Splash of the Month Collection -- 1997
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December of the Month
SunflowersBy: Allistair Scott
Yellow rank on yellow rank in blank and regimented rows, a multitude of sallow faces moon the east where, slugslow hours ago, the sun arose to pass them over. Now in the haze of afternoon they contemplate another dawn while all around the air vibrates as quick and nervous hoverflies whizz in to probe and pierce and suck: and bumbling baggy-legged bees clamber 'cross the stoic dials to harvest grist for larva-bread. Silent they stand dawn on dawn to wait the end: the blade, the wind. And as they wait and slowly droop and desiccate and die, bindweed winds up their knotted legs and trumpets to the sky.
Copyright © 1996 Allistair Scott
Comments to the author: firstname.lastname@example.org
November of the Month
The Death of Mr. Potato HeadBy: Marilyn D. McIntyre
The creaky cellar stairs
that led down to "The Bin"
The devil always waiting there
the eyes stare back again.
Hands submerged in rot and soil
plucked up from the ground
Wary of the spider's web
always lurking round.
The breathless dashing up the stairs
the pot full-clunking sound
The peeling, paring, boiling
and then the mashing down
Or mushed into a pancake
Floured, onioned, battered
and sizzled down to size.
The treasure waiting always
when harvest is finally done
Buried deep within the fire
Blackened lumps of coal black food
dug from fire died
Burst open in our fingers
snow white and hot inside.
I know I should be sorry
for all that he has has felt
But I'm glad that he has died for us
when the butter starts to melt.
Copyright © 1997 Marilyn D. McIntyre
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October of the Month
In a Hospital,By: CK Tower
Anywhere, With Anne
"Where are we going Walt Whitman?” -Ginsberg What visions I have of you tonight, Anne Sexton, I dreamt you again. You sipping your gin at my kitchen table, offering a cigarette when I couldn’t find my lithium. I sit up unconvinced of my consciousness, unconvinced there is a difference in being and not. I shuffle to blinds, peek out, look for any sign of you, my good muse. But only see long slices of silver interrupt shadows in the empty parking lot below. I leave my room, it looks like the one next door and next door and next door, only difference the occupants, like you Anne, here before on different anti-whatever medications. I scuffle down dim lit halls in brown hospital-issue gripper-slippers remembering your frustrations. I walk into the dayroom just as you light a cigarette and blow smoke at the "Thank you for not smoking" sign. The nurses just nod and smile. Will you sit with me all night, a companion to my bipolar thoughts? We can sit and share a cigarette, dream of life without bent chemistry, of a world of metaphors written without insanity. Will you sit with me all night Anne Sexton, here in these long slices of silver? I have no gin and they’ve taken my cigarettes, left me alone with you and these brown slippers.
Copyright © 1996 Christina K. Tower
Originally appeared in AFTERTHOUGHTS, Vol.3 No. 2 1996
Personal Poetry Page Link: The Den, CK Tower
September of The Month
Migration DreamsBy: firstname.lastname@example.org
Tiny fingers of moonlight, Accusing fingers of moonlight, Filtered by the waving winter trees, Flicker on the snow, As the cold wind nasties through the city streets. He shivers on the concrete bench, Wraps the rags more tightly, Sighs and thinks once more of her: Would she ever take him back? Doubtful. Doubtful as the clouds that scud across the sky. Was there really a sunny summer field once? The rich dark smell of plowed earth? Sweat on my strong back? Sweet strawberries to pick? A dream perhaps. A dream. Was a dream that drove me here from Alabama. Josie said we were poor as dirt. And we were. If only I could be that rich again! No, I had to come to the city. Be the big man. And it worked... For a time, Till it all came tumbling, rumbling down around my head, Tumbling down and roaring down around me with the bullets, And little precious Tommy lay there dead, dead, dead. Copyright © 1997 Truthtable@aol.com
August of The Month
-That is not what i meant, at all- T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" I know it is not clear what I exactly meant but you have failed, my dear, to comprehend at all and you must try to understand: the light is bent away from us, its blinding rays somehow missent to drape these slim and separate shadows down the wall. And if it is not clear what I exactly meant when I cried, "Come, come lie beside me," my intent, though true, got lost with yours in sentient sprawl. I'll try to help you understand how light is bent to make ambiguous my meaning and descent into mere echo of desire's protocol. I know it is not clear what is exactly meant by what has come between us, and our impotent and foolish words to one another as we crawl toward some better understanding. Light is bent against us. Stay, and as we lie apart, quite spent, we'll lie together, almost touching, after all. If I have not made clear what I exactly meant, please try to understand: the light, the light is bent.
Copyright © 1996 Diane Engle
Originally appeared in The Formalist
July of The Month
and slip swivel words locked Sweeping in a sound smooth as silk, seranading accross my ears striking my throat silent. She now grows Still-- Sapphire eyes shudder more than her body, slight against the moon light-- She bites her lip and stares at me intently my hands meet my eyes
Copyright © 1997 Rich Lovejoy
Comments to author: RELovejoy@aol.com
June of The Month
The Phenomena of CyberloveBy: Glen H. Faureout of cyberlove I scarcely know like wine I'll pour the morning dew an hour then of reading these soft and drifting words from you soft and drifting words from you the rhythm of my poem sets a cadence that my heart finds clue to place myself without regrets to place myself without regrets in arms that never touch my flesh but hold my poetry to eye and like a rose to make it blush and like a rose to make it blush the meaning of it levitate from page or lips so fine a thing escapes the bonds of tacit fate escapes the bonds of tacit fate to spin, a comet, into black on black that layers light of youth I never can take back of youth I never can take back of will through riot that has gone to leave love spinning in a wind the weave of it so come undone the weave of it so come undone unraveling boucle of dream or wish I'm more than words can say in this short hour's lettered scheme in this short hour's lettered scheme.
Copyright © 1997 Glen H. Faure, Crete, IL, USA
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UntitledBy: Mackay Miller
May of the Month
If to find meaning
in your gaze lies believing
can we still turn-
twist and dizzy
the slow sweep of
the pine in empty space-
sneak away, down past
the tremblers and
Old God, the cranky
until the crash
leaps to our feet
and we dive-headlong
lie on the bottom
and giggle to watch
the last of our breath
scamper in terrified
and shimmering climax
back to the tumbling
Copyright © 1997
Mackay Miller, Bozeman, MT, USA
Comments to the author: firstname.lastname@example.org
April of the MonthBy: Meg Lowery
You hold your breath
as you climb higher and higher
into the sky, leaving
everything behind you.
You try to look forward,
but you still keep looking back.
Looking back at what though?
Your painful past can't compare
with the journey you're about to take.
You'll run into some turbulence,
and wish you hadn't run
from your problems.
You'll head for a crash landing
Where am I going?
Copyright © 1997 Meg Lowery
To Elena:By: John Murvine
March of the Month
Sun that gilds a summer day...
Burnishes fields of corn and wheat
Lends twilight tone to groves and forest trails
Save never braves
Past copse or cave,
Reflects and bends thru crystal waters
Aglow on the land, sweet fiery flame
Hushed in the dark
Yields not a spark.
Paints flowers of brilliant hue and tone
The face of God come down to earth
Dim dusk not know
Nor ember glow.
Eyes of gray fair crowning glory,
Petite sprite of forest stands,
Dulcet tones of gifted play,
Frolic with my heart today.
Rose petal dew upon your cheeks,
Sport thru glades of freshest green.
Honeyed dryad of ancient lore
Essence of love forevermore.
Sun that quits the day at journey's end
Lies no more upon the land...
Entranced with you, sweet pixie-elf
I know not, am not myself.
Copyright © 1996 John Murvine
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We ran races,climbed trees
Fell down and skinned our knees.
We waded in puddles, when it rained
You jumped from the garage, I did the same.
You did your paper route, and sold snow cones-
I trailed behind you all the way home.
We ran on top of the cotton bales
And crossed the trestle on train rails.
We fished for crawdads with stick and string-
Took them home to fry--not my thing.
We picked cotton once or twice,
Made some pennies, that was nice!
We skated, rode your skooter, and skipped rope-
We played marbles; could I win? Nope.!!
You dug a cave and said "KEEP OUT"--
But I crawled in when you weren't about!
You went to town to the picture show-
On the trail right behind you, I'd go
It was forbidden , but we played "ANNIE OVER",
Heard some yelling from our Mother...
We went swimming in the park creek,
It was green and dirty-- not for the meek.
I cut my big toe-- there was lots of blood,
You got me home, the best you could..
There was leap frog, and cart wheels to do,
And I chased the baseball for you--
My three strikes went real fast,
Yours however, would last and l-a-s-t--
Oh yes! Don't forget the cedar post smokes-
Rolled in brown paper, to make us choke!
And the sparrow hunting with your BB gun,
Also those shoot-outs with rubber guns!!
You captured red ants, to keep in a jar of dirt
Sometimes they would sting, and it hurt!!
We searched near and far, for metal scraps,
To help the war effort--- perhaps.....
We sneaked into the Tin Building to play,
You built airfields with a hoe,
And then flew your airplanes, high and low..
There were stick horses, and cap guns shot to kill--
The Indians and robbers had no skill
We folded newspapers for Henry King
He gave us pennies for candy, or ice cream...
We gathered and sold mesquite beans to Lela Mae--
Did her horse eat them-- instead of hay??????
You walked me to school, on my first day--
You said " Don't worry Katha, I know the way'!!!
I was so scared, but you were brave---
So I pretended the same; my face, to save!!!
Later, you met the train at the depot everynight-
To unload the mail bags-- just right....
Then we'd ride home on the back of the truck
Dangling our legs, and trusting our luck!!
These are just a few things, Brother Dear,
That I remember from yester-years.......
I've enjoyed writing it down today--
To tell you I love you, on your 65th birthday!!!!
Comments to the author: Katha@satx.rr.com
Shadow of The CityJanuary of the Month
As I peddled my two wheels, I stopped in front of the flashing light of the sidewalk traffic light... The clouds were closing in over the crescent moon as the city light became dimmer by the minute...
The presence of people enjoying the warm atmosphere of the city disappeared as the night dominated the city's auras... The dark, unknown presence of evil essence immerged from the edge as if it was the rat who came out at night to feed on society's waste...
The prestigious lady sitting outside of the coffee shop drinking cappuccino and reading ELLE was no longer there, but the old man pushing the cart looked through the help wanted section, sipping coffee from the Salvation Army... looking for new hopes and dreams...
There were only a few cars on the street and mostly flashes of blue and red... Sound of firecrackers rang my ears, but it was not the 4th of July... Then mourning of the poor soul who just lost his father screamed its story...
The man behind the bus station, enjoying the white illusion which lasted for seconds was craving for more, while the princess of the night looked for easy bait to lure, anyone who wanted to offer plastic or green for his self pleasure...
While this was happening the mother universe was rising from the west side, vaporizing the people of the night... and it was the beginning of a another day... Another fight for the old man who pushed his cart into the light...looking for a dream he once possessed... also looking for daily rations...
It was time for me to peddle again, but I was heading to the roof of comfort where my mother waited for me to give me a cup of hot chocolate..
Copyright © 1996 Mystic_K
Comments to the author: Eurosha@geocities.com