Morning at Seaside
An old man sits on the beach
Under the cloudless blue sky
His hands worn, his back stooped
The warm morning sun
Brings him memories and fantasies—
Is he yearning for youth again
Or thankful to have safely grown old
Author: The Beatnik Cowboy
Merritt Waldon
Chorus of the ordinary__
Idle time pounding into days
Unawake unshaved and inevitably
Mortal
Living for the movies
Living for the future
Present
My pen ignites a blue fire
Music that embeds truth
In all action
Idol thoughts over flow
Brim broken
Heart
Chorus of the ordinary
---
Coffee percolates
It’s beast song of spitting
Steam & jittery hands
Lends speed
To the psychic automation
Of the morning
---
Charles Rammelkamp
Revisionist
“The present wins every battle, but the past always wins the war,” Mick Herron, The Secret Hours
“It was a successful marriage,” his sister said.
“We bought a house, raised two kids...”
Sharon let the history hang there,
an almost visible ellipsis suggesting a future
of one accomplishment after another,
each succeeding victory outdoing the others.
Bobby only nodded, not in agreement,
remembering the howling fights, the infidelities,
the tears and picked-up pieces,
but why argue? Why disagree?
Whatever’d happened happened,
no changing any of it now.
If it helped her to rearrange
the living room furniture,
then who was he to tell her
she’d misplaced the coffee table
beside the wrong chair?
Matt Thomas
George Frank
had built a house
with his hands in Vermont.
Stone foundation,
gravity fed water from
an artesian spring,
every board milled
from trees on the property.
He was the kind
of laborer who rich men
would pay by the hour
to spend three months
building a stone fireplace.
He’d take a long time
choosing each stone.
He was a craftsman.
Of stone, lumber,
and the needs of
rich men’s wives
for a man who
knew how
to pay attention.
***************************
Jesus
Jesus, I hope the truck runs.
Jesus, I hope the generator starts.
Jesus, I hope the well pump runs.
Jesus, I hope the horse isn’t lame,
the drought ends,
the rain ends,
the hay isn’t moldy.
Jesus, I’m beginning to wonder
if I’m unqualified
to be the atheist I aspire to be.
*******************************
Sushant Thapa
Tattooed
I see the stars,
I wonder,
About my fall.
A height that is literary
Speaks like
A sacred duty.
Come to kiss away
The pain,
The chaotic universe
Is still awake.
I rest my head
On a dewdrop,
Everything is fragile
And hilarious,
If life is a freedom walk.
I want to drown my fear,
In the river
Of joy and pain.
A flower grew back
In my garden,
And I tattooed it
On my bare chest.
Daniel de Culla
Merritt Waldon
First snow augury__
The first snow of the season
A fine powdered mix w sleet
Arrived with such fury
& Then melted so quick
I think of anger and egos
Mashing together like some sort of emotional smashed potatoes
Well salted and ready to devour
I think of a possible end of days
And then I smile
Knowing like love &Beauty
It never ends
---
Joe Couture
The Regulars
A dry mouth blowjob
and cold pizza slice
both worth about
twenty-five bucks—
common breakfast
at my workplace.
Above the bar,
on monitor three
I see the butt end
of this shift’s gags
kneeling in fry grease
by the oil container
They talk like they hate her—
That’s why I watch,
though it’s not what I see.
They come, one after the next.
None finish. A posturing
play on pride and cruelty.
Then, they come and greet me.
“Mornin’, Joey!”
The biofilm is still on their dicks
as I watch the sick woman stagger
across the little TV.
“Gimme a combo, please.”
Heated for fifty-five seconds,
that’s the way they all like it.
After the microwave dings,
they all take their seats.
These regulars,
these late-in-life men,
twirl dull wedding bands
along their neon fingers,
while improvising anecdotes
with crooked smiles, old jokes.
Their wet beer belches
scented of salami,
jocular assurance,
and something else,
spit and whisper past
long, pus-colored teeth,
Feels just like home,
Feels just like home!
Ian Ross
bird listening
in the predawn light,
it’s just me, these quilts,
and the morning birdsong.
do they sing for each other?
I listen, deciphering notes.
a melody becomes clear,
and then there’s the lyrics:
chirping-pshhhhing-pewing lyrics.
as if I spoke bird,
I recognize them instantly,
coming from the winter wren
outside my bedroom window.
its song is a love song.
can’t you hear it?
it’s the same one I sing, alone,
in this predawn light.
Jeff Weddle
Old Flames
There was one who stalked me
and one whose name I never knew.
There were several with large breasts
and there were a few with small breasts
and there was one who was genuinely kind.
Some liked adventure
and some liked staying home
and most of them hated the books I read
and none of them read the books I wrote.
Most of them were beautiful,
even if only in the eye of the beholder.
Most had dark hair
but there were a couple of blondes
and even a redhead.
Most of them loved me for a minute
and they all finally moved on,
mostly to parts unknown.
But this was long ago
and I wish them happiness
and I hope they have found
what they needed
as did I when I found my Jill.
Some of these are the same
and some are different
and maybe it’s all imagined.
I am old but they are young forever.
Even when we die,
all of this will echo someplace.
Do you wonder, when you look at a grave,
if it is any different than your own?
You and Me
The destroyed ride buses
and sometimes take walks alone
or stare out windows
on rainy afternoons.
The feel the weight of regret
heavy in their chests
but don’t always know exactly
what that means.
The destroyed
might have pets or children
or be married
but still prefer solitude.
They are everywhere,
reading books or drinking coffee,
wishing for things that never were.
You might think them odd or invisible
until you look in a mirror
on your way to a couch, beside a window,
with a storm raging
everywhere.
The Beatnik Cowboy 