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A YEAR OF SUNDAYS

May 2025

The Official Poetry Journal

of AAPC

https://www.facebook.com/groups/184972343500393

ARTWORK: Fast and Furious by Trinity-memyandi L. Venter

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES:

Post 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

Fast and Furious

I'm done being a passenger
in my own damn life
some wide eyed rookie
desperately gripping
the roll cage
dead weight
crumpled
in the backseat of a car
that’s already lost its brakes
on a downhill run

I want to control the wheel
hands tight
on the suede grip of a
Dodge Hellcat
heel toe shifting
through the debris of all the
‘what ifs’
I never got to chase

No more blindly
following a GPS
that doesn’t know
the streets like I do
I map my own
course
in skid marks and smoke
leave my signature
rubber burned onto asphalt

Redline the tach
feel the engine growl in my ribs
V8 heartbeats
turbo howling
Nos hissing
a promise to leave the past
eating my dust

I don’t idle
no coasting
drop the clutch and send it
drifting through every doubt
like a pro
because life’s a
street race
fast and furious

you ride
or die…

-- Trinity-memyandi L. Venter

*****

Waiting

They wait

In the far corners

Of your darkened room;

Hanging from the tangled webs they weave.

Always changing and deranging things,

Waiting shapeless in the wings;

Keeping their distance till the instant

Your resistance is low,

Or reflexes are slow.

They were waiting

The day that you were born,

Like dark clouds before the storm;

Watching you through the wastes of youth,

Mistaking and chasing their lies for truth.

They wait

In the four corners

Of your little world;

Dancing and practicing to deceive.

Rearranging the faces and names,

Sharing shadows of your shame;

Keeping their distance till the instant

Your resistance is low,

Or reflexes are slow.

Waiting to show you

The way the path goes,

Like black crows in the shadows;

Playing their tricks upon your eyes,

But always behind a different disguise.

-- Joseph Danoski

*****

The Secret

Keeper

She never told her secrets

She kept them to herself

Building up a confidence

By telling no one else

Girls knew they could trust her

As a true blue friend

Never would she ever tell

She kept secrets until the end

-- Louise Charlton Webster

*****

Astral Traveling

I'm in a state of biological evolution,

wrapped up in nature's ever-evolving

quest for genetic perfection, like an

embryo breathing in liquid oxygen within

the desperation of nonverbal responsiveness.

There's a need, an affective involvement

and vulnerability to give up something,

in order to understand. The process is one

of rebuilding through interpretive reflection,

becoming one with a cohesive identity.

I see the mirror image of me, my astral self,

in empathic breaks that blur the boundaries

of time and space, repairing the ruptures

reluctantly acknowledged and left behind in

the attuned experience.

The emergence of life has a commonality

to my spiritual quest and unfolds in unison

with it, much like a magical edifice, complete

and beautifully appointed to the resplendence

of a familiar voice that is all encompassing,

embodying me with color, with power. I lay

quietly beseeching the moment while my

astral self glides in the Heavens liberating

and tranquil, symbolized by the tangible peace

of sacredness that anoints me with transmitting

knowledge and definitive commands. I realize

the potency of the origin, the certitude of His

wisdom and love, so essential to my body,

my spirit. We continue to function simultaneously,

with hardly a word between us.

I am completely focused, flying in this incredibly

joyous, freeing feeling. There are others, and I

gradually become one with my astral self before

merging into wholeness with them, experiencing

clarity and organization in the movement.

An invasion of lights, of matter, skates around

my peripheral vision. Instantly, I sense something

important has occurred. And then it comes, the

preoccupation, the doubt. It, prevents me from

receiving the gift that transcends the physical

and rises above the five senses to a reality that

is innate, but best of all comprised of free will.

In the night air I descend, where no one can hear

me scream, gasping for breath, acclimating to

a new world where I yearn to live the Truth,

even as I’ve forgotten where I came from and to

whom I will eventually be returning.

-- Theresa C. Gaynord

*****

Mind Slaves

For meager minds lost in empty shells

Slavery is very much alive and well

'Round n 'round the grindstone we go

Helplessly shackled by ravenous Egos

Hopelessly knowing not what we do

but our very own Savior knew

-- Ash Wurthing

*****

Well Done

Black hash, blue smoke,

sleepless dreams.

The meat of my toes curl

in my boots: ten little red

link sausages steam

on a white breakfast plate.

-- Robert Burrows

*****

You

I wish I could write
the way I thought
my brain got scrambled
so I squeezed the last
black blood out of
my obliterated heart

I'd write obsessively
incessantly
with murderous
maddening hunger
uncontrolled anger
I’d write to the point of suffocation
I’d write myself into
nervous breakdowns
manuscripts spiraling
out of control
tentacles into the
abysmal nothing
and I would write
about you
way more
than I
should…

-- Trinity-memyandi L. Venter

*****

Crystal Castle

Open the window, it's time to go,

Out there where the cold winds blow.

Let your senses take their leave,

Let your spirit soar --

Over rooftops and chimney pots,

Obstacles and mental blocks.

You're travelling in the astral

To that crystal castle

In the stars.

Wake up out here

Where it's crisp and clear,

Where clouds and fears disappear.

Leave your body back in bed

And let yourself go --

Over old and new horizons,

Through space and time, realizing.

You're travelling in the astral

To that crystal castle

In the stars.

-- Joseph Danoski

*****

The Roses

The roses are dead

here on my deathbed

The violets are blue

and so is my skin too

Your love was not true

so I'll be haunting you

II.

For every rose's red,

and every violet's blue;

within the blackest earth,

a worm is turning, too

III.

The roses still live

But what would I give

If you had been true

Though I won’t kill you

Just count on a haunt

Because you don’t want

-- Ash Wurthing, Joseph Danoski, NancyGene

*****

The Orchid

Her winged petals

Caught my eye

Smooth as silk

She did not fly

But like angels

Blooms arose

An ethereal form

A delicate pose

-- Louise Charlton Webster

*****

Conversations With Jimi Hendrix

I noticed you’re sleeping deeper,

more peacefully now, but I miss

you, man. My energy is just a bit

low today, so I’m practicing on

an old guitar tonight. Yeah, many

don’t even know I own one but

I got me a nice blue guitar at Sam

Ash that I named Jimi a while back.

Focus, my friend, hope you’re

catching up with me. We always

have nice, quiet, enjoyable times

together, don’t we? So I got this

natural swing in me, a gift from

Tequila and Meukow Cognac. But

there’s this one bottle of Cognac,

the one labeled Benedictine

Marques Deposees, too perfect to

open, know what I mean?

I’m feeling fine about having my

own space; like a rolling stone,

man, it gives me more freedom. I

was pleased to hear, changes ain’t

nothing to be concerned about, crazy

days move along to keep score. So I

guess you don’t know the latest

gossip, Jon and Kate got divorced.

Yeah, too bad huh? But hey, Lennon

had the same emotional release before

his beautiful relationship with Yoko.

I didn’t sleep at all last night, you

know how hard it is to maintain this

feeling of equal balance between the

two levels of my life now. Sometimes

the personal and the creative mesh and

that’s always cool. Hey Jimi! You

listening to me, Chief? The moon is

casting some strange light on the

windowpane. It’s always a good omen

when that happens. I guess it verifies

this music and I connect.

Hey Jimi, you think there will ever be

a time when the various facets of my life

will no longer be connected and balanced?

No? Me, either. So here I go, Jimi, you

still with me? Cool. Where are the words

in the shadow of deeds and hard work? In

initial dreams there is the sweetest of

songs. I sing along; in my head is truth

and a bar, and a tenement house, my brick

building on the back-drop of a purple haze,

this psychedelic paper representation,

imperfectly made, travels the wind in the

blindness of naïve skin that still

preaches, peace and love. I survey the

continual fall of man, the way people hate,

judge. I think it’s due to angry consciences

that sever happiness into fractions of

obligations and duties, some religious, some

political. But I pray that someday, someway,

they’ll tear their four walls down, and think

about the metaphor they’ve become.

Hey Jimi, how are you doing? I hope you know

you still shine with overflowing light, yeah,

it’s called fate. No man, it ain’t no curse.

You hold the key to grace divine, definitive;

you’re my black pearl of pride. How does it

feel? To be ripe and renowned. I still mourn for

you, Jimi, and for the few who never saw the

flowing wonder of your ways and the beauty of

days. I could have been one of them if it

weren’t for you. And yeah man, I know you’re

all done with that shit; with the rising and

the falling.

-- Theresa C. Gaynord

*****

Sunburn

Through endless desolation

mile on mile

of empty desperation

sun scorch my tortured soul insane

Always in forward motion

rivulets of burning pain

run muddied tracks

down my soaken back...

Memories like sunburn

scream without a soothing lotion

blisters hopeless tears

onto barren ground

In minds arid soil

love has no intention

of ever resurrecting

or sprouting seeds again

In undulating dunes of longing

I stumble with no aimed direction

through the shifting sands

of my long-abandoned heart

Blue sky is empty

I see the buzzards circling

to feed on hope's parched body

it cries out for quenching rain!

Searching for an oasis

salvation dancing in my vision

too late only to realize

love was only a mirage...

-- Trinity-memyandi L. Venter

*****

That day

tuned into Simon and Garfunkel

realizing I am not a rock

nor am I an island

Instead: behold!

I am

a black hole

forever collapsing under the intensity

of my own traumatic gravity

haunted by inconsistent shadows

faded love

spilled blood

black as the pit

in Heaven's back 40

fathomless

chock full of shredded regret

that never fully burns away

tatters of hopes that faded to ash

so long ago

finding stability only

in the heart of the

event horizon

-- Ecthrois Grimm

*****

Sadie of the Nightshades

I was obsessed and in love with a beautiful witch,

Who had the claws of a cat that could scratch this itch.

She was my next-door neighbor and her name was Sadie;

And let me tell you, she was one strange young lady.

By day she’d stay in the safety of the circle of her room;

And at midnight, I’d see her dancing in the moonlight

With a broom.

As I lay awake listening to the wind, I’d hear her sing

About her restless spirit taking wing,

And of riding by faith and second sight

With the wraiths on Walpurgis night.

Yes, I was possessed and seeking some ultimate thrill;

You see, of my books and stories I’d had my fill.

Once, out walking, I found her talking to the flowers,

Which, as she revealed, were the source of her powers.

Then she led me to a garden through an ancient graveyard gate;

In the darkness, showed me the nightshades and the shifting

Shapes of Fate.

Like a sister she whispered, “Let inspiration be your guide,

For the seas are deep and the skies are wide.”

She told me, “Make a wish with all your might,

Now close your eyes and hold on tight.”

And we slipped out and tripped a night of innocent sin;

The moon shedding its shadow and the snake its skin.

We reached the magic mountains of the dragon’s fire --

We, each the object of the other's desire.

Yes, we ran like the wolf and fox and played games of

Hawk and dove;

She bewitching, and me just wicked with thoughts of

Lust and love.

Seductively, she told me she was Sadie of the Nightshades;

Of the shifting shape and the skin that fades.

She said, “Those who seek me perhaps will find,

That their wild heart has led them blind.”

Well, I fell under the spell of this enchanted girl;

Became trapped behind the glass of her mirror world.

I completed her circle and shared in her secrets,

And, to be honest, I haven’t any regrets.

As my old life slowly recedes and memory finally fades,

I find happiness in the shadows with my sister

Of the shades.

--Joseph Danoski

*****

I, Writer

Melody -- My romance with language began with music, stacks and stacks of vinyl records,45 RPM, Moody Blues, I Know You're Out There Somewhere. Styx provided the essential acoustics for a lonely child playing out stories in her head, taking on the role of both speaker and listener. When words failed, I mimicked body language, creating an atrium of temperate white fabric domed in multicolored flashing lights and sprayed with Sweet Honesty perfume.

Instrumentals -- Sounds brushed hot against the flickers of a page where images of red bled into purple joined by the poisoned empires of string, wind, percussion and drum. The burned smell of cornstarch, talcum powder, booger sugar, made me dream of Pan and I heard his pipes, false god of lyre. Blue and yellow produced an intimation of green but it was not a clandestine attempt to mess with my head. Instead, I saw the destruction of the rainforests and owned up to my part in it.

Words -- I remembered the whites-only sign outside of Al's candy store and I can still taste the pulp syrup of the soda fountain coca-cola as Highway to Hell played on the jukebox. Our parents, deliciously drunk on tea parties and apple cider, mostly retired from the military, gave a mere whisper, taking a backseat to racism. This is when I put away my broken crayons and ran way-out to the open road past the segregated streets to a trip down Route 66. I spent a night beside a truck driver where we both pretended to be outlaws.

Song -- 200 filtered Chesterfield King Size cigs coated my lungs with the prospect of driving through a desert canyon full of blind curves and hidden ridges. What I saw outside my window was the song of poetry. I grew up a storyteller while dancing with Joe at Samson's Saloon. Jeannie taught me sign language, and how to take shots of tequila. The rules were simple and centered around mutual respect. Strangers became my neighbors, my friends, and I spit at billboards that pushed against the black/white limits, spray-painting them with Jesus Saves!

Acappella -- Rejean was a Baptist minister working for the Church Of Christ. He had an old wind up Victrola in his office and often listened to Bessie Smith and Ma Rainey while wearing a furry pink boa and voguing in front of his full-length mirror. When Ma Rainey comes to town, Folks from anyplace miles aroun', From Cape Girardeau, Poplar Bluff, Flocks in to hear Ma do her stuff. Where ya heading now, child? He used to ask. Home, I'd say. Home? He laughed, dancing around in a circle. Home ain't nothing but a place, child.

Freestyle -- I sped away one night, staid, with Kid Rock on the radio. Just vanished until I blurred into an abstract in true dramatic style. I liked it like that, where everyone in their own little way participated in my ideas, in my gypsy heart. I romanticized them with adventuresome passion, holding on to the fleeting moments with background music and violins as I listened to the signaling horns of passing cars on the freeway. I wouldn't have stopped had I not been hungry for ambience and some conversation. It was a welcoming place when I arrived. Home. But every now and then I daydream. There's always something waiting, something pulling me to the unknown.

-- Theresa C. Gaynord

*****

Landlord

I didn’t fall from grace

I HALO jumped

flipped the moon the bird

on the way down

elegantly landed in Hell

prada sunglasses

a grin that made Lillith blush

I stalked through the gates

as if I owned the place

Oh yes!

because I do (long story)

back rent’s due

and I’ve come to collect

As soon as Hades saw me

the coward

tried to make a break

then remembered I knew

his restraining order

on me was fake

the flames parted before me

made me think of the red sea

in a bored voice I drawled

hey bud, the rent is overdue

dropped down on his throne

it now had lumbar support

ripped a page from the

book of the damned

rolled me another smoke

let's get down to business

6 months rent’s due

let me be clear

no cryptocurrency

no Tesla shares

market's looking a bit shaky lately

so make it gold!

Demons lined up

for performance reviews

I handed out pink slips

URGH I hate paperwork!

I don’t torture souls

I do try to inspire

Just to make them remember

who lit the match

I’m not the villain in

your bedtime stories

the editor you could say

I just rewrote the ending

you'll have to wait and see

So go ahead

pin my wanted poster on the wall

top of the list

Hellfire-glow spotlight

but if you’re smart

you’ll pray I stay

Because if I leave

If I ever leave

This whole damn inferno

goes into foreclosure

and then you’re really F***ed …

-- Trinity-memyandi L. Venter

*****

The Dawn of Immortality

I was a man of the world

In my universe each night,

Living to escape

The common curse of life.

When, like an angel of mercy

Came my patron-saintly Muse;

To my rescue with sweet music

To chase away the blues.

I turned her heavenly virtues

To flesh and blood,

And her celestial charms

Into earthly love.

Yes, I was bound to the rocks

In my chains of circumstance;

Dying in the rain

With the ghost of a chance.

When like a cherub from Heaven,

Came my sweetly-scented Muse;

With Lady luck in my corner

I knew I couldn't lose.

I gave her mythic proportions

A mortal frame,

And built a pyramid and temple

In her name.

So, I awoke in a sweat

With the dew upon the lawn;

Reborn immortal

For the goddess of dawn.

And with the first fires

Of the sunrise,

Saw the lost and fallen empire;

A desert stretching out

Before my eyes,

An ivory tower and its spire.

-- Joseph Danoski

*****

Frozen Water

Frozen water is his element. It speaks to him

through the splitting, spurting chips that violently

break away from the clump, retelling in touch that

what looks strong, can be weakened, reshaped,

into something else. Sometimes creating art is like

watching the world go by with one eye. In the

beginning there are various tasks. You use the

proper instruments; rotate this way and that,

polishing every angle while wearing protective

gear. The breaths you take are given off as light,

vibrating in and out with a slow mechanical hum

that warms, gesturing the imitation of rain. The

outcome is a reflection of brilliant beaded light,

cool and silent, like a whisper that is erased from

the expanse of time.

He thinks of her this way, within the sensuous

wrecks of beauty that he moves, rips, and adds

layers to, wrapping every part tighter and tighter

with immobilization, more alive than her being.

Here, her essence will merge with his, over her

likeness. He can feel the power that blasts through

his genius, through his rough idea of domination.

His defeat shall become his victory, and the world

will shriek, quietly masculine, as he walks and

kicks through puddled water with the candor of

eloquence. This is the source of his survival, the

way he escapes from failure, from her pursuing an

answer to the reason he broke off their

engagement. In relationships, one always serves

the other, becoming less than the other. She is

strong. And he fears.

He looks at himself in the mirrors of frozen water.

He cut himself shaving, scraped away the flesh,

bleeding. He thinks he may need forgiveness

though he doesn’t believe much in God anymore.

The premise of their union is on his mind in the

reflection of desire. He remembers how she was

always trying to make something beautiful a

capable part of his life. She’d write him poems,

see him with no judgments, laugh at his jokes, and

weep at his sensitivity. It didn’t matter to him that

she was already married, pain loves pain and it

makes for great art. He never told her how much

he loathed poetry. He never told her a lot of

things. At times like this he thinks life would be

better if he were different, yet he is different; a

victim of a love that will eventually melt away

into nothing.

-- Theresa C. Gaynord

*****

The Long Goodbye

I've lost my taste for women, wine, and song

For late night larks in Greenwich Village bars

With youth's bravado, daring moon and stars

To tumble from the heavens at my call.

My pen falls still, the hours crawl along

Though I no longer care should time stand still,

Friends beckons me, but I have had my fill

Of love and laughter, locking hearts in thrall

With wit and wisdom, melody and rhyme.

I have no yen to greet the morning sun

Nor catch its golden bow when day is done

And purple shadows steal across the land.

I have no care to race ahead of time

Or trace my name across a marble stone,

But sit before the dying fire, alone

Without the need, or will, to understand

What dreams may come, or if dreams come no more.

Whate'er the Fates may have in store, I'll shed

No parting tear, though all my dreams have fled

Along with everything I've held most dear.

Years come and pass, each like the one before

And I look neither backward, nor ahead,

Remember me, or not, when I am dead

And know I died without a trace of fear.

Let come what may, my tired eyes are dry,

My life has been one long, drawn out goodbye

So have no care for me, and this much know

I couldn't care less if I stay or go.

-- Michael Pendragon

*****

An Offering

For Hades

Deep in the labouring night

a newborn's cries outbreathes

its air.

She was born of quenched love

vanquished in a storm, upon a surly

shore of a half-dead crew,

in wild October

when the wind raged round the Black Sea.

It is said the moon reached out,

extracting the child from her mother's

womb

while bewitching reels of light

blessed her with the power of Zeus

and Demeter.

By fate's decree her mortal mother

bid life a fond farewell, sickened

with regret, freed from rumor's tongue,

her honor saved.

Phantoms wander round the shapeless sands,

dwindling in dust by the rot and rust

that time hath rendered.

Laughing in a brook treading a lonely stare

little maiden plays with whimsical naiads,

splashing among lilies in quiet streams;

a child's psyche gifted with glorious dreams.

Her cinder-gray haired guardian watches

as blankness looms between curtains of raindrops,

splashing euphorically out of the tumbling

rhythmic swings of purple spins

that dance across Earth and Heaven;

the visioning powers of a child's soul

piercing the material screen.

In the stillness of sleep

when the twitching chimes of a day's time

have played out, figures danced in her mind

with sight

fashioned forth with the delight

of a warm eternal fire that burns

where lifeless things abide.

His whirling wheels of flames

refurbished memories of the insidious

aches of learned love and learned shame

opening a gateway that betook her.

Waves crash against an Olympian stone

surging, swaying, swelling, sinking

beyond seas that nobody else

dreamed of lest her nightmare should fade

into blind drifts of vapors cast by

Empedocles's spell.

So tells the tale of a Goddess newly

arisen as legend's moments fell thereon, a gliding

leaf; a tale half told, a scheme laid out

of banality and the manifold temptations

of immortal beings bearing Persephone's

sad response to Hades' selfish grief.

-- Theresa C. Gaynord

*****

"Preachy"

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

The treachery to be created by our Gods

and promised favor as Their chosen

awarded Life's paradise as ours

Despite Their Commandments

They seem unable to protect us

from Their very own creations

Our nation so pusillanimous

declared to be the greatest

with blind freedoms so magnanimous

did not save us from the madness

of lives needlessly cut short

slaughtered like simple animals

-- Ash Wurthing

*****

Ballad of the Working Mom

Up at six.

Make coffee and toast.

Find his favorite shirt,

and set out the roast.

Kiss, kiss good-bye.

“Have a great day.

Don't work too hard honey,

I’ll see you round eight.”

Now wake up the kids.

Pour the cereal in bowls.

"Mom, I can't find my homework!

All my socks have holes!”

Now, pack their lunchboxes.

Spread the PB and J.

Got to get them outside

before their bus pulls away.

Kids off to school.

Ah! At last I'm alone.

Clean up all the spills,

turn the dishwasher on.

I can’t seem to do

a damn thing with my hair.

I have to hurry, hurry, hurry,

and find something to wear.

The baby’s still sleeping.

Thank goodness for that.

The sitter is here,

but there’s no time to chat.

I have to stop for gas.

Oh! Why did I wait?

Gotta hurry to work.

Don't wanna be late.

The traffic is hectic,

but I’ll make it by eight.

Open up the office,

there’s coffee to make.

Stressed and hurried,

so busy all day.

Call the sitter at 3

to make sure the kids are okay.

Answer all the emails.

And there’s a report to examine

They need it right now,

but the damn printer is jammed!

Tomorrow’s “To Do” list

is getting so long,

but it’s way after five

and I need to get home.

This traffic is stressful.

I turn the radio on,

find my favorite station

and sing a long with the song.

We’re all out of diapers.

Gotta stop at the store,

and pick up something

to clean the gum off the floor.

I’m finally back home.

Oh, Lord, this house is a wreck,

but they're only kids once,

so what the heck.

The roast is still frozen.

Call the pizza man.

Help the kids with their homework,

then text a friend.

We’re off to play baseball.

Yeah! Tommy hit a home run.

If I wasn't so frazzled,

this could really be fun.

Back at the house,

Dad's still working late.

“Shh! You kids be quiet.

Daddy needs to concentrate.”

Hurry up with their baths,

dry the bathroom floor.

Pick up the towels,

wet clothes and more.

Rock the baby to sleep.

What a precious sight.

If I'm extremely lucky,

he'll sleep through the night.

Back to the kids,

humming a song.

I hope they pick out a book

that won’t take me too long.

Kiss 'em goodnight

and tuck 'em all in.

“Mommy I’m thirsty”

is how it begins.

They’re finally asleep.

I can slip out the door.

My day’s almost done,

only a few things more.

Pick up the toys.

Pick up the clothes.

Her birthday's tomorrow,

better call Aunt Rose.

I need to vacuum

cause there's so much dust, but I'll do it tomorrow,

if I'm not in a rush (lmao!)

The clothes are all dirty.

I’m washing a load,

and inside the dryer

one’s waiting to fold.

A call to Tommy's teacher

I have to make.

There's a party tomorrow

and I’m baking cupcakes.

I really should squeeze in

some time for the gym.

Heaven only knows

why I’m not thin.

I'm a sister, a daughter, a wife, and a mother,

a doctor, nurse, coach, and

a damn good lover,

an employee, an accountant,

a cook, maid, and shopper

a boss, a trainer,

and a great back rubber.

I'm a tutor, a friend, a gardener, and baker,

a cheerleader, a clown,

and a budget maker,

a chauffeur, barber, stylist, party planner, and teacher

My kids and friends say

I sound like a preacher.

Gonna lay down on the bed, watch TV and relax,

after I take out the dog

and feed them darn cats.

It’s so peaceful and quiet.

The day is now finished.

I give thanks to God

For all the things I am blessed with.

Ah! I’m almost asleep,

when I feel a slight shove.

“Honey are you tired?”

Do you want to make love?"

-- Patti Thomas Woosley

*****

Bump

Beware of things that go

Bump in the night

Then disappear when you

Turn on the light

Things that will dare

To disturb your sweet dreams

Nudging you awake with

Nightmarish scenes

Hauntings unseen

By the light of the day

Shadows that grow

Then shrink away

You lie down in bed

Pull the covers up tight

The window blinds rattle

You shiver in fright

-- Louise Charlton Webster

*****

The Last Gift

I Gave You

I bled for you
ripped open my rib cage
so you could warm your hands by my fire born heart
you
you walked away
not even leaving footprints
have I never been your shelter?
did my hands never steady your fall?

I gave you my golden
ichor freely
I knew we were the same
I did not have plenty
Alas I had a heart
that mistook you for family
I believed in a word
that meant forever
until you sharpened it
into a dagger
and left it in my spine

while I lay there
destroyed in the dark
gasping in the silence
of my room
you erased me
click, block, delete
I was nothing more
than a glitch in
the matrix
a mistake

you should not have done that

I needed you
I was drowning
you
you let the tide take me
watching safely from the shore
hands in your pockets
turning away before
the waves could stain
your red shoes

The last gift I gave you
my whole scared heart
my undying friendship
thrown back in my face
you took my last breath
my belief in love
humanity
myself
you left a ghost

So walk away
run
erase me
know this
although I forgive easily
I do not forget kindly
I do not just fade away

One day
when the world is cold
when your hands
reach out for warmth
you will remember
the fire you let burn out
I stapled closed my chest
you will be the one shivering in the dark

I love you to death
yet when I do detach
when I turn away
I never look back

You are dead to me
and so now am I
finally ...

-- Trinity-memyandi L. Venter

*****

A Tale of Two Cities

Have you ever been to Blue Ball, Delaware?

I hear that it's really beautiful down there.

When the sun goes down, there's a deep dull ache --

it's bad enough to keep you awake.

Of course, of course, but I love Intercourse;

I rode there once on the back of a horse…

-- Robert Burrows

*****

Untitled

Were you searching furtively

for a dream that couldn't be?

Were you hoping futilely

forlorn in your Eternity?

Fading memories waiting on me

while Life bound I couldn't see?

-- Ash Wurthing

*****

The Idea Of Me

I realize I tend to surround myself

around fears and self-protection,

an emotionally tough lesson I learned

from very early on; the women in my

life, my teachers. I get like this

sometimes, insecure, scared, anything

but confident. I feel so drained, yet

at the same time, I feel a strong sense

of emotional balance. I’ve learned

to trust my instincts, they’re not always

wrong.

Last night I dreamt of wax, paraffin wax,

the kind you make candles with. I watched

it melt gradually over a burner, feeling a

symbolic alignment to it, not so much on

a physical level but on an intellectual level;

the way I arrange thoughts around in my

head, the way they come out of me a certain

way. It doesn’t take long for me to find a

rhythm, there’s great power in the weaving of

change, great ways to gently start over, with

growth, choice of direction and wholeness.

I feel like I’ve been blindsided again, there’s

that negative energy that always manages to

make itself known when you’re at your most

vulnerable. It seeps in, like the coloring and

fragrance you add to wax after it has melted,

when it calls you to the past, beckoning you

to connect A with B, through issues that must

be molded and resolved. It’s the same sense

I had when I held my sister’s favorite bracelet,

the Mexican silver one bought in Taxco with

the red onyx stones, the one that remains

scented by her. The patterns of colors are the

same, but the texture of the stones is so different,

one from the other. I pass my fingers over it, and

I get the odd sense of years moving backward in

time, and I am joined by the remains that are still

very much a part of my life and my heart. If there

ever was a foolish notion of happily ever after, I am

not consciously aware of it. I think that kind of role

requires trust; faith and support, in sync with soul-

expansion; natural, healthy that doesn’t make you

question your own sanity.

It’s funny how the layers formed on her bracelet. I

wonder if they always felt abrasive-like, when Jose

first presented it to her as an engagement gift, a

promise of true love. I’m sure at one time it needed

some fine tuning, some adjustment made because it

was too big for her wrist. There must have been

reassurances, good, exciting, and worthwhile;

something special that made her feel genuine about

expressing her experience with all; something

awesome before it went scary, before everything

liquefied and slipped away.

I can visualize myself out on the ledge of our high rise

threatening to jump just as she did, when Jose left

her for that Japanese girl, the one he said was sexier

than She, the one who wasn’t carrying his baby. I don’t

know what qualifies full grounding, but I do know

it doesn’t come in the form of loss, and certainly

not in the form of a miscarriage. When the rug has

been pulled out from under you, you tend to fall before

you even know what has happened and I’ve learned that

sometimes you can’t even shake that feeling of

apprehension, that will always be a part of you,

waiting for the crash, the fall. It’s about the same

time where you stop talking, when you no longer

feel the need to keep anything from anyone nor to

tell everyone everything. My mom was the same way.

She had all these vague frustrations that often found their

way to a leather belt, onto my bare skin. It was called

discipline back then, but I knew better. It was in the way

she held that ring. Not her wedding ring, the other one.

All her hopes and desires just exuded from that ring. It

was strange and intense to witness, especially when she

didn’t know I was looking.

My brother, now, he was unique. He was the epitome

of the necessary strength and courage one needs to

go on, intuitive, but dismissive of it. I never saw him show

any sign of emotion other than the one time when dad

passed away from cancer; my brother held my father’s

eyeglasses in his hands and cried, there were no words,

and he cried for less than a minute, but I remember. And

I remember he never showed weakness again. Did you

know that some candles hold their sense of peace, even

when there are corresponding physical changes? I’m not

so inclined to color or scent those candles;

I just let them be. I’ve got a better insight now, I think.

Some conversations are best left for later, some, never.

I wonder if all men are like my brother, all women like my

sister and mother, particularly within the family structure;

esoteric. I find it curious what we base knowledge of another on.

For most people, it’s in what is said, you know, that kind

of inherent activity that spills out of their mouths. But, me,

I know better. Individuality is like the dynamics of melting

wax, like the dynamics of most women, who hold deep

secrets within their essence. It’s not always what they say

but what they don’t say that defines them.

-- Theresa C. Gaynord

*****

“I Am

No One’s Martyr”

I crossed the

underworld for you

crawling with

bleeding hands

through hell

bargaining with gods

who only deal in pain

dragged your soul from Hades’ bed

with nothing but my sheer will

and my breaking heart

still

you spit in my face

called my rescue

against your will

my love a chain

says i gave you

no choice

you were the one that

screamed for help!

Does battered flesh

make sovereign

queens

a shattered ribcage

more merciful than

my reaching arms

no choice?

Tell that to Prometheus

who gave me fire

got nailed to a cliff for his trouble

Tell that to Luca

who would have died for you

I’ll tear down Olympus

with the fury of one

exploited too long

called on too much

I am not your christ

I will not die again

for someone else’s sins

there is no salvation

in being the one they crucify

just because you

showed up

You want to leave?

walk away with your baggage

full off ghosts

don’t leave anything!

learn the taste of freedom

when no one’s left to

fight your monsters

I was the sword unsheathed

now I am flame incarnate

Sekhmet awakened

Kali with red hands

Wrath of angels

too long silenced

by the sobs of the unsaved

Next time the heavens fall

you pray

wonder why

no gods answer

I was your guardian angel

yet you called me devil

walk straight back

into the open arms

of Lucifer…

-- Trinity-memyandi L. Venter

*****

Secret Circles

I'm tired of being tied down

To the same old town;

Like a clown running around

Over the same cold ground.

I'm sick of the same fools and friends

At the same dead-ends;

Pretending that I'm one of them,

Again and again --

That's why I'm moving

In secret circles

Of my own.

It's time to leave a life behind

That's become a bind;

Join the ranks of my own kind

Before I lose my mind.

Now I'm far from the crowds and cars,

And the clouded bars;

Having a party in the stars

And halfway to Mars --

Moving and grooving

In secret circles

All my own.

-- Joseph Danoski

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hnCponBFkxk

*****

The Bonfire

Driftwood feeds the bonfire

Burning on the beach

It’s an ideal night for a gathering

A perfect place to meet

Friends do their share of catching up

And laughing at the past

They sit in the shadows of lost dreams

Gone by in a flash

The fire dies down slowly

Voices quiet and still

Flames have worked their magic

The group departs at will

-- Louise Charlton Webster

*****

Open Heart Surgery

The best day of your life; a child is born!

Start out happy, but get ready to mourn.

You'll try to keep them from all of life's danger,

"Don't eat that and don't talk to a stranger."

You read them the same ridiculous book,

Or play a game where you talk gobbledygook.

You feed them, house them, replace clothes outgrown,

Buy a Barbie, a car, and a new cell phone.

You persevere through the years of ennui,

Spend your savings on a college degree.

And then comes the day when they will announce

Everything about you they must renounce.

Your views are too weak, or maybe too strong,

But "whatever" -- you're just totally wrong.

You remember what you did all along,

Your list of missteps is perhaps lifelong.

You tried very hard, you know that you did,

To do the best you could do for your kid.

Yet, no one you'll find who's better skilled in

Ripping your heart out than your own children.

-- Steven Shaffer

*****

Triquetra

If you think me but a flame

you would be sorely mistaken

I am the fire starter

the match

struck against bone

the burn in the sulfur

a hunger that wants war

my breath

kerosene

my lungs

furnaces

stoking inferno’s

fire tornadoes

bulging veins

molten rivers of lava

ready to flow

don’t tell me to calm down!!!

I was calm!

before you poured gasoline

onto the innermost vulnerable me

before you set my hopes alight

now you’re in my way

you poked a monster

until now unseen

I have smouldered too long

in the backrooms of “be quiet”

the dark corners of “be nice”

I am going nuclear

there will be no warning

no survivors

fury

rage

In its cataclysmic form

a bone chilling howl

centuries of pain escaping through my teeth

a pyroclastic flow

coming at you like a freight train

watch me

become the dark fire angel demon

congratulations

you let me out my cave

I will devour

I will not just rise

I will annihilate

Triquetra

the unwanted

daughter of heaven

and hell…

-- Trinity-memyandi L. Venter

*****

The Final Curse

You dogs and daughters born of the bitch,

Never know who is what nor which is witch.

Put me through trials of fire and water;

The ordeal makes the steel

That much harder.

Those who would aspire

Must pass through the fire.

So burn, burn, and watch me squirm;

Burn me at the stake.

Tear me apart, limb from limb,

Adding insult to injury.

Sticks and stones

May break my bones,

But the flames can never hurt me.

Those who would punish me

Must pay the penalty.

So frown, frown, and put me down;

Drown me in the lake.

Tear my heart out, cut my throat,

Put me out of your misery.

Sticks and stones

May break my bones,

But the flames can only free me.

I curse your children and next of kin,

As my ashes scatter into the wind;

And when you're wondering

What could be worse,

I'll return to release

The final curse.

-- Joseph Danoski

*****

The Plan

That man sure is fine

I want to make him mine.

I have a plan to make him see

all he’s ever going to want is me.

He stops here every morning at just about half past ten.

Tomorrow I’m going to be here. This is where my plan begins.

I’ll wear my tightest jeans.

The ones cut way down low.

My plan is to drive him crazy.

If you hang around, you can watch the show.

I’ll walk by him slow and sexy

in my red, high heel shoes.

He’ll never know I planned it.

No, he won’t even have a clue.

I’ll tempt him with my cleavage,

and lure him with my perfume.

Before he knows even knows it,

his boots will be in my bedroom.

Oh! He’s going be my baby.

He’s going be my man.

Because I wanna be his honey,

and I’ve have the whole thing planned.

Everybody gonna see

All he’s ever gonna want

is me.

Oh yeah! He’s gonna be my baby. He’s gonna be my man.

I’m gonna be his honey.

I have the whole thing planned.

-- Patti Thomas Woosley

*****

Black Coffee

(In Bryant Park)

How many feet have walked these stones before;

How many storied paths my own steps trace?

As we crisscross our way through time and space

Sequestered from the midtown traffic's roar

And for a while I think that you're still here,

Sipping your coffee through mid-morning sun.

Thoughts echo through my mind in ancient tongue

Whose idle chatter mocks my solitude,

Seek heady inspiration in the brewed

Caffè confections nonchalantly slung

By bored baristas masking insincere

Felicitations with a maple scone.

I scan the green search of passions spent

In studied postures under careless skies

Where windswept curls once flashed enchanted eyes

Like peacock-colored baubles – where the scent

Of orient perfumes linger in each breath

And street sounds settle to a rhythmic thrum.

But coffee dregs too often bitter prove

And ghostly footsteps falter, fail and fade

Like laughter lost along the promenade

That has no power this timeworn heart to move;

I drain the cup, sink in my dreams of death

Where poets go when words no longer come.

-- Michael Pendragon

*****

Sweet Surrender

I sat on the dock looking across the crystal clear waters of the lake

As the sky exploded with the oranges and pinks of the setting sun

The only sounds were the echoes of the crickets and the occasional

splash of a fish jumping from the water

I contemplated tossing in a line but chose to just sit and enjoy the

picturesque beauty of the lake

The warmth and the moisture of the early evening air touched my skin

and I felt renewed

I felt the calmness of a sleeping child as the evening turned to night

The moon and stars reflected off of the cool blue waters as a lone firefly

flew past

As I absorbed the view I felt a sense of gratitude and peace overtake me

and a warmth deep in my soul

A smile slowly crept across my lips and I had a bit of a twinkle in my eye

I surrendered completely to the peacefulness that overtook me, and all

was right with the world

-- Keith Mansfield

*****

Anthropomorphocentric

All the unbridled power

And passion of an age bygone;

He walks the edges of the herd

Where he doesn't belong.

Hear him crying in the wilderness,

But no-one ever listens;

Raging through his winter days

And lonely mating seasons.

He's the angry man-child and missing link,

The monster always making a holy stink.

The beast and freak of man and Mother Nature,

Growing old though he can never mature.

Aboriginal as original sin,

Like a cannibal in animal skin;

The fallen Adam, lost to evolution;

Upright like a man but not quite human.

No other like him, no Eve to his apple;

No partner with whom to dance the old Maypole.

No soulmate to help this noble savage

Celebrate his happy rite of passage.

No rest nor break from the pangs of hunger;

Only the cold fate of a lonely hunter.

He sees the other creatures

All paired and at play;

But if they dare his mountain lair,

He scares them all away.

Unashamedly erect,

Reckless and abandoned he stands;

Still stalking the crack of dawn,

And walking the dawn of man.

Hear him howling in his loneliness,

With no-one understanding;

That he'll live and die like a tree

That falls in the forest.

-- Joseph Danoski

*****

Early Morning Cacophony

In the hour prior to sunrise

A cacophony of birds

An off-beat orchestra

A choir without words

The backyard comes alive

With avian chirps and noise

Louder and louder still

Wake up and enjoy

-- Louise Charlton Webster

*****

ALLITERATIVE POLYSYLLABIC ORGY

A Word Experiment

Coquettish concubines invoke exotic effigies

vermilion fantasies enfold crepuscular phantoms

shadows of arcane ambiguity permeate sabled dreams

Satyric semaphores unfold

fellatious fugues in rhythmic ribaldry

sophisticated sybarites, Balinesian mysteries

the opulent sensual ecstatsies of cunnilingal interplay

polyamorous proclivities erupt -- volcanic rhapsodies

percussive cannonades explode

mid lunar grins of licorice tooth

lascivious novas penetrate night's womb.

Concupiscent Columbines conjoin

cupidinous Harlequins in masquerade

ambivalent androgynes perform quixotic pirouettes

scintillating tigran transmutations

serendipitous demarcations

beyond Byzantine Bacchanals

where scintillating symphonic perversions

stimulate salacious languishings

sultry hieroglyphic holocausts

smash horoscopes, draw down the moon

dissolve the firmament in unadulterated bliss.

Antediluvian demons stir within.

-- Michael Pendragon

*****

Overdue

Hellbent or Heaven sent,

In a haunted house with rooms for rent;

Reflections of your former selves

Fill the corners and the shelves.

Scream, shout, or sit and pout,

It's a prison cell without an out;

Shadows of the things that pass,

Images flashing in the glass.

A vision of judgement upon the ceiling,

And you've got that sinking feeling;

Drinking in your favorite brew,

Thinking that your days are few,

That your death is overdue.

Stand, stall, or walk the hall,

By the broken clock upon the wall;

Wondering where it all went wrong,

This Hell spawn's gone on so long.

A legion of demons in your possession,

All the objects of obsession;

Trying to tell you what to do,

Lying to you that you're through,

That your soul is overdue.

-- Joseph Danoski

*****

Heartburn

we speak of love

with such ease

a currency devalued

by the tongues of liars

a hollow

reverberation

in the chambers of

my heart

where trust once resided

in the wake of their

departure

a collection of scars

all i have to show for

my devotion

permanent souvenirs

to the deceit of sweet

nothings

whispered in my ear

"i love you"

as they plunged the knife deeper

twisting it in the cavity of my chest

with each rejection

the concept fractured!

a glass house shattered

by stones of indifference

i wander through the tombstones

of loves

lost

an entire graveyard

of could-have-beens!

ghosts of their promises linger

fog ... mist

cold and without substance

was it really love

or an act of convenience?

a part played by actors

faking intimacy?

i live with these ghosts

their hands cold

their eyes vacant

in their retreat

I’m left holding nothing but air

the memory of warmth

no more do i believe

this fable of connection

that ends in isolation

a unicorn!

what fool would continue

to play the game?

rules are written by

the treacherous

the prize nothing but a

plastic crown!

a cruel joke played by fate

let the poets

compose their love poems

bedtime stories

for the naïve

i have seen the truth

behind the veil

the ugliness

that lurks beneath

the veneer

I am tired of the flames

growing cold

leaving me with nothing

but

heartburn …

--Trinity-memyandi L. Venter

*****

The King of Fools

The women who served me, I'd say, didn't deserve me;

Laughing with my inflated ego and vanity.

I was a pirate with treasures of pleasure to plunder;

All the world was a jungle, and I, a mighty hunter.

I went from being a kid on the streets to king of the feast;

Because people were beneath me and weak,

Just sheep to be fleeced.

I was a trader of lives and a tempter of souls,

A reveler of flesh with the raking of coals.

So my friends who spurned me, now as enemies, cursed me

As I became more and more famous in infamy.

All my weaknesses, like demons, grew in strength and number

As my soul wed the succubus of unnatural hunger.

But I was punished by the gods for being hungry and cruel;

For behaving like an animal, as depraved as a ghoul.

For going against nature and for breaking her rules;

I was wasted, laid low,

Slave to beasts,

King of fools.

-- Joseph Danoski

*****

Crap Wars

Cracker smackers looking blacker

than said cracker. holy macar-

oni couldn't make it plainer;

you would think it's a no brainer.

Under thunder mugs there's plunder.

Another blunder, it's no wonder

sitters on said shitters stumble;

diggers for such gold grow humble.

Hiney winkers sure are stinkers;

pinker puckers aren't thinkers.

All these wankers wear their blinkers.

Worse than drinkers, they're poor inkers.

-- Karen Tellefsen

*****

Vanitas

Thou art now crucified

like thy Christ thou wilt cry

for thy "Greatness" personified

mortified, it now wilt die

Thy Pride now crucified

thy legacy a darkened sky

for thy Heaven's heart has petrified

beyond thy means to wonder why

-- Ash Wurthing

*****

All Is Vanity,

All For Naught

it saps sanity, like the falling sands

their grave gravity, Time's callous hands

sweeping away all you've wrought

-- Ash Wurthing

*****

The Mountain

Purple mountains rise

Like clouds draped from the skies

Pierced by jagged rock

Here the eagle cries

Pine trees stand as guardians

To wildflowers just below

Brightly colored blossoms

Putting on a show

Past the tall grasses

Runs an icy stream

Catching the brilliant sunlight

The water flashes and gleams

-- Louise Charlton Webster

*****

Death By A Thousand Cuts

knives were never needed

only

raised eyebrows

ridiculing pauses

sideways insinuating smiles

implying we’re too much

again

cruelty always served cold

jokes on ice

we were supposed to laugh at

even when they carved

tiny invisible cuts

into the soft parts of our hearts

we would flinch at compliments

brace for the punchlines

nooses

curling around our throats

the old classic

“just kidding,”

tightening the rope around our necks

they never screamed

sighed instead

in that sigh

we died a little

than the day before

we forgot how to speak

without apology

how to take up space

without bleeding shame

how to say we hurt

without being told

to get over it

we were fed poison

on silver spoons

taught to call it medicine

“we only want what's best for you,”

whilst death settled in

we became ghosts

trying to be good

for the very people

that kicked the chair

out from beneath us

we are the children of scorn

bruised

killed not quickly

but precisely

by the art

of not being believed

never seen

and now you’re gone

my baby one

swinging in the wind

swaying with the willow weeping

retribution will not be

served gently

i promise you that

i will take my time

working really slow

they are hereby sentenced to die

death by a thousand

cuts...

-- Trinity-memyandi L. Venter

*****

Flatline

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”

“I can’t write

I can’t breathe

I have no voice”

I whisper horsly into the phone

voice thin as carbon paper

static in my head

drowning out all thought

brain smelling like

burnt typewriter ribbon

broken pens cutting

my wrists

“Ma’am, stay on the line

help is on the way.”

They break down the door of my mind

EMTs rushing in with metaphors

searching for signs of syntax

no pulse

they start compressions

pounding on my chest

The ink well is dry

not cracked

just evaporated

no life left in the nib

no blood in the vowels

they hook up a line

filled with poetry

needle in the vein

dripping adjectives

trying to color my

skin with imagery again

“We’re losing her.”

one mutters as he

searches my pupils

for similes

none found

I flatline

my mind a whiteout

tongue twisted

even the ghostly white page beneath me

has stopped breathing

The defibrillator is a

thesaurus

pressed to my chest with

“LIVE, DAMN YOU, LIVE”

scribbled in bold

still nothing

They call it

time of death

the moment the

muse stopped inspiring

the ink forgot how to bleed

just as they turn to leave

a tremor

a twitch in the fingertip

blip on the monitor

a single jagged line

rips through the

overwhelming silence

one word

scrawls itself

across the void

HELP…

-- Trinity-memyandi L. Venter

*****

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