Naming Trump
After the shuffle there always is
The deal. Then bidding is done and won.
There comes a time early in the game
When the question must be asked
And answered, "What is trump?"
After the posturing and puffery
It is time to declare the suit--certainly
No spades, and definitely not hearts.
Better to be diamonds or clubs.
When the hand is to be played out,
Cards laid on the table, each in its turn.
Strategy would be nice; also to remember
Previous tricks played and how each
Player tries to deceive or finesse.
There will be a winner--and losers.
__________
This Old House
There it is.
Black and white.
Graffiti sprayed large
Black on white.
“Speak the
Truth, even if
Your voice
Shakes.”
It is spray painted black,
Toxic on asbestos shakes.
Long vacant, its blank stairs
Peek through weeds and neglect.
Plywood patches, plied where
Glass used to be. Shingles curl
Asphalt sneers. Rain gutters weep,
Leaking yesterday’s tears.
This house speaks on mute,
Beckons, in its squalid vibrato,
Of better times gone, when
It was a home to hearth and hope.
Now, here it stands still, vacant,
Inhabited by the homeless. Empty
Except for the hollow men who
Sleep rough on hardluck floors.
This house speaks its truth
To anyone who will see it.
In the gray of the invisible,
Inhabited by its vacated truth.
Author: The Beatnik Cowboy
Johny Takkedasila
Soul Rain
It takes time
To grieve freely,
Find peace in sorrow,
Spread wings, cover sky,
Pour darkness, weep loudly.
To liquefy in no man's place
Remember loss, cry bitterly,
Open lips, shout to sea,
See you,
Correct oneself after seeing,
Wipe eyes with tears,
Fill body with light by lifting
Dead lamp under feet,
Complete sentences,
Palpate face, body, remember organs.
Not my way,
Not a crop I want to grow,
Clouds never left,
Life was destroyed by heavy rain.
Breath lost
Eyelids fluttered,
Suffering collected
In missed breath.
Go into hiding, shed tears like flowers,
Sprout fresh.
If pain not felt mentally,
Become human.
Ian Copestick
Friend Requests
It's strange to see friend
requests on Facebook
from people who always
treated me like dirt.
About thirty -five years ago .
What's happening ?
Is it a gathering of
the wagons ?
A nostalgic fight against
time itself ?
Against death, of course.
Or are they nice people, and
I'm a cynical old man ?
Steven Leake
Sophia
Reality has an identity
A union of opposites
That
Echoes
Through time
In sin waves
A mathematical symphony
Of metaphysical truth
Keith Dodson
Waffle House
Lee Greenwood sings
“I’m proud to be an American,”
Waffle House filled
with patriotism
two months after 9-11
images still way too fresh
the flames
the disbelief
the collapse of what we thought
we knew.
The juke box transports
home and hope this morning
guitar riffs
sizzling bacon
sausage patties and home fries
hot coffee hot grits and hot waffles
everywhere.
The silver-haired cook
who’d seen
a few battles of his own
sings along
waves his steel spatula
punctuates the air
the song
the morning--
dancing like a boxer
after a victorious bout
he raises both arms
throws his head back
and finishes with Lee:
“God bless
the USA!”
Brad Rose
Not Bad at All
I take back everything I said about those giant jellyfish. These days, a lot of things happen fast, but slow, so like a freak accident, it’s hard to know whether you’re awash in the bubbly hubbub or merely inundated by a hoodoo brouhaha. Normally, I like to eliminate all my unnecessary synapses, and trim down to bantamweight. Well, that explains a lot, said Comrade Milktoast, whose sole claim to fame is a reasonably sized collection of dayglo mood rings and a couple of Stalinist houseplants. After the police arrived with their pesky batons, I explained that we were using only the good bacteria, and that there was nothing to worry about. Except perhaps, for the experimental, woolly bully chili cheese dogs. Let me be the judge of that, said the cop with the two, gold front teeth, as he grabbed one of the tube steaks out of my three-fingered hand and took a slobbery bite. Not bad, he smiled. Not bad at all.
Ken Rutkowski
Sushant Thapa
Touches of Expression
I think it’s marvelous
to pause between the readings.
Like the gaps between your touch
the memory figures out the shore,
and our embraces in the bed
finds a reading table instead.
I celebrate the celibacy,
the rarefaction between you and me
is so literary,
lost between the fingers.
This poem on the other hand
is against celibacy,
I think physical relation
is also literary,
once brought in
the touches of expression.
Brooks Lindberg
heavy cream:
you can substitute the
heavy cream
in a béchamel
but it's not the same
like a dream from youth
richer, fuller, harder to justify—
lap it up while you can
Robin Shepard
The Trouble with Men and Monsters
Hard not to love the creepy, uncanny and scary,
the spin tingling and disturbing weirdness
that raises hair and unsettles the nerves,
darkness that drifts under the chamber
door, howling under a wounded moon,
half-human wails of nameless nightmares,
organ music of a hundred missing souls,
butler who locks the lost travelers inside
a room of old smoke and dusty tapestries.
In their cold and drafty laboratories, madmen
mix volatile chemicals in boiling beakers
of luminescent liquid. Lightning caught in coils
of tension arc through the dark ether of night.
The hunchback assistant cries out, Master,
you promised me a new arm! For the love of all
that is holy and good! A lobster’s claw droops
from his shoulder. His left eye opens in an empty
socket. The scientist keeps his girlfriend
in the dark, but she’s annoyed by his inattention,
harboring suspicions about his solitary pursuits.
So, she goes downstairs. Don’t open that door!
I try to warn her. But that’s the trouble with men
playing God, creating the monsters they become,
ignoring women who love them for cellars
of high stone walls, conducting symphonies
of flesh on full moon nights, conceiving damaged
humanity and a new kind of beauty. For this,
women suffer for love and the madness
of genius, even as it manifests itself in men
and monsters, and the faint cry of creation.
Or Die Trying
Always the weather. The seasons sliding off
the table, leaving crumbs
for the dog. The whole of it passing away,
receding like water,
then turning toward the land and the blue hat
it wears in summer.
I consider my prospects. Always something
to complain about, living
like an earthquake, dying like the unfurling
hand of a newborn rose.
What more to come of it? The air is yellow.
The grass is yellow.
My words are yellow, though the syntax I use
is blue. My blood is thick
with envy, riding through elastic tubes tied
off at the ends. I look out
my window, see it approach. It knows my name,
knows I’m a coward.
My blood is thickly luxurious, will take
a long time to drain.
Parousia
After the arrival of the lawless
breed, ancient unholy ones,
empty eyed and silent, seducing
the daughters of men, we forgave
the devil and forgot the details.
Emperors of dark places, gods
come down from ships of clouds
to deliver us from all goodness,
these giants among us, Nephilim,
fallen angels living among sinners,
dancing in flames. We wait weary
and awake, gazing beyond
the window pane, candle calling
back night. Return of one god
or many, it doesn’t matter.
We shall greet them with praise
and honor, our daughters throwing
flowers in their path, rolling their hips
and sighing as the sun sings.
The Beatnik Cowboy 