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an unknown saint

By: Ricky Garni

a letter
 from a distant

a velvet rose in
her hat

she can’t sleep
 at night 
and so

she takes 

long walks



nobody stares
at her

even when it
is winter

and she is



but not too 

touching the
snow with


as her lips confess


she sleeps

in a  


she always

of being
a painter

and of

chanel, I 

she once



and other

she noted



“when you’re a painter”

you can think
of other 
things not

like when

a writer

a big 

of ink 

on the 
page as

you sit

the pen

the sheet. you 

“were those my words 

that I 

in a pool...?”

she says it 
	is that way 


with god

“never forget”
she writes

and at 

the bees come

and find rest

on her

Copyright © 1996 Ricky Garni

Comments to the author: rickygarni@earthlink.net

Mamma See?

By: Rosemary Wall

Mamma, Mamma,'ook at me!
I'm swiding Mama, come and see.
MAMMA! I fell down.
Oh! Mamma, 'ook, a funny cwown!

Can I eat my pudding wike dis?
Mamma! My bear needs a kiss.
Mamma - see me in the twee?
Mamma! Take a picture 'a me!

Mom, I can read this book!
Here's my scribbler, take a look.
Mom, she's my best friend, can she stay all night?
She's really nice, Mom. Oh, is it all right?

Muth-err! Really! I can't wear that!
No one EVER wears a hat!
That looks stupid...really gross!
Oh! See that guy Mom? He's the most!

Mom, we won't be late.
Is that a tear, Mom? Oh, wait...
Mother, can you come to dinner tonight?
Hey Mom! We're pregnant! We think we might...

Gramma! Gramma! 'ook at me!
I'm swiding Gramma, come and see!

Copyright © 1996 Rosemary Wall

Comments to the author: nrwall@atcon.com

He's Expecting A Thousand Dollars In The Mail

By: Patty Mooney

“Like infinity on top
of infinity,” he told me,
his buoy light eyes signalling
green, go, bright
green.  “The stars
in your face,” he said,
“are like angels
inside of midnight.
You are the most gor-ge-ous,
be-ooo-ti-ful woman
I have ever seen.”  Buoy

Copyright © 1997 Patty Mooney

Comments to the author: videos@concentric.net


May Morning

  By: Suzanne Butz

 A low picket fence
 frames the cottage
 and the whitewashed walls
 glint in the early dawn
 a curl of smoke runs from the chimney's grasp
 the rustle of a tiny skirt
 barely disturbs the morning stillness
 Bare feet skim the rich brown earth
 and the dirt between her toes is an old friend
 Her hair loose in tendrils
 like two yarn braids dancing in the breath of the dawn
 Face flushed like a wild rose
 Daffodils and hyacinth
 their petals still trembling with fairy teardrops
 clutched in a tiny hand
 Breathless, she runs through the door
 into the warm firelit kitchen
 with the smell of cinnamon.
 "For you, mommy!"

  Copyright © 1997 Suzanne Butz

  Comments to author: suzieb2@juno.com


An Answered Epiphany

  By: Kevin Crone

 An answered epiphany
 Don't want me nauseous.
 That is not into that abyss
                     of who awaits.
 Faith is the from the bottom-
 The feeling of redemption i hold-
 The indigni--worse yet-nonexistent
                     in the wrong god.
 Truth is true. Believe in is not the one i serve-
 One on old end tomorrow.
 "Alone" should be answered
                     me to my soul
 To trust.
 Instead only to rationalize
 Any one account
                     internal revenue auditor
 Interpret-that I could never,
 An opinupreme being
 Means not if i had one
 In eternity, rough supreme judgment
                     because of the opposition
                     no judgment in love
                     be found in judgment

  Copyright © 1997 Kevin Crone, Texas, USA

 Comments to author: horus@arn.net

Into the Memories of a Friend

By: David Ross

As my tears fall to the Earth
My tears will be absorbed by the Earth
As my heart sinks with the sun
It will be dark without the sun
As shattered hopes dissolve into the past
So will the catalyst that caused a dream
In a while there will be a sunrise
Un-noticed by my blinded eyes
People will be unaware of my soul
When usually they can hold it and be proud
The pain I bear is small
And yet I cannot help but fall
Into the memories of a friend
I beg you God for a better end
I just simply beg and pray
For a gentler moment of the day.

Copyright © 1997 David Ross

Comments to the author: dross@hba.trumpet.com.au


By: Grady Michael Rawls

Alone in the shadows again...

I stood at the height of existence
and viewed the sky's of eras long past.
I have contemplated the meaningless forces
that call to me and my own.
I have stood in the light of love and peace,
only to recall the nights.
Nights in the dark imposing powers of evil and shadows,
I was home.

Life was meaningless,
life was empty,
lives were unfulfilled.
Death was my life,
and my life was dead.
Time stole the peace and life
that became meaningful in the darkest sense.
Many feel the light is the home of all good,
but I know better.

The light casts the shadows that I live in.
Light is the well from which I sprung.
The dark cannot last while light is present,
yet would be nothing without it.
The light is cruel and oppressive,
conforming all in its dark webs.
I can smell the sweat of thousands,
mixed with the stench of the dead.

The shadows call all to her,
only the strongest can respond,
and go to her.
We walk half in the goodness of light
and the evils of darkness.
Shades of gray hide us from the eyes of the foolish,
and senses of darkness.
The bitter smells of blood
and the strange smell of flowers combine inside me.

The darkness is the ever present pit in the night
It swallows life after life in its insane search
for the gift of eternal blessings.
The people of the shadows
look into its ever present maw every day.
How many people will fall into its eternal lust,
never to come home.

I have seen and I have fought this
from the beginning of time.
I see the lives fall,
I see the night come.
I see the phoenix rising from the ashes
now the end has come,
When will you rage?

Copyright © 1997 Grady Michael Rawls

Comments to the author: smeghead@oz.net

Personal Poetry Page Link: Grady's Poetry Page

Other Plans

By: L.M. Cunningham

I hit the headboard
and fortune
through the cracks
caught on the mattress 
putting it 
back together
that wouldn't be
any easier than
selling those 
Donna Summer CDs
late at night
though I shook my ass
and took a bow
For some reason
I can't sell
and I can't

Copyright © 1997 L.M. Cunningham

Comments to the author: mann@tima.com

Personal Poetry Page Link: L.M. Cunningham's Home Page


By: Jessica O'connor

In the silence of the morning,
A hundred dead souls linger from the past,
Floating through the foggy streets.
Searching for meaning in the afterlife;
Finding it deep inside the heart of this town.

Copyright © 1997 Jessica O'Connor

Comments to the author: oconnor@cyberenet.net


By: Emily Miller

It came without notice
like a summer rain
a tingling deep in my soul
then breathing deep,
like I've never known air before

A glorious wonder, nearly perfection
dancing in a circle
then,on a mountain,triumph
a game of basketball
one-on one with myself
alone in a summer rain
falling on my face
tears of joy

Copyright © 1997 Emily Miller

Comments to the author: eckhardt@mail.infinet.com


By: Arn Bullock

Our daemons,
Where do they lie hidden,
To leap upon us?

Are these daemons
Exterior to self,
Stealthily stalking paths
That parallel and intersect our lives?

Daemons exist within.
Each individual has their own
Perceptions of reality,
Reality viewed through prisms of
Past experience and values.

To know your daemons,
One must pursue the quarry down
Synaptic corridors,
Through the labyrinth of subconscious
To their dank dens.

Diligently search and you will
Unearth them in each their cave 
Kneeling reverently before Holy Cross,
Standing lonely when hand of love beckons,
Sitting timidly before flashing neon - RISK,
Turning angrily from self's mirrored image,
Trembling fearfully before the censure of others,
Seeking crowds to abolish solitude.

Can you flee to
Distant shores,
Line of white crystal,
Bottom of bottle,
Surfeit of sex?

Flight spawns its own daemon-
Knowledge of flight.
A vision of daemon pursued
By other daemons still within.
Only one flight absolute-
Firing neurons terminated
Through closure of death.
Better to face
Your daemons,
To know them.

Track them to their lairs,
Shed the darkness that surrounds
With purposeful focus of intellect,
Search of soul and spirit,
Evocation of salient emotions,
Delvination into distant past,
Conversations with self and others,
Reading to comprehend
The universality of your daemons.

Illuminate and understand,
So when your daemons
Dare to skulk from subconscious
Into present of conscious self,
You may confront and battle
Knowing their form and substance.

As they sidle forth
Make combat.
Lock eyes with
Opaque yellow orbs,
Taste fetid breath,
Grasp slime of scale,
Avoid slashing teeth
And ripping talons,
Accept flickering tongue on face
Dripping acid of destruction,
Take daemon by swishing tail
And force it into beckoning
Daemonic mouth.
Vertebrae by vertebrae
Push it down into writhing form
Until daemon has devoured foul self,
Reduced to size that you may chase him
Back to his lair.

Free of this daemon
You are strong in self,
Ready to confront the next
Which will inevitably come forth.

Copyright © 1996 Arn Bullock, Lindsay, Ontario

Comments to the author: abullock@peterboro.net

Chocolate Nightmare

By: Priscilla Bromfield

Often I have a dream
in which I am caught in a spiral
and whirl into an abyss
of deep, dark, warm and heavenly chocolate.

Soon my veins feel the flow
of its velvet touch
enriching my blood
with cocoa-scented deliciousness.

Not able to breathe,
not able to scream,
I blindly battle the furious beast
with teeth, hands and tongue.

Then my mind is consumed
with sugarcoated images
of the creamy delight sprinkled
with nuts and raisins and freshly ripened cherries!

And, finally, I awaken transformed
into a chocolate human being--
a simply sweet thing--
that wishes merely to be eaten
with guilt.

Copyright © 1997 Priscilla Bromfield

Comments to the author: scilla@sirius.com

Shallow Hands

By: David Ross

I held my hopes with shallow hands.
An hourglass of friends without the sands.
I scream a shattering reeking cry.
That won't be heard until I die.

Copyright © 1997 David Ross, Tasmania, Australia

Comments to the author: dross@hba.trumpet.com.au


By: Jessica O'Connor

My hands are like ice,
My eyes like fire.
Burning holes through your brain
Freezing your body.
When your you're with me,
You have no thoughts,
Just a paralyzed body.
You love me more
Than you could ever show.
You can feel me
Pumping through your veins.
You give up everything for me.
The feeling I give you.
You would die for me.
Someday you will.
I give you all that you want.
You don't have to thank me,
Your money does that for you.
Your friends don't like me,
But who cares about them.
It was your decision to embrace me
Not theirs,
Just remember,
No one gets out of here alive.

Copyright © 1997 Jessica O'Conner

Comments to the author: oconnor@cyberenet.net


By: Laura Ann Essenmacher

Sitting in a cold room
Surrounded by steel and bone,
Feeling feelings of inhumanity.
What has become of us?
War. Destruction. Fear.
Our fathers preach Peace.
Liberty. Equality.
But their cries fall on deaf ears.
So eager for our own concerns -
Blind to our peers.

I spit on the ground you walk on.
Not because I hate you,
But because I hate what you stand for.
Your hatred of society.
Your disgust with your fellow man.
Your feelings that man will never change,
And the hatred of your own fears.

All this I said to my shadow,
And I think he laughed at me.

Copyright © 1996 Laura Ann Essenmacher

Comments to the author: nuthouse@unm.edu

The Childrens' Repose

By: Alisha Freeman

I watch the children playing at the park
A certain thing each one's int'rest does spark:
Dylan likes to swing as long as you will
Give him a push--he never gets his fill
Shaun's thrill is to climb up the highest slide
The she comes down fast, beaming and wide eyed
But here is the child after my own heart
Making mud pies is her specialty art

There's something about the gladness they share
That in the world today is all too rare.
Their laughter is pure, unrestrained delight
For indulgences they are not contrite
Each moment they glean, not one do they miss
Their eyes are not tainted with prejudice
"Learn from the children," I tell myself
In them I find mem'ries stored on a shelf

How I used to love to spend afternoons
With some old pie pans and discarded spoons
And a pail of water scooped from the creek
Then off to my secret spot I would sneak
'Twas a sandy spot where the stream ran slow
No one else of that special place did know
There was a hollowed-out stump on the bank
In which I roosted and played "walk the plank"

Then, after some hours of such pirating
Into the harbor, my ship I would bring
And count up the treasures I had amassed
The worth of those findings was unsurpassed:
Precious gems too numerous to mention
(Rocks of every shape and dimension)
Elegant furs and exquisite hats too
(All woven from ferns and leaves of bamboo)

Once I finished assessing my booty
I set to accomplish my next duty
Which was to feed my hungry-pirate self
There was simply no time to sit and pelf
I carefully mixed the ingredients
My hunger could not take precedence
Just the right amounts of water and sand
Not too spicy or excessively bland

Now I don't mean to brag, but you'd agree
The best pies west of the Mississippi
Were mud pies I made many a midday
They were an imagination's gourmet
This one was lemon and that one French silk
And to top them off was fresh, creamy milk
Each had precisely the flavor it should
And tasted as scrumptious as pastries could

No one could tell me not to have a slice
Until I had eaten my beans and rice
As I ate my imaginary treat
I mused with what prospects life is replete
And how fortunate I was to be there
Smelling the fragrance of the wooded air
With Solitude, my dearest companion
Now I don't see him nearly as often

I might have been an actress on the stage
But what we'll become no one can presage
I would have liked to travel the world o'er
And sail far away to some distant shore
Instead, I became a dutiful wife
Thus I shall be for the rest of my life
And for my children on cool afternoons
I'll bake pies with old pans and timeworn spoons

Copyright © 1997 Alisha Freeman

Comments to the author: patrickf@oz.net

Personal Poetry Page Link: Alisha's Auberg

Could I Live Forever Please?

By: Sara Gooding

A timeless past
a future so vast,
it's blinding.
Where will I go,
Who will I be,
What will I be finding?
So much to do,
But I have a while,
I'll do it with pride,
I'll put on my smile.
If I become old or sickly too fast
Will I forget this timeless past?
I wish to stay young and healthy forever,
To travel and greet is what I endeavor.
So I'll be on my way,
If I have little time,
I'll swallow my fear,
and put on my smile,
and hope to live forever.

Copyright © 1997
Sara Gooding, Canada


By: Vicel

Looking into the night
the darkness
that used to tempt me
the sleep that used
to call me
the blindness, that used to
haunt me
has faded now to
pass me
has made me even
has given me the truth...
that all bad things
can pass.

Copyright © 1995 Vicel

Comments to the author: Levi@Castles.com