Winging It!
Nobody Will
Nobody can
Nobody will
Tell you what life will look like
A party or a bitter pill.
Nobody can prescribe
A cure for the pain
Of the heartaches and disillusions
Doesn't it make you feel
insane?
When one feels bereaved
With nothing left
When one is a victim of crime
Loss is not only about petty
theft.
Without any help, any guide or line
Then you have to go on, still
Because if you don't...
Nobody
will.
A Murder of Crows
by Randall Bauer
sit stone silent
greet the sweet embrace of darkness
as the gentle hand of evening
slows the beating of your heart
but not your head--these questions come
like a murder of crows devour the midday sun
and shed no light
friends bear faithful witness
as a one-eyed priest looks on.
and the nameless angel fights you
with your hip out
of joint
but not your head--these questions come
like a murder of crows devour the midday sun
and shed no light
it may take these words from your head,
or the life from your body as you lie in bed
but grit your teeth and hold your
fingers true
'cause no, my friend, no--it'll never take you
no, my friend, no--it'll never take you
A Life Complete
i stand alone
on the edge of my life
looking back
looking back
the teardrops remembered
the laughter still trickling
the beautiful,
beautiful people
our souls embraced
only for a moment
the warmth
the love
the time
all that time we had
now
the veil of night
covers the earth
and rocks it to sleep
and
the faint, rustling
wing of death
covers me
and rocks me into eternity
Futures
Housecat contentment
My world at rest
I've looked out my window
I can't see what's next.
Suddenly, turmoil
stands up in line,
wrecking my housecat
peace of mind.
Alternative futures
stretch out in blank.
Someone has given
contentment a yank.
A couple of hours
I'll sit in suspense
stilling my body--
mind going tense.
Hoping stability
will choose to return,
praying my housecat
ceases to yearn.
Answers come only
with patience and time.
Everything finally
has a place in my rhyme.
Searching For Houdini's Grave
by Deirdre Abrahamsson
We can't find it.
Ambling through Cypress Hills
I expected just to stumble
across it
in all its
majesty,
or to instinctively be drawn to it,
somewhere between Jackie Robinson
and the hilltop shrine to Scottish
soldiers.
Appearing before us unexpectedly
(in true fashion)
like a magician's sleight of hand.
But it was magic enough
to take the shortcut through
Forest Park, through the cut fence,
scramble up a sharp hill
and emerge
with the cemetery stretched green and grey
before us
and Manhattan shining boldly in the
distance,
Brendan and I. Yes, that was magic enough.
A Man in the Spotlight
by Chris Patterson
He stood on his words
like crutches,
strategically placed
specifically chosen
plodding
predictably
forward.
The audience fidgeted
at where he'd been
and sighed at where
he was going.
Then dawned the day.
He looked everywhere
under
over
in unlikely places.
As the light moved
shadows
from left to right
it revealed much
but not the
precious crutch.
In the darkness the light
became a spot.
This time
his words stood
on the precipice,
hesitant
balanced
unfurling as
they flew down
and
floated out.
The audience
gasps
to see where he's going
and anticipates
where he's been.
In the absence of the crutches,
his red, chafed underarms
cooled and healed
in the wind
of winging it.
The Great Escape
I'm poor and tired,
sore and required
to be at work every day
to pay my bills on the way
A great big smile on
my face
everything in it's place
Sometimes I think "Screw it!"
I'm young and I need more
more
fun
more sun
more free
time
more me time
more money
more lovin'
This rut is not for me
So I pack my car and I'm off alone
cruising along in the great
unknown
Hasta la vista everyone
I'm winging it!
I'm taking whatever comes my way!
Friday
Saturday
Sunday
But Monday always comes back
and I'm back with the pack
Punching the time clock
writing the checks
dreaming of my next flight.
Tantrum
by Andrea Djennas
When furious, like a nor'easter, you can hurl a canoe
Your tiny train engine battens down for a beating
Cloaked in tiny fingers, its blue wooden form is
Amazingly solid as it meets the white plastered walls
Then slides down
To the crumb speckled floor.
Little fists plummet toward the nearest object
Me.
Frustrated arms reach out
Greeting tears
You squirm into my lap
"Hold you," you say.
"Yes, Mommy hold you." I say.
Together we weathered the storm.
Through Water
by Deirdre Abrahamsson
The wind slices,
licks the water into white caps.
I am in a single scull,
first time alone, no longer in the
practice boat.
I have fallen behind,
like a wayward duckling.
I want to do well.
I want to catch up to the
group,
to the leaders who
slice the water confidently,
with long, sure strokes.
But as I slide forward on my
seat
and momentarily hold the oars
just above the water, I feel unstable.
I catch my breath
as I feel the scull
tip, but I get the oars
down just in time, and I sweep them
through the water, press my legs hard
against the foot
rest, push, and propel
myself forward.
OK, breathe. I will be ok.
I take long strokes, not hesitating
for too long at that weak spot
where my oars dance above the water.
I keep
moving forward,
trying to make up for lost
distance and time.
I reach the Spring Street Bridge.
Traversing
through is difficult enough
when the water is calm.
With a glance over my shoulder
I steer the scull through.