Category: Uncategorized

POETRY Reading: Lost Spring of Love, by Sheila Thadani

Performed by Val Cole

—
POEM:

Is it better never to have loved at all
Than to have loved and lost in sorrow’s pain,
When love departs on flights to be enthralled
With pleasures of youthful spring again.

That temptation of Eros which beckons,
To shed one’s age and cast love’s old clothes;
And search for the lost spark of heaven
In the sultry skins of fresh blooms of youth.

Oh, to be young again. When youth’s splendor
Enticed men’s ardor to my prime.
Can the fire relight love’s endeavors,
When love is ever fickle over time.

Empty hours now fill the idle days;
Walls deaf to the sound of love’s voice,
A smiling face absent from one’s gaze,
A life devoid of its cheer and joy.

Love that is lost leaves no footprints anywhere,
Nor even a Christmas day to share.

POETRY Reading: Admiral’s Log: 1242, by Lance Mazmanian

Performed by Val Cole

POEM:

We’d been sailing for months when the isle sprang to view,
grassy it was, and forlorn for sure.
Charts said nothing
of its being here.

We moored near the isle
where I set forth a search,
myself in the lead
of course.

Now I must tell you:

As we crossed from the ship
in our dinghy so frail
I and the crew felt as the first
to do it.

Once to the isle
we spanned its grey length,
uneasiness began to gnaw.

Over a knoll, we found a shanty
(a shack if you will),
aged and weathered and empty.

We entered the structure, and did hope to find
a trace of the makers long past.

When nothing upturned, we checked ’neath the floor
and there we found our prize:

For lying untouched was a jewel so strange,
pea-sized, fine cut, ancient.

Actual stars
of nighttime skies
were easily visible in depths.

Icy winds
blew from its blackness, and a rainbow
wrapped it ’round.

However…

Upon all this,
we returned to the ship
and sailed ever on.

At times I regret our leaving the gem,
but considering the unearthly inhuman design
I was fearful of wrath from Gods or others:

surely such creatures
may have owned it.

It will be there for them when they swiftly return,
if ever they do.

I wonder.

Signed 1242, bleak midwinter
at the pole.

POETRY MOVIE: GLORIA, DRUNK, by Jessica Wierzbinski

Performed by Val Cole

Visual Design by Adam Bilyea

Produced by Matthew Toffolo

POEM:

When the time comes you have to spend Christmas alone,
the way to do it is to hit the vigil
service at some strange and distant parish,
and show up drunk.

Drive all morning
Christmas Eve to some god-forsaken
podunk town where you know no one.
Get a room, a greasy diner lunch
and a bottle of Jameson.

(If Irish whiskey
is your go-to, then choose another.
Look for something pleasant but unfamiliar.
Note well: this is not an anesthetic
but a pro-one.)

The two of you
could walk the town a while if you’re
discrete. (Remember, jail is not
the goal, but church.) Take in the sights,
but focus on the whiskey.

If strands
of lights the town has wound around
itself recall some strands of your own
hometown or kin, take off your glasses;
let them blur. (If you don’t wear glasses,
put some on.)

The timely disorientation
of senses, wits, will be your cue
to refind the rented room—you’ll say
to go home. Take care; if you start feeling hostile
you’ve walked or drunk too much.

Now undress
in the middle of the dimly lit but sterile
room just like a million other
rooms, in front of the mirror that’s seen
a thousand naked bodies.

Tidy up
yourself. With greatest ceremony
unbag those finest garments you brought
fresh from the cleaners and wrap yourself
in them as one would a gift.

Now go.
The hour is getting late and you’ll want
to be early. But wait—another sip
and don’t forget your smile, something
to share as you’re filing in.

When the Gloria
comes, oh belt it out with gusto.
You haven’t forgotten the words, but let
Yourself, so you can sing each word
for the first, blessed time.

Go on, belt it out.
They’ll let you know if you’re off key
or too loud, and when they do, though your smile
be overwrought and forced, the liquor
effusing from your pores,

think
of the beautifully ribboned packages
you saw in downtown windows and
remember that you have nothing left
to give, no hopes of receiving

and wish them,
oh heartily wish them (or try) a merry,
a very merry, indeed the merriest
of merry, oh a very merry
if non-traditional
Christmas

POETRY MOVIE: THRESHOLD, by Christopher Gaines

Performed by Val Cole

Visual Design by Adam Bilyea

Produced by Matthew Toffolo

—-
POEM:

I’d almost forgotten
Those halcyon days
When sunlight shone
While children played
The softest breeze
Carried only tufts
Of dandelions on the wind

These days we hide
‘Neath metal prisons
Beyond which awaits
More dangerous stuff

Was it all worth our ancestors’ struggle
To win the day with nothing to show but rubble?

If I could go back to those happier times
When we took for granted our peace of mind
I like to think I’d warn against
Such foolishness, such naiveté, such ignorance

This ruined land, this is not peace
Try telling that to those deceased

All it took was one step, one threshold crossed
To curse future generations with crippling loss
So if you read these prophetic words
In a time before, when they might still be heard
Heed them, act, else it be too late
To avoid such a gruesome fate

Age has offered wisdom I can no longer use
You are our future, you are our hope
I beg you don’t waste it
May this final, desperate act aid you in what you choose

DEATH Poem: Ode To A Dying Man, by Sophia Newcomb

I bargained with Death from my doorstep
It was a summer’s afternoon
It was too nice a day, I said, to waste away
Six feet under the ground
Death straightened their suit and tie, and said with a sigh,
that they’d already taken the long way round.
Then, there’s a storm coming on. Something in the breeze.
A whisper in the wind that puts a soul ill at ease.
I need to go get my lover, my kids, my dog.
I’ll tarry just enough
That the old specter loses the scent
Their carrion hounds will twist and turn
But won’t get the best of me.
So I plead with death, for just an hour or more
For the sake of those I hold dear, the world’ll bat down their doors,
And leave them shaken, cold,
Without my loving arms to welcome them home.
So, Death,
O’ Death.
You Solitary Sower of Sorrow!
How can I go and leave them behind? How can they ever move on?
“They can and they will” Death said without much ado. “Life is a good seamstress. She’ll take their time, and mend their broken hearts. The ache will dull and life will grow. Like flowers rising out of the snow.”
Next, I tried to keep Death from the appointed hour.
To whittle away their precious day
With glasses of cool drink to ward off the heat,
Potions of the vine so sweet, surely they could even make Death feel alive.
And stories and songs tried and true, that not even gods could resist.
The poets had done it before
Scherazade and Orfeo,
Delaying Death in their quest night after night
Line after line,
Perhaps I would be the next in that ancient tradition
Slowing Death’s fateful hand.
Alas. They were a clever old crow, so sure they’d know, the mortal mind and all its schemes.
Yes. Death didn’t mince words. Didn’t waste time.
Never once hanging up their hat and sitting for a spell,
Jabbering on like jays porchside till the sun came down.
And train to Judgement only lead one way.
Death waits for no man
The debt always came due,
Death–as constant and tranquil, and immune to my cries,
as a cool shade, on a summer afternoon.
Who was Death anyway,
With their wandering soles, collecting souls
That wail and mourn,
Offering wealth, power, fame,
For a for an hour, a day,
More and more of the sweet elixir of life
“Please! All my wealth for my life–!
If I can’t take it with me, then I’ll leave it all behind!”
But never a kind word.
A thankless job. A lonely road.
Just one more foresaken mile.

DEATH Poem: What Happens When We Die? A Prose Poem, by Casey Cai

What happens when we die? Is it just darkness and no thoughts? Will I cease to exist? Terrifying. They say it’s like before you’re born, and why worry, it’s inevitable. Yet I lay awake at night, spiraling in fear. How can I live forever? Perhaps with modern medicine, immortality can be reached in my lifetime. But what if everyone can live forever? Will there still be meaning? What if it’ll only be accessible by the rich and power hungry, and I’ll end up trapped endlessly, just an exhausted cog in the machine. Isn’t that more terrifying than resting in the dark? What happens when we die? What happens when we live? Perhaps death is the more welcomed end.

DRUGS Poem: The Battle Within, by Jennifer Hovick

Taking from the bottle was simple
It was always there for me, ready for me
It was there for me when I was happy, sad, angry, helpless, crying
Like a therapist

I would walk down to the store to get it
But not because I had a choice
Everyone has a choice, but I didn’t
I didn’t because my brain had felt like it was being used by someone else
Where’s the controller?

I was being controlled by hands that were not my own
A brain not my own
A person not my own

It was so simple getting a bottle too
Nothing was in my way
Myself was the only obstacle in this battle

Twisting and turning my legs would attempt to walk
It would go the other way home

I always end up not being me
I was the obstacle
It was me