Varied Voices - 2002



 
Vickie McGee
Miracle Mile

I wanna walk the miracle mile I see
in your eyes,
but you wear road blocking contacts
concealing answers to questions asked in
time tables of confusion.
Petty exchanges for dramatic rearranges.
I am tortured with your poking at the voodoo dolls
of hypocrisy.
Your serpent tongue releases images of guilt
mother bird, you feed me harsh nouns and verbs
that curdle in my belly.
Iím older,
so, I thought in battle Iíd be bolder.
Although against your superior ulterior motives,
I am a wounded soldier,
I am a wounded soldier.
I wanna walk the miracle mile that lies at
the base of your feet,
but you love to kick my chins and dust
in my eyes.
Your steel toe boots have me traumatized.
I have learned to fly against the wind
I am forthright in my adult livelihood,
mother bird, I said I am forthright in my adult
livelihood, mother bird!
I want to walk the miracle mile that leads to your
acceptance of my decisions.
I want to wrap you up in lilac purple and
navy blue satin scarves and call you my muse
use you to inspire and conspire to change
the world.
A friend said "Mine has perished with words
unspoken, so honor her."
Honor her?
I thought upon the notion,
then was slashed across the eyelids by your
sharp one-sided vocabulary.
Blinded by my own blood.
Blinded by my own "blood"
I want to walk the miracle mile simply for
the sake of meeting you and resolution at the end.
So we can all put our feet upon heavenís table and
sip honey lemon tea, as friends.
Drown out our past thunder with smooth jazz melodies,
with a phonographic spin.
I just want to soar the miracle mile with you,
mother bird.

© Vickie McGee   e-mail the author

Words Without a Voice



 
Matthew DeFoy
LINE and LOVE Clairvoyant

The earth lay always below me
like Pi repeating on a verdant board

before again I drift silent
to paint on pages that

I pray to visit
with ink reminiscent;

As familiar as she
will be when I find her.

© Matthew DeFoy   e-mail the author

 



 
John Edward Lawson
Audited

Stayed up late in the confessional
again.  Waiting for stale lies,
secrets dampening breath like whiskey,
and the stench of truth
burning as carelessly as discarded incense.

Can our sins be itemized,
catalogues and indexed in the hopes
of some existential rebate?
Accountants want to know
(but not really).

© John Edward Lawson   e-mail the author

John Lawson's Home Page

 



 
Jeffrey Alfier
Burnt Offerings

'O lovely fugitive...'
       Baudelaire, A une Passante

Eyes travel the softness
between her arm and breast,
across her collarbone,
to her jugular pulse,
ascending upward like
heat from votive candles
to find warm depth behind
her dreaming neck, breathing
deep the grace I've stolen.

She grants a formal smile --
missing this poem's whisper
to those artists of old
who could not brush away
desire from their paintings
of Mary Magdalene.

Our eyes are dusky wine,
   poured on burnt offerings.

© Jeffrey Alfier   e-mail the author

 



 
smzang
Made for Walkin'

beside the empty box
where once nested
boots of Spanish leather
rich tooled with toes
of silver

beside the torn
tissue paper,  hanging
ragged across the border
streaked with cobwebs
and grey dust

resides a blister
just a tiny splatter
of little-remembered smear
the remnants
of a long-dried tear

© 2002 smzang   e-mail the author

The Rainbow's Edge E-Zine

 



 
Ward Kelley
Into The Sparkling Lurch

The finger points, you must take up
the carnality discharged into your muscles,
though you would rather swoop backwards
and sail headlong to return into the sparkling lurch . . .
into the broth of unliving, the joy.

Instead you must breathe . . .
and that requires the exercise of lungs,
the reunion with the awkward flesh
you once successfully discarded.

The loneliness of life
is subliminal memories
of the lurch,
and the sporadic ecstasies
of the breathing
are simply echoes of it.

If you could ever think through, then back,
you would understand the angels
are all down here . . .
but angels are never blessed with this
particular perspective, and instead they
can only think to invent winged fantasies
flitting forever around the heavens.

© Ward Kelley   e-mail the author

www.wardkelley.com