our Facebook page. Poems removed from the Facebook page prior to our monthly online publication will no longer be considered for inclusion.
ARTWORK is also welcomed.
RULES:
"A Year of Sundays" does not accept poems that use obscene language, graphic depictions of sex, or negative depictions of/attacks on any groups of people, races, religions, sexes, gender identities, etc.
YEARLY ANTHOLOGY:
Poems accepted for our monthly online publication will be eligible for inclusion in our annual "Year's Best" print issue. Poems for the annual anthology are selected by our editorial staff.
ABOUT US:
"A Year of Sundays" is an interactive new poetry magazine combining four different media platforms: Usenet, Facebook, Website, and Print. It is part discussion group, part poetry workshop, part monthly online periodical and part annual print anthology.
Alt.arts.poetry.comments is a Usenet group of poets who share their work for comments or critiques. Some poets use the group as a sounding board before submitting their poem(s) to literary magazines. Most are looking for advice or help in fine-tuning their writing, developing better images, improving their use of language, and making sure their writing is clear and enjoyable to the reader. Poetry can also be posted there under the “A Year of Sundays” Submissions thread.
Poems can be discussed/workshopped in the Usenet group, or simply posted in the Facebook group (although comments are welcome there as well).
EDITORIAL STAFF:
Michael Pendragon
Editor & Publisher
NancyGene
Assistant Editor
J.D. Senetto
Founding Editor
CONTACT INFORMATION:
Email Michael Pendragon with questions at: michaelmaleficapendragon@gmail.com
Secret
She told her secret to a crow--
With bloody fists clinched tight.
From high above, the bird gazed down,
In curiosity.
She railed about her searing rage,
Her terror and her pain.
The more she spoke the more she knew
She did what must be done.
She told her secret to a crow--
A violent vengeful deed.
She sensed no judgment from the bird,
No pity no surprise.
She stabbed him for her broken jaw.
She stabbed him for her wrist.
She stabbed him for her self-respect.
She stabbed him for her love.
She told her secret to a crow--
The spot she left his corpse.
The crow cawed once and flew away,
Returning late that night.
It clutched a button in its beak,
Caked red with dirt and blood.
She took it from the bird and smiled,
And locked it in a box.
-- Robert Payne Cabeen
*****
Trespass
There is a hole in the facia of my house, right at the peak,
and I watch sparrows arrive and leave,
taking turns bringing bits of straw and leaf.
To the right, a large tree holds a blackbird
watching what I watched.
In cadence, a sparrow leaves as the blackbird spreads wings,
zeros on that hole, and pulls out a pinkish, fuzzy chick,
then fly's off -- supper by trespass.
How sad, I thought, how normal, I thought.
-- J.D. Senetto
*****
Trespass
Someone stole by the house last night
Someone we did not invite
He rattled the windows, shook the front door
Then there was silence, he wanted no more
Still he left my safety shaken
My frightened heart is now quaking
A boundary so easily broken
Should never be breached till permission is spoken
-- Louise Charlton Webster
*****
Curse of the
Werewolf's Wife
By the time the moon
is replete and brimming
and his transformation
is complete, she has
prepared herself accordingly
with liner and with shadow,
a touch of rouge upon each cheek,
the barest gown to accentuate
her vulnerability beneath.
This time she spends
before her mirrors is used
to bait his awful needs,
to sate his raging appetite
and hold him safe within
her arms while others
of his fated breed
are driven forth by hunger
to roam the night town streets.
Each time the madness
in his eyes is captured
by her artistry, she endures
a dreadful ritual of rape,
she tastes his lupine breath,
she knows that now familiar
scent so animal and sweet,
the heavy musk that fills
the air to saturate her dreams.
By the time they awaken
he will be a man once more,
who remembers not a moment
of his brief and brutish spree,
who will glance in stray amazement
at the bruises on her flesh,
the blood upon the sheets,
as he begs her for forgiveness
in a voice which makes her weep.
But time will prove her enemy
in spite of all he's said,
the constant cycles of the moon
will turn upon her once again,
and when her slender limbs
have begun to lose their grace,
and when her beauty flees,
what spell will tame this beast
who nightly shares her bed?
-- Bruce Boston
*****
Downtown
Long Summer nights at Tompkins Square
Where jazz-fueled tenor saxes wail,
New York lets down her coal-black hair
To stretch out in the midnight air
And dares us all to enter her embrace.
There absinthe-ravished poets roam
The village streets like ghosts; inhale
The darkness, lurk in monochrome,
On cross-hatched streets that honeycomb
The crumbling contours of her timeworn face.
A flashing neon-painted whore
She lures night's pilgrims to their fate;
I left my soul to wait before
Café de L'Enfer's grinning door,
My hope abandoned on the bare concrete.
I watch the phantoms gliding by
As bands of dreamers congregate
About the park catch a fleeting high;
Somewhere a siren's banshee cry
Goes racing down some other street
Pursuing demons of the urban night.
I stroll through the midsummer gloom
And climb the stairway to my room,
Pull up a chair, unleash my pen, and write.
-- Michael Pendragon
*****
Run Away
Be vigilant, the night is still and warm.
The arthropods are hatching, run away.
The restless city sleeps as mutants swarm.
Beware--insect behavior--run away.
In search of food, ants big as cars,
With pincers stout and keen,
Explore the urban underworld,
In service to their queen.
The reeking blood chum carnage on the street
Attracts them by the hundreds, run away.
Ants roam by night in search of something sweet.
They’ll surely sniff your sugar, run away.
From where they came, I cannot say,
But one thing is for sure,
Their hunger is insatiable,
And none of us secure.
It’s hard to keep from screaming when you hear
Their pinchers slash and flay defenseless prey.
Those mutants have a frightening ear for fear.
They’re quick and cunning--run, run, run away.
-- Robert Payne Cabeen
*****
Rusty Blades
Never say to a potential suicide,
hey, buddy, it'll be alright, hang in there.
While the bandage is still wet, it's much too soon
to tell a poor patient that time heals all wounds.
And don't ever dare say to a drowning man:
relax, chill out, have patience, it's a virtue.
Take my word for it,
friends, old saws can hurt you.
-- Bob Burrows
*****
Platitudes
As they lay, nothing more than large holes
in school clothes -- a trickle of life is left, coloring
the ABC's of curiosity as the local news blurts out
"Our thoughts and prayers go out the families"
while down the road, hole makers
roll off the assembly line in time for
more mourning bells.
-- J.D. Senetto
*****
The Devil's Disciple
"Do unto others," I've been told
Is counsel worth its weight in gold,
But truth did out, time told, alas
It isn't worth a farthing's brass.
Should one forgive the debts friends owe
Or turn his cheek to meet a blow?
Or sing the praises of the meek,
Make virtue out of being weak?
How sorely would one's wardrobe lack
By giving shirts from off one's back!
How empty would one's coffers be
From squandering wealth on charity!
Had our ancestors sought to please
We'd still be living in the trees,
And what would modern mankind do
If dogs abstained from doggie stew?
Birthdays would be a time to grieve
Were it not better to receive…
So pardon me if I complain,
The "Golden Rule's" more like an iron chain.
-- Michael Pendragon
*****
The Early Bird
The early bird catches the worm
That is what I’ve heard
But worms would do well to sleep in
To avoid the beak of some perky bird
-- Louise Charlton Webster
*****
Elegy: Lines on Life
We begin to die
Before we're even born,
And we live in decay
Of the lives we mourn.
With each rise in hope
Hovers the shadow of death.
With each flight of fancy;
The fear of falling
And losing our breath.
How the skin does squirm
When it's under the knife,
And our sins like worms
Finally conquer life.
--Joseph Danoski
*****
Tribulations
“To ease me of this power to think,
That through my bosom raves,
I’ll headlong leap from hell’s high brink,
And wallow in its waves.”
“Though devils yell, and burning chains
May waken long regret;
Their frightful screams, and piercing pains,
Will help me to forget.”
Anonymous (attributed to Abraham Lincoln)
I am a stranger in this strange land of yours
of egos, ravenous desires and their lurid lures
and the vainglorious rancor that ever endures.
Dead in some eyes, their hatred’s price on my head
a revenant stranded on their accursed mortal shores
in this discord of self righteous tyrannical norms
selfless, just a fate wrought testament in my stead.
And with all these horrendous portents weighing upon me, I must hopelessly contend:
If everyone was to see and heed what I have seen, there never will be a single smile upon this planet ever again…*
I am like a Christ in crucified effigy
Born without consent into life condemning me
Against my wishes to perish like a beggar
Of a Divine Father for mercy from his Revelations
At the callous hands of His very own creations.
And I shall not fear the shadow
In this valley that I must persevere
To keep a path straight and narrow
Despite the judgement of pious peers
To spite their slings and arrows
I will not falter nor beg for their favor
That’s so fickle unlike their love to harrow
Like they have done to their saviors.
The Red and the Blue
inveighing what is false or what is true.
of The Left or The Right
simplistic scales of black and white-
to weigh who are wrong and who are right.
While this will be considered “preachy”
by those in favor of their own reverie,
misfortune’s memory makes it not so easy
to ignore those lost to the treachery.
That we were created by our Gods
and favored as Their chosen
awarded the Earth as ours
and despite Their Commandments
They seem unable to protect us
from Their very own creations.
Our nations so pusillanimous
declared to be the greatest,
with blind freedoms so magnanimous
none saved us from the madness
of lives needlessly cut short
slaughtered like simple animals.
And the would be pharisees cry heresy
and turned their God’s heart to stone
condemned to not know how to atone.
It’s not power you wield, it’s just your desire
not righteous, but Infernal, your inner fire
that you cannot master, that for which you aspire.
You deny it but you have lost your way--
even the proud pious fall under his sway.
O Lucifer, you knew! Knew that pride would drive the Creator’s favored from “superior” to inferior.
And Satan, you exulted! Exulted in Man’s hatred that corrupted to destroy all that was called Holy.
You too knew and cried on the cross-
melancholy messiah for the lost.
You shall die a scapegoat savior.
For whom exactly, did you suffer?
You, your flock has forsaken,
for they believe they know better.
So plead, plead to your Heaven
that they know no better.
-- Testament of Hesper XIII:9
-- Ash Wurthing
*based on: “I am now the most miserable man living. If what I feel were equally distributed to the whole human family, there would not be one cheerful face on the earth. Whether I shall ever be better I can not tell; I awfully forebode I shall not.”
~Abraham Lincoln, letter to John Stuart, 1841
*****
Perplexadoxes
A whisper can speak
louder than a shout.
A flicker can cast
a shadow of doubt.
A sign that reads in
can show the way out.
Often a good map
can lead one astray.
It's easy to lose,
even the hard way.
While many still talk
with nothing to say.
Enormous forests
life's reduced to ash.
Everything sacred:
turned into cold cash.
And eternity
is gone in a flash.
-- Bob Burrows
*****
Rhetoric and Mascara
I stand in a crowded room
surrounded by those I no longer
wish to associate with.
I was asked and being polite,
accepted.
I eyed the onion dip,
watched the lipstick girls
snatch a cracker and scoop
as if a tractor leveling a new road.
My watch said, release is near.
I’m comfortable alone
with thoughts of yesterday’s dance,
chocolate pudding birthdays,
but today has become foreign.
Rhetoric and mascara
replacing importance.
Soon the comforter will embrace
the chill as I ponder how wonderful
it used to be.
Now, alone has its benefits.
-- J.D. Senetto
*****
My Bullshit
My father liked bulls. He collected bull stuff.
Now that he’s passed, I have more than enough.
I’ve bull paintings, bull photos, bull statues, a bull head,
and other assorted bullshit that belonged to my dad.
I’ve mounted bull parts over doorways in halls,
and posted bull pictures on several bare walls;
A bull clock and horns sit upon my bookshelf.
A bull’s cock, adorned with a plaque to himself,
sits by itself on a shelf out of sight
from you who would read this bullshit that I write.
Would that I could write with whimsy and wit
about what I’m feeling, regarding bullshit;
with emotion so close to the scene of the crime
related as stated, and seen in this rhyme
where bullshit and wit stand together in pairs,
like the bull figurines at the top of the stairs.
If bull stuff is enough for me to remember him,
I’ve no shortage of bullshit. I‘m full to the brim.
-- Anonymous
*****
Open Window
The window was slid open merely an inch
Yet in flew a very determined finch
Into the bedroom she did fly
Down the hall and around the light
Everyone in the family came running
But this little bird was oh so cunning
She darted to the left of us then to the right
We opened the door and she flew out of sight
Such excitement from a bit of feathers
And more fun than I can even measure
-- Louise Charlton Webster
*****
Back When
We used to toss coins
up against a brick wall
at the local luncheonette.
Closest wins them all
and if one laid up against
that wall, you were labled the man.
It was a time trying to find
our identity as leg hairs grew
and voices, at times, went into a squeak
from the almost baritone.
It was a time when our clique
hung out with the girl clique,
separate but together,
a West Side Story on the East side,
too big for our britches
and pompadours.
A Greek guy owned the luncheonette,
trying hard to shoo us away
when two sodas took an hour to drink,
finally forcing him to soak a rag
in ammonia, swing it over his head
like a lasso until our burning eyes
drove us out.
Then it was all over, that interlude
of growing up, girls going their way,
us guys, going ours.
Seems like only yesterday.
when many days lay ahead --
now those days ahead
barely stretch beyond the corner.
-- J.D. Senetto
*****
Fit
I shouldn’t have been at the entrance
I was warned not to try to see her
Just a moment of impulse control
Would have salvaged the rest of my life
-- NancyGene
*****
The Wounded Deer, Frida Kahlo
The Wounded Deer
She lived with what was offered,
searched the dark for normalcy,
her first play doll, polio,
her thirst for children, taken --
a crash, a steel pole tearing apart
the innards --
She left us her dreams and nightmares.
-- J.D. Senetto
*****
Frida Painted
Frida painted
Dorthy Hale
Tumbling palely
through the air
First very small
then bigger still
Falling from
the window sill
Frida painted
from the heart
Dorothy's body
broke apart
Small yellow roses
on her breast
Still pinned neatly
to her dress
Frida painted
only truth
The olive gown
the orange roof
On the sidewalk
open eyes
Blankly stared
with no surprise
-- Bob Burrows
*****
Earthquake
Somewhere behind the night, a thought takes form,
Deep in the hidden realms where demons dwell
In labyrinthine caves this side of Hell,
Deeper than dreams, where unnamed visions swarm
Like angry hornets round a shattered nest.
Somewhere outside of time, a god looks down,
Beholds the fearsome thought, and speaks its name;
Baptizes it in tides of molten flame
To forge a word fit for a fiery crown
Or blazoned on a soldier's family crest.
Somewhere beyond the bounds of consciousness
Where every word's a living, breathing thing,
A thousand other new-formed words take wing
And mate, or clash, and spring from the abyss
To sing their birth in verses loud and true.
Somewhere a poet wrestles with his pen
To bind those molten verses to a page,
Enshrine their glories for a future age;
With seismic words that shake the hearts of men,
Tear down the stars and break the world in two.
-- Michael Pendragon
*****
Earth
The plates slide deep underground,
as well as inside kitchen cupboards,
while the moon readies a peep show
with the sun and finally, all agree,
despite what you may hear --
it is out of our hands despite what the polls
show.
-- J.D. Senetto
*****
The Beast of
a Thousand Nights
Outside the walls,
The wolves and the wild dogs howl;
The wilderness encroaches, slowly beginning
To prowl.
The streetlights stand as lines of resistance,
Trying to keep darkness at a distance . . .
But the evening deepens with its darkest fears,
Becoming a beast with a thousand eyes and ears.
And how do we stop the night from falling?
The season of the creepers from crawling?
How do we contain the wind and the rain?
Or cage a hurricane howling in pain?
Out in the wilds,
The old ones awaken and moan;
The Wendigo approaches, slowly reclaiming
Its own.
The city has but a feeble defense,
With its armed forces and electric fence . . .
As the evening deepens with our darkest fears,
Becoming the beast of a thousand nights and years.
How do we fight a nuclear nightmare?
The rising tide of darkness and despair?
Stop a volcano or the ocean’s roll?
When angry nature is out of control?
-- Joseph Danoski
*****
Breathe
He said just to breathe
Quiet and slow
Inhale and exhale
Let it all go
No need for panic
This moment will pass
And what will be left
Is a peace that will last
-- Louise Charlton Webster
*****
Swallowed Whole
It was too late,
the pull had begun,
falling into that strong
tug of her eyes
and before a final
drop into the black pupil,
my last reach --
fingertips snatching
bits of hazel
though defeated
as I now looked out
from where I had just
looked in.
We had become one.
-- J.D. Senetto
*****
A Father's Socks
He wore his father's socks
though oversized they were,
falling, crumpled over the top
of school shoes.
It was show and tell that day,
bringing to class something that
he thought could interest classmates
while some brought smooth stones,
others, a feather or coin.
He wore his father's socks
and placing a foot atop his seat,
told the class his father died
in Iraq and he feels closer to him,
wearing something his father
had worn.
Some giggled, being young,
unaware of the tears shed,
some asked if they were warm,
or itchy.
"They're warm", he answered,
"and one day they'll fit just fine."
The teacher assured him
they would.
-- J.D. Senetto
*****
Great Bird
He once soared far through the skies,
Surveying all for miles around.
Now weak upon the rocks he lies,
Fallen, a wing broken on the ground.
Living on in stories told,
By a few brave eagles, proud and old.
Fast they came in roaring crowds,
Greedy hunters hungry and pale.
Their thunder shook you from the clouds,
As they barred the land in iron rail.
Soon the breaks and wounds will mend,
And a greater bird shall reascend.
--Joseph Danoski
*****
Untitled
As below, sadly so it is above
a raucous riot of push 'n shove,
slur 'n fight- do unto others with hate
and we seem so eager for this fate
Everyone took their stand
so many lines in the sand
drawn by egos with more demands
more than cooperation commands
"Greatness," so says the "right" nitwit
but it sure seemed like Hell
and it sure smelled like bullshit
as far as I could tell
-- Ash Wurthing
*inspired by the song "1915" by Jeff Burton (about WWI) - online and ideological fighting is so much like trench warfare
*trolled by Anon to post-- this was just something I did for my trolling elsewhere-- yes I troll and fight online with poetry and prose
*****
Behind Closed Eyes
I know when the eyes close
those doors will open,
deep within the sub-basement
of aware.
At one time, wagons and ice cream
were revealed, as rapid eye movement
started life's projector, revealing plot
and sub plot of a carefree day.
Soon the door of love was knocked on,
a stolen kiss perhaps or ridicule
bringing a startled wide eyed awakening;
'it's only a dream' remembrance,
and back to a cool pillow.
At times you roller-skate through mud,
a slow motion can't getaway
from those faceless adversaries,
a teacher's stern look or father
insisting on respect, when your choice
was to not.
There is a door to war;
an attempt to not open, futile
and the sounds of screams
and twisted limbs come back
in technicolor as you reach
for that pause button
on the alarm clock slaps,
it back to today.
They remain, those doors,
waiting for the subconscious
to begin their opening creak,
the flicker
of the night's show --
that unending fall or laugh,
all woven into the fabric
of an intricate life,
visited through a dream
projector.
-- J.D. Senetto
*****
The Nomads of
No-Man's Land
The nomads marched
Off the morning sand,
Into my yard,
Instruments in hand;
Out of the east
And across the lawn,
Stopping to teach me
The song of dawn.
"We are the nomads
Of no-man's land,
Our Fate is sealed
By our own hand;
Doomed to wander
And follow our stream,
And travel the desert
Of a dream."
They told me to drift
And follow my star;
But every star
Is also a scar.
And with the sun
The vision was gone,
Into the dusk
Of another dawn.
--Joseph Danoski
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9kf99431ZKU
*****
Forest Cathedral
The wind is bending trees today
Teaching saplings how to pray
Visions of an outdoor priest
Raising spirits leaf by leaf
Incense is carried along by the breeze
Distant thunder sets the beat
Evening vespers sung by the wind
Forest cathedrals without sin
-- Louise Charlton Webster
*****
No Trespassing
Don't look too long into my eyes
Or offer me your hand,
Don't try to read between my lies,
Don't try to understand.
Don't ask me what I plan to do
Don't ask me where I've been,
The hidden places I've been to
Are better left unseen.
The thoughts that steal across my mind
Are mine, and mine alone,
The shrouded memories you'll find
Are better left unknown.
Don't try to peer into a heart
That's flush with mortal sin,
And never shall my words impart
The secrets deep within.
-- Michael Pendragon
*****
Ears, psst...
trespass
sweetly
urged!
a curiosity
upsurged
then plunged,
ah!
petite mort
opened
the door.
-- Bob Burrows
*****
On the Film Noir
Side of Town
(And the Down Side of Night)
Now that my life is on the rocks,
You'll find me walking by the docks.
The worm has turned inside my brain;
Hit the gutter--next stop, the drain.
Streetlamp Sally in her alley,
She's the lily of this valley.
Midnight lady, always shady;
Sometimes her friends call her Sadie.
I'm on the film noir side of town;
The underworld that drags you down.
Walking the wrong side of the tracks;
One false move, you fall
Through the cracks.
Jack B. Quicker, wears a slicker;
Sells his moonshine rotgut liquor.
Indian Giver by the river,
Always gets you in the liver.
Now that my life is on the skids,
I'm glad to have no wife and kids.
I stay up late and out all night,
This life's a film in black and white.
Frank Casino out of Reno,
Telling you to call him Dino.
Pauley Putter, he's a nutter;
Balls are always in the gutter.
A place where gangsters run the streets,
And clockwork cops just pound their beats.
They walk the walk, and talk the talk,
And those stool pigeons
Always squawk.
Pete the Cheater packs a heater,
Wears a grimy old wife beater.
Speaking easy, slow and sleazy,
This old movie's getting cheesy.
So don't get in over your head;
Can't pay the debt, you end up dead.
Don't get involved, and in too deep;
You see too much--it's that big sleep.
--Joseph Danoski
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3mCRZWqjqFM&lis
*****
Downtown Anywhere
Emergency rooms are all the same
half sterile joints, white shoes running about.
"Why are you here, tonight?" they ask.
"Well, I thought the open gash, here, might
give it away."
"Take a seat, we'll call you."
I'm already in trouble with staff.
I wander to the one seat left,
next to a little boy with tears,
mom by his side.
She looks at me, out the corner.
"What happened to you mister?" the little chap
asks.
"Don't bother the man," says mom.
"No bother," I say, "He's just curious."
"He knows better than to talk to strangers."
Yea, wish I did.
Got this sliced eyebrow, looking at a woman.
Didn't she want to be looked at?
Didn't she expose that flesh, to be looked at?
Didn't her man tell her, too much eye shadow, girlfriend.
Never understood exposing flesh, not to be
looked at.
Oh, the boyfriend knows also,
he looks, I saw him,
when his Tinkerbell drifted to the john.
But, Neanderthal we are.
You look at my chick, I'm gonna cut your eyebrow,
is how it goes.
That little boy just has a taste.
Oh, he'll scrape a chin, now and then.
But he'll graduate soon enough,
making the hall of fame
above the sign in the ER.
Wanted to tell him, but mom was there.
She had some nice legs.
J.D. Senetto
*****
Saturday Night at Detroit Receiving Hospital*
My son always falls and cuts himself on the weekend,
a bleak trend,
and we set off for the emergency room downtown,
where I break down.
It’s rowdy and crowded with people I don’t want to meet.
There is only one seat
left, and a guy with the look of 100 lost bouts
sits next to my boy, who says right out,
“What happened to you, sir?”
I don’t like Jimmy to talk to strangers, for sure,
but he’s all boy,
so I’m not too annoyed.
The bruiser doesn’t reply right away
but there’s a message he conveys
when he keeps ogling my legs (or worse).
I think I’ll hit him in the face with my purse.
--NancyGene
*Inspired by James Senetto’s poem “Downtown Anywhere.”
*****
Magnolia
Silky white Magnolia blooms.
Floral sleepy eyes.
A thickening head of leaves,
Soon to be a shady prize.
Trophy of a carving.
Beige limber branches.
A viable, textured, still life,
That in the warm breeze dances.
-- Louise Charlton Webster
*****
Slipping Away
When encroaching darkness consigns the day
to fade, to slip 'neath slumber's sway
where Narcissus pines and the willows weep
into the languid Lethe our memories will seep
-- Ash Wurthing
*****
The Caverns
of Forgetfulness
The Caverns of Forgetfulness,
Beneath the Isle of Death,
Conceal their cool serenity
From eyes that still can see.
There is no map or mortal path
That charts that hidden place,
But you will find it easily,
In time, in time, in time.
The surface of those glowing vaults,
Untouched by earthly light--
They shimmer from the tears wept for
Those lucky to be loved.
A river of oblivion,
So peaceful and so deep,
Flows silent through those caverns to
An endless sea of bliss.
Some slip into that ceaseless flow
With anger and regret,
And some surrender at the end,
At ease with life well lived.
When memories begin to fade
As currents course and cleanse
The parts of you that are not you--
It’s you that will remain.
There is nothing you will need or want,
Forgetfulness brings peace.
You’ll leave your name and face behind--
Every blow, every kiss.
The essence of your consciousness
Stripped bare of wants and woes,
Will know the bliss of consciousness--
Pure and unmanifest--
Like a solitary raindrop
That falls into the sea,
Until a tempest sweeps it up
To rain on earth again.
-- Robert Payne Cabeen
*****
A Contemporary Plague
From deep underground
The cicadas are rising
Gigantic black beetles
In hordes are climbing
They reach the surface
And cover the earth
Creeping, clacking creatures
Appear like an olden curse
They sound like millions of chain saws
Buzzing from the trees
Glistening like oil slicks
In the summer heat
Once in every three hundred years
These cicadas will arrive
Here to procreate
Then shrivel up and die
-- Louise Charlton Webster
*****
Untitled Haiku
for April 8, 2024
The shadow moved past
I looked up in bafflement
Unpredictable
-- NancyGene
*****
Echoes of Micefeet
Like muffled seconds ticking off the clock
They scritch-scratch deep within my bedroom walls;
Forgotten whispers only time recalls,
Cast iron keys that don't fit any lock…
I hear them scamper underneath my bed
With heartbeat murmurs borrowed from a cloud,
I wind my blankets round me like a shroud
And stitch my mouth up tight with coal-black thread.
Echoes of micefeet skitter up my spine
Like icy shivers on a Summer day,
Recalling words I never can unsay
When life was young and green and you were mine.
The night drags on as silent as a mouse
As shadows shift and spiders spin their dreams,
But silence isn't always what it seems
For ghostly micefeet echo through the house
They scurry up the stairs and down the hall,
Tip-tap along the bookshelves in the den,
Creep in my room, climb in my bed, and then
They burrow in my thoughts… becoming all.
-- Michael Pendragon
*****
The Last Masquerade
This will be the last masquerade,
The final act in this charade;
The last play
And performance on this stage,
Before the footlights begin to fade.
Welcome to our last reception,
Celebration of deception . . .
Let's hear it for the band that played,
And all the spectators who paid;
And stayed for the party
And cavalcade.
Now the rain must fall on our parade.
We thank you all--thanks a million
For attending our cotillion . . .
It's the last masque ball of the season,
And the end of an age of reason;
Enemies breaching the barricade,
Upon the eve of a new decade.
The clock strikes midnight in the hall;
The time grows short and shadows tall.
Paintings on the wall
Depicting the fall;
The party is over for us all.
It's the last masque ball of the season,
I sense a friend committing treason;
And the feeling of being betrayed
By the face behind the masquerade.
-- Joseph Danoski
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=955H9Rjm_X0
*****
Heartbeat
What lies ahead is a mystery
Someone will call with news
A single word could change her day
There is so much to lose
It’s hard to remain unknowing
Wondering what will be
Will she celebrate or mourn
What cost this fickle heartbeat
-- Louise Charlton Webster
*****
Drift
Tonight, I want to drift into nothing,
with just the desire to snuff out
the moonlight, extinguish the stars,
float in the void beyond the shrill
of every day and dream of the days
when all seemed right,
when that moonlight fell upon lovers
and stars were counted until sleep came,
warm and wrapped in the arms
of tomorrow's smiles.
Tonight, I want to discard the ingredients
of me, search for new spices to simmer,
bake and serve to those hungry for my
offerings, fill the desires of two
wanting to become one --
moonlight turned back on,
the stars once again dancing
in the never ending
musical of life.
Tonight, I want to drift into nothing,
for tomorrow, rested, I'll begin again,
that journey to happiness.
-- J.D. Senetto
*****
Wrong Side of the Tracks
On crisscrossed streets where crosshatched swaths of light
Slash through the night, exposing jagged scars,
Three a.m. phantoms lurk just out of sight
And neon rat eyes peer from smoky bars
Sip rotgut bourbon till the stars grow pale.
There darkness reigns supreme and time stands still
While hopheads sink into their sleepless dreams,
The wine will flow till all have had their fill
And throbbing heads are bursting at their seams
As dawn draws near and cigarettes grow stale.
Some day I'll jump aboard a passing train
And ride the rails into the who-knows-where,
But someday's far and morning looks like rain
And anyways, I haven't got the fare
And here and there are really just the same.
The barroom windows glimmer in the dawn
Another morning bleeds into a day,
The shadows fade to mist, the night has gone
And last night's phantoms stagger on their way
To God-knows-where down streets without a name.
-- Michael Pendragon
*****
HAR ROW
On the down side of town
derelict husks huddle around
their meager hearths upon forsaken ground
miserable plots dealt by misfortune's lot
Scorned scarecrows where desperation grows
arms outstretched forlorn for a pittance
wages for indolence or mere subsistence
frightful in their threadbare existence
-- Ash Wurthing
*****
Dance Me to Oblivion
You dance with lithe abandon through
the ossuary hall,
A ram horns mask is all you wear.
I fear you dance for me.
The glowing amber sconces cast
your shadow on the skulls
that crowd the vaulted chamber walls.
They watch but cannot see.
I’m sure that they all loved you once,
and some may love you still.
You danced away their fear and pain,
like you have done for me.
If only I could whirl with you
and guide your glistening hips,
to primal rhythms so sublime,
no mortal ears can hear.
I long, I long to dance with you,
But that can never be.
As soon as you begin to twirl,
I cannot move or speak.
I do recall some of your names--
forgotten countless more--
Morta, Kali, Izanami,
Shyama, Lavitar.
You danced across the battlefield
with bloody, muddy feet.
You danced upon the wave tossed deck
as drowning sailors sighed.
You danced above the lava flow,
through choking smoke and ash.
You danced around the crumpled car
on broken glass and gas.
You danced and twirled in pirouettes
past bloody schoolroom walls.
You danced beneath florescent lights
in cramped infection wards.
Your beauty is the final gift
the dying will receive.
Their gratitude for torment’s end
fills full their beatless hearts.
You danced me to oblivion,
so many times before,
with love so pure, so true, so deep--
but still I fear your kiss.
-- Robert Payne Cabeen
*****
5G Generation
We're the 5G Generation,
With so much communication.
We walk and text, talk the tech,
Scroll the menus and hit select.
Digitized and pixelated,
Downloaded, assimilated;
Encoded, categorized,
Integrated, analyzed.
Overdosed on stimulation,
Living in a simulation.
We access each 5G App
In 4KHD with a tap.
A program running in our heads,
With algorithms and embeds;
We are all facsimile
In V3D reality.
Just faces in a book of names,
Strangers playing online games;
Living someone else's fame,
Our lives defined within
Their frame.
-- Joseph Danoski
*****
Shadows
It is the twilight hour,
When charcoal shadows fall.
Night begins to seep in.
You can hear the raven call.
Could this be an omen
Of what the future holds?
A hint of what might be.
Is that what the raven told?
The light is fading from the sky.
Blackness forms a dome.
The song of a prophetic bird
Accompanies me home.
-- Louise Charlton Webster
*****
Burying Grounds
November's rows of faded
limestone angels faces,
palely and softly dusted.
In the crescent's light,
chrysanthemums in the snow.
Their thin incurvate petals
fallen open to the stars,
singing hollow anthems
to the sky, seeking something
still impossible, in essence:
a frozen incandescence.
-- Bob Burrows
*****
Abandoned
I searched deep in the Catskills,
a fallen tree, my perfect pillow --
her siren's call, my lips, now frost
some weep for me, this broken willow.
-- J.D. Senetto
*****
Downstream
Let it float downstream, and slowly out to sea;
Just a broken dream, another piece of me.
Time to let it go, and get on with the flow;
Leave it all behind, with everyone you know.
Start another life, and try to live again;
Find another wife, the only question, when?
Time to let it go, all things that hold you down;
Maybe start to grow, and get out of this town.
Let it float downstream, and slowly out to sea;
All these broken dreams were once a part of me.
All this old debris, as far as I can see;
All that brought me grief is now
Downstream from me.
-- Joseph Danoski
*****
Fiddlehead
The fiddlehead sprout
Is tightly curled
But coaxed by the sun
Begins to unfurl!
The tall green stem
With angel wing leaves
Began in the moist earth
A speck of a seed
-- Louise Charlton Webster
*****
The Witch's Heart
A witch's heart burns blacker than the night
With ebon fires fed from passion's forge,
Where love and hatred vanquish wrong and right
Desire and spite are striving to engorge
Her soul with all the fury of a storm.
It sees the evil leering from men's eyes
And tastes the burning hunger of the worm
That gnaws its way through incense-scented lies
Where sorrows swarm and orphaned babies scream.
Its throbbing pierces deeper than a dream
To send the thunder breaking through the skies
Or rolling through the hollows of her form;
It trembles on the brink like lovers' sighs
And smolders in the embers of her pain
Bears smoke clouds bent on smothering the stars
That fall from heaven like the bitter rain
Held in suspension just behind her eyes.
What poet's pen has power to portray
The living fires that hold the gods at bay,
Or seek to find what none dare say or know
Behind the pitch black fires where visions start?
Somewhere the death cry of an ancient crow
Cuts through the air, one message to impart --
But there lives no man wise enough to sew
The dark clouds down beneath a Summer's day,
No maiden love dreams destined to allay
The torment brewing in a witch's heart.
-- Michael Pendragon
*****
Poe Has Left the Room
The moon dragged its cloak
across the sun's face and those goggled,
whispered as others went blind
challenging all threats of permanent darkness.
From the kennels, odd howls rang out -- seems
dinner was early.
The Ravens knew why.
-- J.D. Senetto
*****
Invasion from Inner Space
See the once-great planet that we call Mars,
Its canals of sand and seas of scars;
A teeming civilization smothered in dust,
A gleaming technology covered with rust.
What inspired your empire to rise and fall?
What divided your city with an iron wall?
Was it alien infiltration
And contamination of your race?
Or was it a case of invasion
From inner space?
Through the 'scope I study this bloody sphere,
With its twin satellites of suspicion and fear;
And I can sense the present danger--
The same pattern of events
Developing here.
Hear the cry of a race that is no more,
A warning from space of what's in store;
A disease and corruption just under the skin,
A secret society working within.
The sirens crying and the rising cost of crimes;
The violence that signifies the end of the times.
The breakdown in communication
And alienation of our race,
In another case of invasion
From inner space.
-- Joseph Danoski
*****
Home: Blog2
Home: Subscribe
Home: Contact
bottom of page