UNTITLED
©Chadwick Palmatier
Listening;
waiting, wanting, wishing
that it doesn’t hurt
or won’t;
ever.
I be the one
to learn, know, how
to cope.
Into a dream it becomes,
forever floating inside,
like a balloon.
Waiting to be popped…
I blow it up again.
Read by Val Cole
Visual Design and Editor Kimberly Villarruel
Sword of War
Would I were a soldier still – would I were yet still a knight
A servant of the beautiful – honor bound to all that’s right
I’d marsh’ll out to meet the foe – for her return to fight
Would I were love’s soldier still – would I were yet still her knight
But there is not now such need or cause – no need to make such war
For you are gone or never were – and will dwell here never more
I dreamt I stood atop a hill – on the edge of a black’nd vale
Beneath a sky, bled of its light – hanging somber, gloom and pale
I peered across that vast expanse – to the reach of my own sight
Through the smoth’rd stain of murk and air – to your tower ivory white
But gathered on the valley floor – in that gulf that lay between
The minions of the wicked hoard – stood in numbers never seen
They jeered and taunt’d “come down and die” – for you’ll see her never more
But the sky did crack of thunder then – as I drew my sword of war
I charged my stallion like a bolt – of raging fire, through their ranks
Their blackened blood, like a river, ran – that’d overflowed its banks
A storm of fury, we did fall – on all those who dared stand under
Rising, striking; my sword rained down – a hail of death and thunder
Cleaved and hewn, their bodies fell – to their ranks we did lay waste
Swept aside, like so much chaff – of our vengeance they did taste
Emerging from a sea of blood – we rode up from that vale
And coming to your hill top’s crest – sought you there to no avail
That length of land, I searched for you – to distant heights my eyes did strain
I searched throughout that valley rim – yet my search it was in vain
For the place you dwelt, t’was now gone – fully vanished from all sight
Not a stone or remn’nt there remained – of your tower ivory white
Then gleeful words rose from the vale – and wound their way into my ear
And faintly offered whispered thoughts – that I alone could hear;
“So sweetly crafted was our ruse – and it seems you’ve finally found
T’was a wisp of cloud now blown away – like an echo’s faded sound
A machination, by design – was this thing that you called love
We set it there, for all to see – on that hill top high above
T’was never true, this lure we laid – and pity seems you fin’ly find
T’was nothing but a conjured dream – that lived within your mind”
Down I slid my horse’s back – and there laid softly on the ground
Down I lay my sword of war – and into blackness my heart drowned
My soul bled out there, on the earth – the life inside me f’lly drained
A stone, I lay beneath that sky – of shadow’d murk that now hung stained
And there I linger’d pass of time – the length of which, I do not know
A corpse, I clung there to the ground – in that place I dreamt you so
But then there came, set on the wind – a voice far faint’r, yet more clear
With mercy softened words, it spoke – so familiar in my ear;
“Neither death nor dist’nt draw of time – could, of my love, leave you forlorn
For nothing und’r heaven’s reign – could quell a love eternal born
For though you see me not, I am – for in your heart, I do live yet
There I dwell and always shall – to this now hold, lest you forget
Be not deceived, in this hour dire – and be not turned from who thou art
My love, my knight, my soldier brave – carry forth as you did start
And so he rose up from the ground – and climbed back upon his steed
The wicked’s voices rose as well – but to their lies he payed no heed
And starting down that valley black – a soldier knight again once more
Returning thus unto the fight – he drew his sword of war
Performed by Val Cole
A NEW FALSE DAWN, by Peter Gartner
A new false dawn has broken
Over the trees, pausing for a while,
Before the sense of disappointment
Ringing in our ears, shatters the hope
We had, like a careless ignorant boy.
Smashing a piece of glass into
Dangerous vicious sharp shards –
There’s nothing worse than that.
There is a moment before
Disillusionment becomes disgust,
That time we saw a ring of innocence,
Girls holding hands in a circle,
In an opening amid the trees,
After the picnic; they imagine
A better world of generous
Co-operation, but they fail.
They failed because important people
Smothered the flame of hope, and turned it
Into smoke and ashes. We cannot
Forget such a betrayal; it hurts us
Till we bleed, more in remembrance,
Not to suffer yet another loss,
Before we gain some knowledge of the truth,
Hidden from us, so long ago.
Then dig up the past; let its rotten carcase
Be examined for evidence of the truth,
Which we cannot determine, so many years
After the event; the tune remains the same,
Repeated over and over again; so harsh, so painful,
An indelible deliberate record,
Of something we would much rather forget,
If only we could – but, we still keep alive.
The floodgates of our sorrow open up,
Without discretion; avoidable damage
Given an opportunity, finds itself,
Being done, dominant, foreboding:
The endless struggle to explain the past,
Being known, without a reason, why
A thing happened, an essential compromise,
So necessary, it seemed at the time.
Own the past – no, disown the past.
It’s still a puzzle, how things turned out;
An old man with rotten teeth, gaps, holes,
Looking back on the young man he used to be,
Must conclude, Time is unkind; it always was,
It always will be. We learn our lessons
By the mistakes we make; not before,
Always after the event, even if we predict
The consequences of our foresight.
There’s always tomorrow, the old saw says;
The possibilities lost, don’t think
About them any more. A little paper boat
Will float and – give it a push – will travel
Some distance, until it soaks and sinks.
Our hopes and what we never did in the past,
Are the same: they should be forgotten, but –
They haunt us still. Nothing remains the same,
Except the past, which never changes.
If the desire or purpose was to change,
We must assimilate possibility,
Prevent accidents by applying
The core of our integrity, not to do
Things we know are wrong for our peace of mind;
Our future is not fixed or futile, unless
We admit defeat, which some said, we deserved:
That only makes it worse, by told-you-so.
I would not have this life by choice – only by
My own incompetent negligence, imposed
On me by others. That is, the end.
Performed by Val Cole
Performed by Val Cole
Performed by Val Cole
GRIEF UNBOUND, by Michal Mendelsohn
For the women butchered
with clitoridectomies
not to feel intimacy
passion or mutuality in sex
but mutilated
I grieve.
For the women forced
into loveless marriages,
custom be damned, to be
slaves to men who care little
for them or their bodies or
personhood
I grieve.
For the countless, innocent
female victims of war started
by men to advance their egos,
who have been raped, defiled,
left as untouchables
I grieve.
For the silent victims of domestic
abuse, beaten, left with broken bones,
internal injuries, splenectomies, who
cover for cruel spouses out of fear and
misplaced loyalty
I grieve.
These women do not whimper
They speak without a sound.
Performed by Val Cole
Holiday Feedback
By
Derrick J. Johnson
This land is so cold,
Covered in snow,
Filled with memories,
Of a time from long ago.
Nostalgic thoughts don’t seem right,
In the prismatic aura,
Of bright holiday light,
But these feelings still remain,
For they are all the same…
A rush,
To find the right gift.
A rush fueled by adoration,
As emotions flow so swift.
A mad rush,
That leads me all about.
No escape from the anxiety,
That appears when she’s near.
My feelings are hidden beneath the exterior,
Of this seasonal holiday cheer.
Oh, it is a madness,
That wears me out,
It wears me out…
Filled with anticipation,
Yet daunted by feelings of dread,
Moving with the spirit of the season,
As conflicting thoughts swirl in my head,
And images of the affection I want to win…
Under the mistletoe,
We converge from different directions.
Then we share a tender moment,
But fail to make a meaningful connection,
Parting with regrets,
For what could have been…
But somewhere in that frosty December,
In the memory of the fleeting kiss,
Is a time of lucidity I remember,
As calmness replaces holiday bliss,
Because I need this,
I need this…
11/30/21
Performed by Val Cole
Out Back, by Peter Gall
Tufts of new and old grasses
The living and the lived
Chipped and chimed and chowed
Down by new growth
Multi-colored leaves, leaving
Musty, misty, moist and mossed
Resting place of the mulched
Making mewing, mushy sounds
Sticks and stones and broken bones
Of bark and branch and briar
New flowering, ripening to the ripest
Old falls and fallen rising
Forests of forgotten fires
Black, blackened and blown
Winds that whine and winge
About the burnished breezes
Gradual, grading and growing
Light at the end of the funnel
Of roots, roomed and running
Rings around new bows and branch
Sprouting, sporting the new looks
Of leaves, leaning and lowing
To summer, suns and songs
Of the fierce, unforgiving out back
Performed by Val Cole
The Plastic Water Bottle Tossed
Carelessly In The Middle Of The Road
By A Pimply Teenager Wearing Too
Much Makeup And Too Little Clothes.
The last drop was swallowed, but the
cap was carefully screwed back on.
A chipped black fingernail pushed down
on the button. She didn’t even look at the
water bottle flying down to the ground.
Scraping its side on the gravel, the poor bottle
lies. It waits expectantly to be placed in the recycle
bin. But instead, an H3 Hummer rolls right over it.
Only a hiss is heard from the bottle losing it’s only
friend, the cap. But no one ever puts them back together.
The water bottle lies in the middle of the street for days.
No one understands it. It feels so alone. It feels rejected
and neglected. The clouds turn gray and the poor bottle is
carried away. On the side of the curb it lies. All broken
and hurt and missing its friend. A group of uniformed children
walk by the bottle as it thinks that finally it will get home.
For children are taught the beauty of the earth and will surely
not destroy it. But one happy kid kicks the bottle out of his way as
another one spits out his chewed flavorless wad of gum.
The bottle no longer feels like living. It has lost its faith in humanity.
Trash day! The bottle thinks. It will get swept up by the street sweeper
and it will be saved! Here it comes. It’s close. Finally I will be free. The
bottle feels the wonderful bristles of the sweeper brush it away. The
bottle begins to fall into the hole in the side of the road. It hits the murky
bottom with a thud. The bottle begins to cry and moan, but still no one
pays attention. A wave of gray water washes the bottle into the sea. The
bottle doesn’t know how to swim, but it floats. It drifts on the surface of
the sea for one hundred days. A whale filter feeds the poor bottle and
excrements it a few days later. But the whale will never be the same. The
whale’s digestive tract is permanently damaged. And the whale will die.
The bottle feels like it’s its fault the poor whale has washed up on the
sandy shore. A loud cry of despair is bellowed by the whale as it drowns
in the stale dirty air. The bottle has become numb. It doesn’t care about
anything anymore. It doesn’t even try to fight the gray gull as it pecks it
with its beak, holes into the bottles side. It could care less that the pieces
the gull pecked will kill the gulls nest. The bottle lies still as a pelican
swallows the bottle along with the tiny fish at its side. The pelican flies
far back into the land. And drops the bottle on the sand. For days the
bottle melts in the sun, but still it couldn’t care. A group of girl scouts pick
up the bottle and other trash. The bottle ends up in a black plastic bag in
a green trash can full of other crushed plastic bottles. A big green truck
stops and a little man with chubby hands picks up the black bag and flings
it onto the truck. The bottle has lost all feeling as it rides in the truck and is
thrown into a big hole the size of a 100 feet pool. The bottle slowly rots in
the bag, but not quickly. For 7,000 years the plastic bottle waits to be able
to feel again. Anything. Even pain. But the humans are dead. And the
animals are poisoned. A desolate land of plastic bottles and caps never
to become one again. Finally on a mercury day, the plastic bottle decays.
T.Riv
