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Long poem by Darryl Ashton | Details |

THE RETURN OF PETER PAN 2014

THE RETURN OF PETER PAN…2014  

And Introducing 
The arch enemy:
((Political Correctness and Health and Safety))

Ladies and Gentlemen: boys and girls. Peter Pan is set to strike again.

 
A sequel to J.M. Barrie’s classic tale will be published in the very near future, in which Tinkerbell will be replaced by a male fairy named Firefly, the Darling little children are all grown up, Neverland is blighted by pollution and Nana the dog, is sadly dead. 

Darryl Ashton has obtained this exclusive interview with Peter Pan to find out what went wrong. Peter says: “What has the world come to when someone like me is no longer allowed in children’s bedrooms? OK, so at first inspection things don’t sound too great.
I am someone who climbs secretly through children’s  bedroom windows. I have a friend called Tinkerbell who is, yes, a ‘Fairy’. The two of us tell the little Darlings’ to forget about their parents and come away with us on a big adventure to Neverland. But relax, will you! 
Looking’ back I guess my problems really began when I started planning this return trip to Britain after some 100 years. Do you know how hard it is for a guy like me to get the paper work together? By the time Childcare Agencies, Social Services and The Criminal Records Bureau had vetted me, the magic was wearing pretty thin, I can tell you.

Was I self – employed? Or were Tinkerbell and I in a VAT – registered partnership? Did I have a pilot’s licence, which met all compliance standards? Did I have the relevant Visa for tourists from Non – EU countries? Questions, questions! Don’t all these regulations get you down? Anyway, as Tinks and I soon came to discover, Britain has changed beyond all recognition in the years we have been away.
Our first discovery, much to our horror, was Wendy, and her brothers John and Michael, were some time ago taken into foster care. We learnt that their parents, who were in the habit of leaving them in the care of Nana the dog, had been stripped of access to the children.

TV crews chased Mr and Mrs Darling down the street and a police guard had to be placed outside their door to prevent vigilante gangs from attacking them. Well, that was all too much for Nana the dog who was carted off to an RSPCA hospital, where she was soon being seen by a strange Australian man with a beard and a didgeridoo, who said he could make her a star, on, Animal Hospital.  

Nana said she’d rather be put down, so after a quick call to an assisted suicide group called Dognitas, the old dear’s now pushing up the daises next to Shep in Blue Peter’s garden. Such a waste, she’d been trained by Norland, you know. 
But I don’t suppose that means much these days.

Unsurprisingly, the Darling children went rapidly down hill from there. Shunted from one foster home to another, they fell in with the wrong crowd. Before long, Michael was wearing a hoodie and worse, hanging out with Prince Harry’s lot. As for little John, without any proper father figure to look after him, he found solace in a new faith, changed his name to Sinbad, and was last heard of heading for the Afghan hills for a spiritual vacation. Which is why Wendy got back in touch with yours truly.

So with no one else left to help her, Wendy closed her eyes tight and sent a wish to her old mate Peter Pan. I must confess, when her message first popped up on my Blackberry, I winced. Is there nowhere the office can’t reach me these days? Even Neverland? So I made a few calls, and whaddya know? Hookie agreed to help me out. Yes, I know he’s a rogue and bounder who has polluted the whole of Neverland, after swapping the Jolly Roger for a fleet of turbo charged jet skis. 

Big mistake. We’d scarcely set foot in London before the anti – terrorism squad and Hookie was carted off to Belmarsh. You should have heard him shouting when they took him away! “I am Hook, one time bosom to Blackbeard. The only man to send a shiver up the wooden stump of, Long John Silver. The only consolation for the poor Captain was that the crocodile never made it through the security checks at Neverland Airport”. The other passengers heard that clock ticking in its belly and said they would not travel unless the croc was chucked off the flight.

As for Tinkerbell, no sooner had she returned to her old haunts than a gay rights group called Stonewall said it was totally unacceptable for her old name to be retained. When asked for an explanation, they just threw their eyebrows to the ceiling, sucked in their lips like lemon quarters and gasped: Firely was so much more ‘now’. They even wanted Tinks to change her gender, but we’re still negotiating on that. The Elf’s trade union is pretty sticky on that sort of alteration.

The fairy costumes had to go too, something to do with stereotyping. But when I showed Tinks her new thong, her little pilot light went out altogether, and I’m afraid no amount of Polish plumbers can get it started again. So now I’m stranded and alone, with only my shadow for company. Even Wendy has cut off contact after getting a six – figure deal to appear on a Celebrity show---get me out of here! All of this I can tell you, is incredibly upsetting.

What has happened to Britain these days? I know Neverlands not perfect, but it’s a place where time stands still – and innocence is preserved and I like it that way. Today’s inspectors and officials all say that they’re only interested in protecting children. But by imagining the worst of people they are only wrecking the very innocence they presume to defend.

As I was telling the tooth fairy the other day: “You know Gums, sometimes I wonder if childhood itself is vanishing”. And do you know what she said in reply: “Sorry Pete, I’ve gone private. If you want a consultation, you’ll have to pay up front”.
How about ‘Pay – as – you – go? Sorry Pete, it’ll Neverland!


BY
DARRYL ASHTON                                                      

                                        


Long poem by Scott Howard Myers The Gypsy King | Details |

Wall Street

      

Set upon the new world stage within the burning fires of hell. Silently posed factions of the elite, suppress the true inherit of Mother Earth. The meek children bending over for millennium, taken spankings of bare bottoms, pelted slavery. 

Upon entry to rule, the open stage of smoked mirrors began to reflect back upon the podium of lies. Taught by scholars from university books of political science. Fearful of leadership matching mirrored images, of false pretense, babbling rhetoric. The stirring masses of discontented, individualistic, thought of as dead - enders, trouble makers, and rebel rousers, rallied aimlessly.   

With super hero, Captain Do Gooder, bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street. Weary lost hope combatants mustered courage, and accepted destiny. To this point, someone shouted against the wind of change. Felt by all who sensed the importance. 
"To death do us part of the purpose to which we, the united, stand for justice". 
The chant began, as Captain Do Gooder was dragged away, and cuffed, once bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street. 
Damn the torpedoes. Damn the torpedoes. 
Captain Do Gooder, fallen, bruised ego matching skinned knees, lays helpless. Who will save them now.

Second glances from high rise penthouses. Serving champagne and caviar. Brought iron clenched hands once hidden, to draw the stage curtain down. 

With Captain Do Gooder nowhere to be found. The voice that came from pain of pupil. Born within broken dreams of promised lands. Realized nothing was coming cheap on this occupation. 

The dusty streets found Captain Do Gooder aimlessly stepping against the winds of change, down Wall Street. The well-intentioned, arrested and broken spirited, lost hope of recycling any salvage rights taken from them by Metro. 

Was this the end of the well thought out, pushed down occupation.  
Was this the beginning, of the underground faction. Where was senior generation X hiding. Only Captain Do Gooder and the well-intentioned, world stage occupiers, hold the key to that Pandora's box of hope. 

 
The peoples across the oceans were already springing far ahead in their own, more brutal campaign. For they had no cushion on which they were raised to kneel against. Tyranny ran over them.  A lesson yet not felt, or learnt, or taught, in the new world.  No chance of city mayors issuing eviction notices. Bullets, tanks and bombs were of the order. Brought down the line, traced back to the ones our United Nations to this day, refuse to acknowledge.
While leaders there home internet shop, and pump out the lies. Everyone dies. 


In the heart of the continent of center, where unto which as mankind sprang forth, for its first and ever conquest.  
The lights kept dim, to obscure the violent cleansing. A facade to disguise once moreover, the brutal tyranny for which the greed of the elite, control the dimmer switch. Diamonds and oil fuel the fire of war and oppression, on this stage of greed and guilt. Too far away, and too many distractions upon center stage for one to see or care. Thought and looked upon by most as racially motivated.  The origins of all mankind, to be left, far too far, behind. The true forsaken people. Why is man unkind.


So..........will Captain Do Gooder raise the bar to which drinks for the house, and all around, will quench the thirst felt by ninety nine percent of the people............mother knows best.   
Yet, still, self-inflicted roadblocks of appointed destiny, drop kicked long days past. Faint light shining far ahead, within the tunnel of hell, brought up to land. Firm above the depths to which it sprang. The truth of world order.  

Wait......what do we see......do our closed eyes deceive our cries........................................

We see Captain Do Gooder catching second wind. 

She breathes deep now and all can hear her war cry, no longer whimpering softly. As in past tense situations, given way to dazed and confused wall street *****es.  
She builds momentum, as our brothers and sisters lay dying and bleeding. On the streets of some not so distant for telling, of what's to be, will never not be coming full steam ahead and plowing through the hidden agenda.  One step beyond the line drawn in the sand of time, we thought would never be crossed. Give way thoughtless future tellers, and takers. Still holding firm with paper cuts, deep into the hands who printed and prepared such slave papers, kept by the elite bankers. 

Captain Do Gooder returns renewed and refreshed. Our true Mother.  
Captain Do Gooder feels strong, as bruised knees and scraped hands heal. 


Brush of destiny sweepstakes,  allots winnings of earth shaking, volcano erupting, tsunami tidal waves, with bonus draws of worldwide chaos. Future draws are to be held with worldwide winners. Grand prize, dead oceans rising.  

The next generation have no fear digest writes the next chapter. 

 
Hold the press down firmly wall street backbiting backbenchers. Drawn into the crossfire, on her mark, place the x on the next general who dares not fall into civil disobedience.  
Captain Do Gooder has grown teeth, and she is biting down hard against the line to pipe riches, spoiled from her lands. Stolen from the first pilgrimage, fifteen thousand years old, lost empire. 

How dare you steal from, and pollute the minds of her children. Yet old enough to drink and drug and die in war.  How dare all of us. 

Meanwhile back at the ranch.  Captain Do Gooder hugs tight that tree of life, to which sprang all this elbow rubbing and diversion. Wall street huddles in her corner, painted red to match the lengths to which an end will surely bring to it. 
Painted red for all to see. 
The end to friendly letter writing, give peace a chance, make love not war, generation taking a bow, and snow birding it, to false sense of security land. Like the ostrich with its head in the sand. 



Long poem by Dylan Irvin | Details |

Phantom Mechanisms

Mechanism 1
Part #1

The things outside of my window dry out my eyes. The egg that I saturated has mold on it. The moon decays when I speak. The stars are all just God’s germs. Lately Holly has been combing her hair with a wrench and brushing her teeth with razor blades. I don’t remember the last time I was sober. Does it matter anyway? My nightmares are born in water and I can’t afford a boat. Money is just something you use to wipe up your brains’ blood with. My neighbor says the ocean is where civilization will be reborn.

Mechanism 2
Part #5

Does happiness come with a warranty? It’s been so long since I’ve gone to the store, so I wouldn’t know. My neighbor is paranoid. He carries his rifle wherever he goes. What happens to feelings after you can’t feel anymore? Holly says that the shower nozzle feels better than I do. Last night I found an artificial word under my bed. I see faces in the winter. They all look at me like I’m spring. 

Mechanism 3
Part #7

Some moth keeps fluttering by my window, it can’t get out. The moon calls for its soul. It has to stare at its dream through inescapable glass. Just like the reflection does in the mirror. Do colors look the same to other people? What if blue for you was red for them? Then they would literally have a red sky, and they would still be calling it blue. Holly says my brain is as good as that moth. Which, I wouldn’t doubt, except I write poetry and he commits suicide by lamp

Mechanism 4
Part #2

Some guy asked me if I had someone by the name of Frank sleeping in my apartment anywhere. What a freak. My neighbor says I should stock up on canned foods. He is a freak too. I think my pencil has been drinking. Satisfaction, for me, is like frozen alcohol. Holly showers too much. She is a freak. I want to drive to New York. Who am I kidding; I’m too sober to drive. 

Mechanism 5
Part #6

This hotel is making me go sane! Every time I lay down I hear the snore of the one’s who have slept here before me. My neighbor tells me that we are all going to be cannibals. Holly’s brain was spilling blood, so I cleaned it with quarters. This place smells like… well I can’t make out the smell exactly. Shut up Holly.

Mechanism 6
This part is not in the instructions?

…Uh…I don’t know...go away…stop reading this… You’re still here huh? I’ve drank too much solvent tonight. The casing will never get cleaned now. You probably don’t know what that is.  I feel lkie cuittng fof my fingre adn puttung ut in Hlly’s wine. I’m real gone. 

Mechanism 7
Part # 4

This wine tastes like the blotches on the moon. Holly says I’m the worst person that she has ever felt. Her compliments are intriguing. That moth is still desperately trying to get out of the window. I’m just going to turn on the lamp. Anti-tobacco commercials make me want to smoke a cigarette. Last night my neighbor shot his T.V. and the recoil made him fall on his head. Apparently he died or something. That’s a shame, that was a damn good television. 

Mechanism 8
Part # 8

Are you even real? Are any of us even real? What is real? I see the ghost of Rimbaud sitting on the chair mocking me. Is he real? People would call me crazy, but it’s those same people who say that one guy died for us and then was resurrected from the dead by someone who supposedly created the universe. If that’s real, then where did the creator come from? I pour out all the rivers of the world onto the concrete sky. Holly says my eccentricity makes me abnormal. Is she even normal? Are any of us even normal? What is normal?

Mechanism 9
Part # 9

Normal is someone who conforms to the shackles of society. Holly says that I need to **** her more. But that’s not the hard part; the hard part is pretending that I enjoy it. At what cost does a man finally enable himself to be free? How many bottles of hard liquor does it take? How many different drugs? How many different women? How many different faces does he need to wear? I guess the better question is; how many mistakes does a man need to make before he benefits from them?


Mechanism 10
Part # 10

I am real gone. I am the static in your television. I am a creak in your house. I am a mastodon. I am extinct. I am a ghost. My mind is six feet under but my feet are still walking. I am the core of the apple. I am not the pit of a peach. I am poetry not for the masses. I am the book never to be read. I am the moth at your window. I am a mechanism. You are a mechanism. Holly is a mechanism. We are all mechanisms working together to form a machine. A selfish, ungrateful and greedy machine that will destroy the planet Earth in which we are only guests. We take advantage of this place but it does not take advantage of us. I am a phantom and these are mechanisms that keep me transparent.



Long poem by Carrie Richards | Details |

Red Tulips

Under a tree of wet blossoms, shimmering to life in the sun, one honey bee is circling around two burly men, who wave it off,  with childlike dramatics...arms flailing.   One of them, wearing heavy leather boots, leaves his deep imprints in the grass, still wet from yesterday's storm.  I wince, as the toe of his left boot squashes a purple pansy that is growing along the border. Oh dear, her prized flowers,....they are like her babies!  She has always had the greenest, thumb..and the prettiest yard on the block!
                                             
a white blossom                         rush hour traffic...              a crushed pansy
lands on her shoulder....          bees circle the tree            still beautiful in my palm...
a goodbye gesture                     droning with noise              lines in her face

 Both men seem irritated, and anxious to get on the road, as they stand next to the giant truck, which is parked against the curb. The shorter man, nurtures a butt of a cigarette between gloved fingers with such intensity, it's as if he were sentenced to be hanged at noon, and this was a final puff.  He inhales deeply, then, after a careless toss of the stub,  they both climb aboard, into the cab, and squeeze their husky frames into the cab, like two coiled Slinkys , ready to spring into action.   They start up the engine, and trails of cigarette smoke are left to mingle with cloud-white petals, that drift from the tree.

smoke spirals up         from a spent cigarette......    truck coughs black exhaust

two nosy neighbors     watch from dark windows.... crows gather on grapevine

The moving van,... a huge, battered dinosaur, wearing a big red proclamation, "TWO BROTHERS-VAN AND STORAGE",...  looks so out of place, parked along my street. I begin to feel it vibrate the sidewalk and it deafens our ears.  Slowly, it begins to roll, and we watch, as it lazily, lumbers down the familiar street.  It turns the corner, and disappears out of sight. I lean over to grab her hand, and she is crying  
and I find myself breaking the promise not to.

muddy truck tires....                                                                     
parallel stripes                      
follow from behind                   

I suppose it shouldn't matter to me now, but can't resist, and lean down to pick up the discarded, lifeless cigarette butt, and walk it over next door, to the trash can,  that still waits for Thursday's pick-up.  I blow my nose and dry my eyes.  It won't help her, if she sees me fall apart.

I remember the day she moved in, over twenty years ago.  
We were strangers then, ...but sisters we became.
Now it seems all those years are packaged up inside those cardboard boxes, wrapped in newsprint, taped shut, now moving on to another state,  to somewhere I don't belong.
Her husband gently clears his throat, as he patiently waits by their car,  giving her one last moment.
Her eyes glisten with tears.  Mine sting too...but I had promised I wouldn't cry...so I am biting my bottom lip. A quick hug..   "Yes...we'll write...we'll visit...we'll call!   
Soon!   I promise,.........soon!"
She hands me a box of tulip bulbs.  "These are the red ones... the ones you loved so much, something to remember me by."...  I want to plant some in the new place, but have been saving some for you too"...
"Next year when they bloom, think of me, will you? A part of me to keep you company."
She walks to her packed car, turns once more with that familiar smile, the same little wave, that she gave me on that very first morning, as she stood at her mailbox.  She jumps in next to her waiting husband. He starts the engine, and soon their car is heading down the street, that is no longer her street. Around the turn at the corner, that is no longer her corner
    Tomorrow the SOLD sign comes down.  
Perhaps a new wave, another smile, someone gathering mail ...will brighten my day.          
But today, .....I will plant some tulips.

my garden awakes                                         coffee brings comfort
from muddy slumber....                              sipped from her favorite cup ... 
 lively red tulips                                                 my cat for company




____________________________________________________________
For Deb's Contest: Spring haibun


Long poem by Christina McCullouch | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/devils_wine_469735' st_title='Devil's Wine'>

Devil's Wine

 I see your tears,and it breaks me apart~I wanna reach across the moon to get inside your heart

 I see the scar's he's left and it tears my soul up inside It makes me want to spew ice and throw fire

 Down for just him to enjoy in his own forever never~ending~torturing Abyss! It's all fun & games

 to him were all his little toys, God reaches one of us there's a million more for him to torture~Torment

 and infest. We never learn our lesson's just keep doing each other harm~ Have you ever heard the

 term were you raised in a Barn?

 

Close the Door, wer'e such silly kid's everyone of us~We get hurt keep it in then move on~ push communication

plum to the side.It's like a soda that's been shaken once the lid's off it explodes. If we don't deal with our feelings,

Where the Heck do you think they go?? A gentle hand is what our God really want's us to extend Don't Let the

Devil invade your Soul till you have nowhere else to go. We wonder why our children show up in school toting guns

It's because they're afraid~They are scared Theyre ALONE!

 

I'm looking into you and I see myself so deep within~Your a Beautiful~Shining~Spirit~Don't let the Devil get his

Muse. He's see's the flicker of a shine and it makes his heart quake and shiver deep inside. He know's his Doom and his Throne is only in place for a short time He want's to taste Now the Best & finest of the Wines. Don't worry sweet child Our

God's promises will eventually come true. We just have to guide, Love ,Teach,Retrain what it means to Truly be Kind.

Love each other Look beyond just.Me~Me~Me! We get so caught up in this world sometimes we just don't know what

to Do!

 

Love~Love~Love~ That's the Motto I Like to Live by. There for a time I got so lost and confused Then My wonderful god

Gently~Reached out and touched my hand~Said child You've known there's alway's been I that would understand. Now Let me Show you True Love and Let me Gently guide,softly~yet~firmly,reteach,and show you your misguided ways if you'd open your eyes you'd really see there's so much work you could do. Stop rotting your Brain and coming up with

all this Bad~Self tallk and more suffered abuse. Open your eyes Be Authintic~Be Real~Don't be a Pushover~ Remove The bitterness and anger inside your Soul its not yours to keep child I told you to let that GO! But forgive and Know how to Love VERY Well. Walk in the ways you think Jesus would do~Remember all the Torture~ The pain~ Mistrust~and abuse he went through for You.

 

God has given us Life so Precious and Rare, So many Beautiful things that we just can't explain~Its time that we open up

and try and save this world~That's now my mission in life~I won't stop till I reach my Goal I will be part of God's Soldiers

I have nothing to hide I'm all about Truth So Devil Let's lay it on the line.This girl will be Turning your wines into Fire~The ones that I reach you'll no longer Drink from. So if you see me you better turn the corner & Run! It's Red against Red Let's Fight~Fire with Fire~ God's got many soldiers who'll stand right along beside me if I need them to!With my God no longer am I afraid of YOU!

 

BY:Christina McCullouch


Long poem by David Robakidze | Details |

GADOURI

(Gado is the old name for Caucasus)
Translated by Viktoria Makatsaria

A black door opened,
A black man came out
In a black car.
A black fume appeared over it.
The man said:
‘Fume, where are you going?’
‘To the town of a skull,
To the low and high plants,
To the lung of a human’s child,
To the nerves and thoughts.’
The man took out a key,
Hit the black fume,
The fume tore off,
The black door closed,
The man went on foot.

A red door opened,
A red man came out
In a red car.
A red fume appeared over it.
The man said:
‘Fume, where are you going?’
‘To the town of a skull,
To the low and high plants,
To the lung of a human’s child,
To the nerves and thoughts.’
The man took out a key,
Hit the red fume,
The fume tore off,
The red door closed
The man went on foot.

A yellow door opened,
A yellow man came out
In a yellow car.
A red fume appeared over it.
The man said:
‘Fume, where are you going?’
‘To the town of a skull,
To the low and high plants,
To the lung of a human’s child,
To the nerves and thoughts.’
The man took out a key,
Hit the yellow fume,
The fume tore off,
The yellow door closed.
The man went on foot.

A white door opened,
A white man came out
In a white car.
A red fume appeared over it.
The man said:
‘Fume, where are you going?’
‘To the town of a skull,
To the low and high plants,
To the lung of a human’s child,
To the nerves and thoughts.’
The man took out a key,
Hit the white fume,
The fume tore off,
The white door closed,
The man went on foot.

A transparent door opened,
A transparent man came out
In a transparent car.
A transparent fume appeared over it.
The man said:
‘Fume, where are you going?’
‘To the town of a skull,
To the low and high plants,
To the lung of a human’s child,
To the nerves and thoughts.’
The man took out a key,
Hit the transparent fume,
The fume tore off,
The transparent door closed,
The man went on foot.

A bread door opened,
A bread man came out
With  a basket of bread.
A bread track appeared over it.
The man said: ‘Stay at home!’
The track said: ‘Go!’
They went and met another man;
He came from the wine door
With a jug full of wisdom.
They sat down under the tree:
Changed with one another,
Went away,
Their wives and children are waiting at home.

Other men saw them
And said  they would come to this tree again,
Maybe they will also take us.
The tree heard and said:
‘Come, stand near to me.’
They went and stood near it.
The transparent climbed up,
The rest stayed below
Gather round, bound the tree.
The tree said: ‘Release me!’
The transparent answered:
‘Don’t release, stay there!’
The tree opened its leaves,
Looked up with the leaves in the sky,
The sky looked down with the stars,
The men got frightened and said:
 Let us break up, everybody,
We go home.

The transparent  dragon
Swallowed the transparent man’s entrails.
The white dragon
Had the white man for breakfast.
The yellow dragon
Had the yellow man for dinner.
The red dragon 
Had the red man for lunch.
The black dragon
Had the black man for supper.
They stayed there where they were. 
Avoid us there fate,
The temple saves this tree for us.


Long poem by Carol Eastman | Details |

Kitty Claus

On a cold, cold night with a touch of snow, a cat wished quietly and sadly for a home.
For a year he’d found nowhere with love to call home. Yes, he’d been, so very, very alone.
He lived under a deserted car now, where his family had lived long ago, for a while.
They were now gone to a new home, and he feared, he couldn’t carry on without them, my dear.
So before going to bed he wished on a star, which appeared ever so brightly above, from far. 
All he wanted from anyone was some food, and to sleep next to a warm, warm fire, too.
As he fell asleep he also wished for a hand to touch his fur, gently and kindly, again.
Then he awoke to a sound he’d heard once before, as Christmas bells had tolled, long ago… He was sure.
That night an old man in red had come from out of nowhere, to take his family a new home, so fair.
Scared by the sleigh and the reindeer he drove, the cat had run away, that I know to be true. 
But not any more would he run away, his legs would no longer take him very far, any way.
He grabbed all his courage and around he snuck, until hiding under a bush nicely tucked.
There before him was a jolly old man with his reindeer and sleigh lined up, yes, again.
The man was dressed in warm, warm clothes, and stopped to lay down a beautiful bowl.
The man then turned away to do business forthright, inside the neighboring house that night.
I swear on my heart that this is ever so true, as the cat crept closer giving curiosity it’s due.
Coming closer he could sense the most wonderful smell, calling him forward, as if under a spell.
The bowl was filled with warm, warm cream, which he licked up fast as if caught in a dream.
Moments later the man came from that house, with a smile and a wink for that dear old cat.
The man in red picked up the bowl with a quiet demand, urging him gently to stroll to his hand.
Now was the dilemma to run, or to stay, but it was the large shining star that decided it all that day.
As he stood before that great big man in red, the star beckoned brightly from behind the man’s head.
The cats’ fears left as the man stayed with a smile and a grin, and a Ho Ho Ho that day, my friend.
He realized here was the home he’d wanted for so long, and had dreamt in his head, where he could belong.
Some how, he knew he’d be safe in that beautiful sled, and warm in that coat the color of red.
He came forward to lick and nuzzle the man, as yes; he was picked up gently, in his hand.
The jolly old man put him snug in his coat, as a red nosed reindeer winked from the front, I must note.
Then the man climbed in and sent forward the sleigh, as the cat curled up to sleep, the rest of the way.

Miracles can happen each day, at the hand of others who are wise and kind, I say.
This jolly old man was right in this deed, and ever so wise to stop and kind to care, you see…
So I’ll let you in on a little secret I know… 
They lived happily ever after, at the North Pole.


Long poem by stark hunter | Details |

Into the Heart of a Soulless Existence

Into The Heart Of A Soulless Existence

Damn these flies! 
There must be a half dozen of them 
Buzzing around my tiny room here, 
Buzzing and humming spasmodically, 
Like tongue-less eunuchs 
In a locked church full of salivating sodomites! 
Flies are actually amazing creatures 
That probably think like men 
And emotionalize like women. 
 I think they are attracted to my green onions here, 
As I again cut and shred and dice, 
And I am acutely aware 
That the blond dish is spying on me again. 
She must want something from me. 
She’s reaching out 
Without a living hand or arm. 
She’s reaching out 
Like the thousand estuaries of the Los Angeles River, 
As they poke and prod and pry 
Into the heart of a soulless existence. 
My existence! 
Wretched as it is! 
“Leave me alone! 
Can’t you see I’m minding my own business. 
Can’t you see that I am not that kind of guy?” 
“Shhhh! All I want is to spend some time with you. 
Maybe we can sip some champagne, 
Kinda cozy up on the couch there, 
Just you and me, see? 
And just talk about intelligent things, 
Like Joyce’s Ulysses, or Eliot’s Waste Land… 
‘I will show you fear in a handful of dust,’ 
Ooooh, doesn’t Eliot just give you goose-bumps?”  
“Are you kidding? Honey, 
Put the book down and come over here! 
God knows you weren’t made to read books. 
You were made to be a man’s crowning achievement! 
And nothing else. 
Since when does a delightful dame like you, 
With no formal education at all, 
Read the likes of T.S. Eliot and James Joyce? 
Who are you trying to kid? 
Please Norma Jeane, this is a man’s world 
And you need to stay where you belong, 
On the wide Big Screen in gorgeous technicolor, 
Wearing practically nothing.  
You belong there because we own you. 
Every single man with a pair attached 
Who has seen your movies, 
Owns you! 
We own your pulchritudinous face, 
Your shimmering blond hair 
And your gorgeous swirling hips; 
We even own the red of your ruby red lipstick.  
You’re nothing without us, Norma. 
And that’s the truth.
 So stay up there, 
On the Big Screen in the dark, 
So that we, all men, 
May feast upon you with our eyes, 
And know first hand what eternal redemption is!  
That’s your place, 
Your only place.” 
(Then my girl opened her moist red lips and purred): 
“I don’t mind living in a man’s world, 
Just as long as I can be a woman in it.” 
These flies know my name. 
These flies know my number! 
Next they’ll be nuzzling in my mustache, 
Wondering when the lips of the It Girl 
Will make their incredible approach. 
Red, seductive 
Helenesque lips; 
Do I dare disturb Hollywood? 
Do I dare disturb LA? 
Come with me to my Kasbah, 
And there I shall envelope you, 
Invoke you,
To render unto me 
Your deliberate and studied lines. 
“Billy! I need a flyswatter! 
Would you be a doll and go get me one?” 
Norma Jeane, why are you always carrying a phone?


Long poem by Cat Way | Details |

Little boy

This small for his age little boy on his first day of school, with his little dinosaur backpack and new blue jeans and white t shirt. Mama said “Be sure to be careful to not to stain your shirt, especially at lunch cause I know how much you love your ketchup.” He stands with his head towards the ground letting his deep red hair cover his freckled face because he knows a whole new world is at his feet, the first day of many more first days to come for the next 13 years of his school life. He looks out among the many faces in the large, peeling blue paint room and his stomach twists into various size knots. He holds his lunch tray of pizza and milk with shaky hands, almost drops it twice just standing there. The roar of all the students and staff echo off the walls,  the security with their walkies and the kids laughing horribly loud make his nerves even more uneasy. He stands slightly slouched and bites on his lower lip, somethings hes done since infancy when he was feeling over whelmed.  He doesn't know what to do, or what he is allowed to do. Maybe go out to the play ground and hide in the big yellow tunnel slide or even in a bathroom stale till class started. One side of the cafeteria had larger children, the 5th graders, and the sizes of them decreased as you moved your sight to the right  of the room. There was no order to where you had to sit, it was just every grade sort of stayed with each other, the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th and 5th graders all grouped together, maybe they were afraid to venture out of their safe zones. After 5th grade you go to the bigger school, they call it middle school which is not the scariest cause after that you have high school and everyone says its a nightmare. He looks down at his feet and knows he looks like a fool just standing there for how ever long he has been, which was much to long. He didn't see any of his classmates, maybe there was a special spot just for his grade somewhere that will accept him with open arms . Even if he did he didn't know any of their names and none of them seemed to care for his. They wouldn't play with him at recess or be his partner in gym, nobody even wanted to sit by him at carpet time. They all gave
him the cold shoulder, you could see the sadness on his face every time you had to have a partner for a activity. As if he was about to burst out in heavy tears, his face would get red and he would hold his tummy as if cringing in pain. He is a coward and returns to the class room to eat his now cold food with the teacher and be forever known as the teachers pet, all because the lack of self confidence in that small child in that small moment in time, in the ocean of seats in the room with the peeling paint.


Long poem by Spenser Jones | Details |

Drawn in Harmony

The phrase "Music to my ears" has been injected toward the 
wrong part of my body, and most unpleasantly personified. 
There is a record player that I let skip and scratch on purpose, hearing 
colorful sound of life back when truth kept us both inside the lines. 
I thought order was helping me draw closer to you, while you began on the next 
page without me. The needle digs it's way into my ape-shaped forearm. 
I'm directed by the guitar string shaped veins 
that only play notes in the keys of D# E# A# F# and the sharp sounds pierce 
my perception to the point I can hardly hear your voice anymore. 

At times, listening to the same old sad song on repeat makes me think
that I am just an old soul getting repeatedly tossed around in God's 
big barrel of human paradox. "Lord what was I made for? Surely it wasn't 
to repeat the mistakes of my forefathers, because I'm certain I am the 
only one you molded with forearms so large, that the record got lost 
and forgot how to spin in circles. Music is all about art, and art all about 
perception. Perception has nothing to do with your eyesight, and 
you use your ears to envision the painting on a blank canvas before picking 
anything else up but sound waves. I drive myself crazy sometimes when 
I think that my inspiration is speeding away from me in the 
opposite lane, but I didn't even ask for directions. Mostly because I'm a man, 
a stubborn one at that, and I always think I know where I'm going. 
But this time, I swear I had gotten the map right. So I transformed my open 
hands into tight fists to make music burst out of my arms, and the needle went 
faster and faster until it broke off, and the high pitched vibration 
disintegrated the steel into my own blood. I blame myself for letting this 
be the first time to let myself draw some air into my body. A surgery of 
scalpels cutting into my physical, and an orchestral symphony of sutures, 
threading my life back together again. My blue blood turns crimson as it kisses the air. 
Why do we associate the color red with life and vibrancy, when it clearly shows that we are letting our own blood run down our arms? Why do so many women where red lipstick; the kind that sticks to your collar, screaming to your wife that you clearly sinned? 
Why do we see sin so clearly; transparent enough for others to correct us before we really we even grasp the desire to fix ourselves? AND WHY IN THE WORLD IS THIS MUSIC PLAYING SO LOUDLY NOW; when my needle broke off into my body a long time ago, and I can hardly hear you anymore.
Good thing my life's song still isn't completely written yet. Let's add a more positive climax to this. One drawn in harmony.


Long Poems