Malyssa Christman

The Cruelty of the Mind

Vultures fly around my head,
Ready to pick
At my every thought,
Bit
By
Bit.
Incessant things that tear away my sanity
I beg them to stop,
I'm on my knees
Let me be!
Please,
Please.
Thoughts keep rushing,
Your face flashes across my mind
Like a slideshow
A million miles an hour
Laughing, crying, singing, smiling
Where have you gone?
Vultures tear,
At my chest
Picking out my heart
Bit
By
Bit.


Keep Me Here

Strands of black lay softly on the pillow
Melting into blonde
Whispers brush past my ear
Singing me to sleep
Hands like ivy entwine together
Lost in the dark
Lost in your arms
The storm stops at the door
Nothing can harm us now
Miles from those who know our names
We don't bother looking back
Far from my house
I'm right at home
Keep me here
This is heaven.

{Poetry by Malyssa Christman}

Kyle Paul

nothing

he walks through the world of blank
there is no sense he will ever make
he only drifts from place to place
a blank expression upon his face
this man of nowhere
this fool of nobody
he sleeps alone
he lacks a home
only walking, walking
in his land of nothing
but this man has hope indeed
all he must do
is the deed
it is this deed
that will help to lead
the nowhere man
with all his plans
into the magical lands of ni
for it is in these lands
that our nowhere man
will find that he is free

{Poem by Kyle Paul}

Danielle Clark-Williams

Albert De'Salvo

Any other person would have walked away,
But I admire your body, helpless and fragile.
You don't mind, do you? NO, of course you don't.
I've always noticed your eyes are at their

Best when you're scared-they're fuller,
more vibrant. I blocked out your screams
and cries for help; no one came to help me
when I was suffering, or when I asked for pity.

Self-inflicted, loved-deprived, I confess.
Holding it in only intensifies my hunger to hurt.
The more you resist, the more excited I got.
Twisted thoughts full my head.

Knowing I've imprinted fear in you seems
to make this gathering worthwhile. But as
I watch you take your last breath,
I must confess.

{Poem by Danielle Clark-Williams}

Jacquelyn Stenman

A Song

The clink of piano keys
And guitar strum
Resonate in my ears, causing goose bumps to crawl over my skin.
My heart beats along with the drum.
Every word sung,
Every note struck,
Is like a flower blooming,
My sorrows left behind for another time.
If only the world could be solved so simply.
A small song played,
And the wars raging would end,
The hungry would cease to be hungry.
All of humanity would stop and just listen.
Even the wind would stop blowing,
The rivers stop flowing,
And the whole world would be at a stand-still.
The only thing that would exist would be the song.

{Poem by Jacquelyn Stenman}

Shelby L. Bryant

Vinemaker

By the cedar trees near the sea
Minerva pressed her bosom to the rock
And cajoled forth a jasmined fountain, sweet
    and pure known as "The Vinemaker."
A cacophony of laughing sound from the fountain
    pervades the shores.
A calendo forms from the black crows calls.
The waters are vicariously routed down the grey
    slopes that produce
The black grapes and wine which
Fuel the cups of Roman concubines.

{Poem by Shelby L. Bryant}

Help Support a Good Cause

Empty Shoes: Poems on the Hungry and the Homeless, edited by Patrick T. Randolph and his wife, is a collection of 151 poems by 80 different poets on the theme of the hungry and the homeless. Many of the poets have either been homeless or worked with the homeless. ALL proceeds from this book are going to benefit food pantries and homeless shelters across the U.S. My wife and I have already done readings in both Florida and Wisconsin. The proceeds from books sold at those events have gone directly back to the community or area in which the readings were done.

Available for purchase at: http://www.amazon.com/Empty-Shoes-Poems-Hungry-Homeless/dp/144951779X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1265637773&sr=8-1

Elizabeth De Sa

Refraction

Her eyes are two panes of cracked glass,
Distorting reality,
Scorching reality, into
Withered skeletons of discrete truth.
The landscape is rich, an enigma of mystery.
And the panes refract and blind and magnify.
And this she believes.

{Poem by Elizabeth De Sa}

Peter Lattu

cinnamon

an elephant marches
across the page
a man
atop his back
a procession
people marching
banners waving
saris billowing
headed to the temple
bringing cinnamon
harvested
from the new crop
an offering
to their gods
under cloudy skies

{Poem by Peter Lattu}

Holly Day

Until It Breaks

there are some places you
walk to without
watching you and things
that shouldn’t hurt do why
never listen when I
scream inside quiet
places


Enigma

I don’t want you to know me.
I want to remain
an enigma.
Familiarity only brings
contempt
and children.
I want neither.

{Poetry by Holly Day}

Patrick T. Randolph

Fisherman

Eternal
Silhouette
Against the sky.


Tiny Musicians

Ants’ feet sing
Songs on soil—
Earth’s grin listens.


True Sage

Grandma’s grin,
She watches,
Listens with eyes.


Ground of Being

I am my
Ancestors’
Dreams—incarnate!

A breath poem is a strict, meditative syllabic poem that I have been working on for a couple years. You inhale the first three syllables, exhale the next three and inhale the first three of the last line and exhale the last syllable. The breath poem is a dance of the psychological with the physical elements of the human condition.

{Poetry by Patrick T. Randolph}

Ray Gallucci

Roman Rumination

I went to visit ancient Rome,
But found it never fell.
Its buildings may seem crumbled stone,
But it's alive and well.

Its mighty temples still exist
Though in an altered form.
Its rings of gold and amethyst
Still fingers rich adorn.

For in the City Vatican
The emperor still reigns,
Descended from Octavian,
Worldwide now his domains.

The trappings of pomposity
Are fully on display
To glorify antiquity
The Roman Catholic way.

Upon the Hill Capitoline
Sat Caesar on his throne
Until the rule of Constantine,
Who eastward looked to home.

Successor of St. Peter took
The reigns of Rome in West.
He found when its foundations shook
Himself sole ruler left.

The statues of the Roman gods
Were chiseled into saints,
And temples where the Vestals trod
No more would pagans taint.

Now priests still Roman togas wear
(But claim they're "sacred robes").
And Pope is carried in a chair
While incense burns in globes.

So what has changed from Rome
That Romulus and Remus deigned?
An emperor still sits upon a throne
And holds the chains.

But visitors like me are awed
By Rome's reputed ruins,
Until the Tiber's banks I cross
Where Rome Eternal looms.

{Poem by Ray Gallucci}

Roger Singer

Without

I am folded, pressed into corners,
neatly stacked in the suitcase of her
thoughts.
My words are like letters, spelling me out,
signing with care who I am;
exposed as if naked.
The painting of me crackles, my colors
once passionate red have drained to
the gray of time.
Her fear, the wall of her heart,
profited in alone, welcoming the without
others sharply feel as an end.
I see her walking in the city,
content in her without.

{Poem by Roger Singer}

Carly Anderson

1 December 2009
Cabrillo College, Aptos, CA
Author Darryl Babe Wilson Speaks

“Every time I come here, it’s a full moon. I don’t know how that works.” Darryl Babe Wilson, author of the book The Morning the Sun Went Down, among others, is seated calmly in front of a packed fluorescent-tinted classroom with many eyes peering at him, willing him to speak again. What comes next? His appearance is a study in experience; short wiry black hair, touched with grey like an aged Scottish terrier and silver above the ears. His eyebrows are a curious mix of silver and black, tapering into thin creases on the end of his eyes. His eyes are unavoidable, though they gaze mostly to the right side of the classroom where I am sitting slightly towards his gaze. From this vantage point, his cheekbones cut an angle sharp enough to almost pierce the leathered skin that protects them. Despite the constant inflation and deflation of dialysis, a strong octagonal-shaped chin remains. It is emphasized by the evenness of color: a perfect shade of lightly roasted coffee, in a glass, with the sun shining through it. “Good evening, everybody.” There is a murmured reply, to which he replies with humor, “Louder, please.” He begins to speak and takes his glasses off and the gaze lands upon me, as compelling as if a half-moon in eclipse could gaze; its surrounding sky a subtle, quiet white. His conversation is punctuated with singing phrases that recall the highly quotable lines of his writing. In regard to the Universe, Wilson says, “If we get to be friends with it, it’ll talk with us.” The simplicity of his words but their expansive meaning leaves me in wonder. He deals with the confusion of scientific progress and Native American religion as simply as he deals with the Universe: “I looked science in the eye. I looked science in the heart. I looked at science in a dream. And I realized science does not have all the answers to any thing, at any time.” Strange silence follows, but it is a meditative silence. Eventually somebody asks the question that seems always in the back of our society’s collective mind: what will we do about the destruction of our earth? Wilson takes his time to think, and says, “Ancient wisdom says the Universe loves the voice of children. The Universe loves the sound of children singing, talking, playing. The children have a song in their heart. Take the children to the mountaintop. Sing with those children a love song with the mother Earth. The Universe will hear the children. The bad, the ugly, the sickness will go away. The power of the Universe will cleanse the earth again.” The flat light of the classroom throws a shadow on his face where none of the flatness remains. Instead, the light throws sfumato arrows of shadow under his cheekbones that point upwards towards his eyes. He speaks with a confidence that surprises me; his voice is louder than expected. There is an inscrutable note, a warble, as if any moment he may cry, or laugh. He looks around at the pensive faces, and advises us to “have coffee, and cry” and laughs.

{Piece by Carly Anderson}

Cara Losier

Escape

Autumn is at her heels now,
rolling up the fraying remnants of
past summer days.
She clings to this time of transition.

Unwilling to relinquish her grip
on the sanity of happiness,
she lies awake in the elbow of night
to be aware of each second's death

Etched in smiles and tears are
midnight rides and clandestine kisses
beneath blue and red lights.

And still these moments slip
like wet sand through her fingers
and the witches castles that they leave
behind are sadly lacking in tenants.

{Poem by Cara Losier}

Michael Ceraolo

from New Political/Historical Definitions

capitalism

-a system that spreads the risk among the many
while reserving the rewards for the few


graduated income tax

-a system of taxation where,
if you earn more than a certain amount of money
you graduate from paying taxes


war crimes

-atrocities committed
by the losing side


paired definitions

1. graverobber- one who disturbs the burial sites of whites
archeologist- one who disturbs the burial sites of non-whites

2. madman- one who kills 5 or 10 people for little or no apparent reason
statesman- one who kills hundreds of thousands or even millions of
people for little or no apparent reason

3. class warfare- when someone points out the iniquities of the rich
reality- when someone points out the iniquities of the poor

4. authoritarian- a 'liberal' who has been mugged
civil libertarian- a 'conservative' who has been arrested

5. entitlement- what someone else gets that you don't
sound policy- what you get that someone else doesn't

6. battle- where more Indians are killed and whites act heroically
massacre- where more whites are killed and Indians act cowardly

{By Michael Ceraolo)

Peter Bokor

Incubate

I am tired of fighting
for my place to stand on.
Already the whole world has raced me by
already half my life has sunk down
on the other side.
My blood is tired,
my bones heavier than water.
Everywhere I hear your name.
No one can hear me speak.
It is not that I have a message
like an angel or a sage
it is simply that I hear the whispers,
I know the time
and the movement of the heavens.
If I could only say half the things,
half the things….

A dry season approaches,
sun-polished bones dusted in the desert,
a crackling wind and potholes
in the asphalt. Great cities
that know no desert
will know the dryness and the scorching,
the gulch and the underpass
the railway trestles and the subway track,
watering holes, reservoirs, stalactites and lampposts.
Parallel lives run together in a single line,
a jagged scar tears the abdomen of the earth.
What would have been born dries lifeless encased
In larval shells hidden under turf’s edge.
It is not death that terrifies
But the unbornness.

{Poem by Peter Bokor}

Jessica Parker

Smell of the Past

I could smell the past
Outside today—where the skies cried
As I knelt to my boot
There you were in my mind’s yesterday
Nibbling my lip, breathing in my ear
So I could hear you disappearing
In the sour-sweet of the leaves
Rustling
As I rose
To wipe my mind with the breeze

{Poem by Jessica Parker}

Two Poems by Joy Olree

Eden

My heart is sad,
For eyes that,
Have not seen the light,
Their brilliance,
Dulled by the dark,
We live to die,
The serpents muse,
A hungry soul,
Who dared to,
Eat forbidden fruit,
And suffer for,
The hidden knowledge,
In the wood


Pictures

What you say?
Those hands,
That sheer curtain,
Pictures so intriguing,
That camera, the woman,
What you say?
Beauty in simplicity,
Clutter free art,
Not sure I get it,
The meanings seem,
Clear yet so deep,
Each photo and its, quote,
So memorable so stirring,
Makes one stop and think,
Makes one desire,
To understand,
The soul behind,
The lenses

{Poems by Joy Olree}

One Poem by Ron Koppelberger

Evanescent Whispers

Savoring the vanilla perfumes of ambiance
And silhouette, a perfect sunshine tome in manifest desire
And persevering love, by gauzy lace veils and tender
Availing bones in nourished, resolute suggestions
Of fond bloom and sure pass, by the flame of loves’ alight
In misty twilight array and closer to the secret
Of evanescent whispers.

{Poem by Ron Koppelberger}

One Piece by Luke Armstrong

Dismissibly Diminutive

It’s a small thing
no one says

They all
Agee

It’s a many thing
No one agrees

They all say
It’s that way

It’s a papery thing
So it’s manifested

You don’t see
It’s not these things

But the instruments?
Not necessary at all

And the ink?
Only red tape

The director?
Least important and no

And the musicians?
Not it

Phenomenology?
Not a clue what that is.

Philosophy?
Hardly

But…
And those who ask

Do not understand
The music, temporary, for an instant
More than staffs and scores
More than high school band geeks
More than an underpaid director
More than the instruments imaginable
The music became what it had always been anyways.

{Poem by Luke Armstrong, www.twitter.com/lukespartacus}

One Poem by Brother Mario Andrew Parisi

Involvement

Throw Jonah overboard, he is the source of all our troubles.
Yet, Jesus holds him as the only sign for this lost generation,
this lost, hungry generation!
They longed to fill their bellies with the husks of the swine,
but then they came to their senses.
They swept the shivering world in a running father’s
consuming, embrace.
As for Jonah, he made it to shore, wet.

{Poem by Brother Mario Andrew Parisi, O.S.B.}

Two Poems by Ron Koppelberger

Frenzied Butterflies’

Crazy, advances in history, in conscious dreams of
Season and fashion, a boundary bonded by the close comfort of
Immovable passion and metamorphosis, the hurry in further forward,
In paths of precedented allay, the tide in flow and cascading
Universes of healing baptism, the turn in patient
Moths and frenzied butterflies‘, a prevailing
Wind blustering the landscape and wild
Terrain of distant dust in the
Footfalls of angels.


Drama and Whispers

The desire in terms of need and real hope, a
Conference bestowing the wishes of nature,
The dreams of forward momentum and sly assurance
In muse, in a fools paradise, in joys of faded sovereignty,
Afire in sure sums of ascension, the parable
Of the spectral celebrant, told by the pursuits of
Drama and whispers called in
Nascent existence.

{Poetry by Ron Koppelberger}

One Piece by Olivia Suriani

Lovers To Friends

Show me your emotions,
show me love, anger, or devotion.
But please baby, show me no apathy.
Your love shows me you care and will always be there.
Your anger shows that we were true lovers and are
never more, whilst your passion for me remains.
But say not apathy, give not such a lukewarm ending to such
a passionate and loving yet sordid love affair.
Yes, come at me with rage in your eyes and fire in your heart,
the way you would if I was so deep in you,
the way you are so deep inside me.
As if everything I do touches your very soul.
But don't, don't let me see indifference in your eyes and dull
recollection of things already dead and past in your heart.
For this is the only true tragic love story.
If love turns to hate it remains passionate,
but this emotion I see in you is no emotion at all.
And this is the thing I can not bare.
Let me hate you or let me love you,
For I need some place to pour out all these feelings I have for you.
Say lovers or say that we are enemies but please
never say the words just friends!

dedicated to Modesto

{Poem by Olivia Suriani}

One Piece by Lauren Whitlock

Cold Hit

Strangled:
Zero in on crime

Throat slashed
Night stalker slayings

DNA links
155 registered

Sex offenders
225 tons of fear

Lifeless legs
A piece of trash

We always mourn
the loss of a child

Thursday flowers
Public order

20 lashes, series
Of rampage

Murders buried
Beneath debris

Technical indecency
Prepare for the worst

Death always went
With the territory

{Poem by Lauren Whitlock}