Each is a piece, a small part
of a composite that has come
together in a morning,
the frayed strands of dreams
knitted into a waking timed now
to a slow tread on a familiar street.
Then suddenly, careering through
the center of my thoughts a train
comes with bells at a crossing
clanging loudly and wheels grinding
on rails heading off towards
a distant point in the past. I stop
and see myself, late teens,
leaving home, riding the interstate
with dreams spilling out
of a duffle bag, head in a cloud
of hope. I was Rimbaud on rails,
high on poetry that I took straight.
Six months in a one room flat
I ran out of money and a literary career,
hitchhiked back home to sink
into a wintery despair.
A lifetime has passed
and I have left a poem tied
to the end of each year as if
marking my way. The words
of most have now weathered away
to a silence. I write as a form
of prayer to that greater silence
and on still mornings, hear
the sound of a train in the far
distance growing quieter.
"Travel light" Santa said to me as I grappled for all my most
treasured belongings. I stuffed them all in a duffle bag, then with the silliest
of grin on my face I said, " Ready"
The ride up was exhilarating to say the least, and the landing well
lets just say I don't recall getting there...
It felt like I was placed in a big glass bauble filled with tinsel,
joyful elves and little miniscule hourglasses containing reflective
light particles that flew out into the atmosphere through
smokescreen windows, tinted with pink magic glass.
I was tired from the trip so Santa led me to this little room made of logwood,
then he handing me a peppermint hot chocolate and said, " good good dreams, my girl "
What did I dream you ask ? Well, its much too long to retell today,
you will just have to wait until tomorrow, when its Christmas day !
The Wardrobe of a Temporary Condition
David J Walker
I had to admit
It might have been an illusion
The first morning home
Without a plausible conclusion to
Calendars past and
No witnesses left to
Attest to the
Long intrusion into
My young life
Nothing in the room
Was mine
Anymore
The clothes now three years old
Left hanging in the closet
Where I left them
The duffle bag of OD Green rags that
Might never be opened again
Thank God I was young
When nakedness was not
So much a sin
As it was
The wardrobe of
a temporary condition
He’s sitting on the edge of his bed.
Still dreaming.
Tossing love letters she never wrote into a fireplace that isn’t there.
He’s screaming at his closet for keeping
secrets that he found inside a duffle bag
she forgot to take when she decided
it was time to peel back the veneer
and build a trebuchet out of the remnants.
He can still feel the eruptions inside his chest.
Again, and again.
Scattering embers of still volatile sorrow, lament, and melancholy.
By morning he will be sewn into the floor.
Too exasperated to move. Too disheveled to rise up,
and attempt any sort of remedy.
He won't take his pills.
He won’t greet the Sun.
He won’t eat or leave his room.
He’ll just stare into the closet, on the floor.
Wishing he had never dug up the bones stuck in his throat.
Wishing he could sleep without going to war.
-James Kelley 2018
Comey and Martha Stuart Sentence
Comey had created Martha Stuart sentence;
She would need to serve for her repentance;
Mentioned flowers,
Better than ours;
Harshly affected her supporters and tenants.
Jim Horn
Missing Other Poets
So where have you been?
Write more poems again,
Be enjoyed;
Never annoyed;
Will read while in my den.
Jim Horn
Trump to be President he was claiming;
Do whatever he wants has been aiming;
Allegiance oath;
Love me both;
Those around him hopes to be taming.
Jim Horn
Trump is like a true trumpeter swan;
Big mouth to dusk beginning at dawn;
Floundering fuddy duddy,
And body really crudy;
We will be glad when he is finally gone.
Jim Horn
None of Your Bees Wax
Wrote poem for Andrea and it am devoting;
With her brain writes poems while boating;
As her titles increase,
Wax none of your bees;
Duffle bag full of poems was seen totting.
Jim Horn
This is for my 5,555th poem I will be writing
for her. Have less than 50 to go.
Dont cry mother
Mother please don’t cry, I had to volunteer.
I have to go away so wipe away your tears.
It really wont be too long I’ll sent you money.
Picking up his duffle bag he said goodby.
His mother stood by the open door and
Her heart felt a pain she never felt before.
The young man was sent to a dessart place
Where he would feel displaced
It wasn’t long before his mother was informed,
By a young soldier in a uniform letter in hand.
Sitting on a chair, a folded flag upon her knee.
Burning tears soaked the flag as she whispered,
Why my son?
To all the folk still wearing
That choke-chain gambler's collar
Who try to play within their limits
But bet their bottom dollar
To the disappointed hopeful
With his head held in his hands
You heard jackpot sounds that shook the ground
Yeah you were lied to man
To the woman and her duffle bag
With plans to beat the house
They are going to hypnotize you
Its a trap sweetheart, get out!
To fortunes few who make the news
With a big old giant cheque
Don't let them take your picture
You are bait to catch the rest
They don't show that man who lost his home
Free falling to his death
They don't tell you how that woman
Fit a rope around her neck
And they say they want the players
That will bet within their limit
But the house was built up brick by brick
By all the ones who didn't
New sheets
Light a candle with that familiar smell
Who can tell?
I have come this far
Setting up barriers to box myself
To stop picking up the traces of when you left
Emptied your cabinet, filled your duffle bag
Pick it up when you’re ready
I’m moving on to something empty
Now I’m making new history.
Let this room be a start of my new memory
Pain is more when there is no more “if”
I’m glad you left me hanging on a cliff
No water to drown me
Only a kaleidoscope sky to pull me up.
Turn off the lights, let’s end this love
I’ll sleep alone or with a stranger
Even if that’s the way, still its better
You always give me pieces I can’t build
Now I’ll give you a space you can’t bridge
Coz when I fall I fly.
When you left, I didn’t die.
I am a free soul you can’t defy.
23 Line Haiku Hijack
I stole a haiku from the Japanese
Stuffed it in a duffle bag, added 23 lines to make it fat
Fed it chocolate day and night before we started
Threw the 5-7-5 lines overboard in flight
Then placed the new one on the market when I landed
Shrimp and whale tails make for sound haiku
Deliciously raw like sushi
Japan hates my poetry and me. They call it criminal
Call it distasteful, crude and rude and even disrespectful
Complaining it suffered from too many lines and rhymes
I sold the stolen poem to a toothless Afghan man
A Taliban by trade, in need of a wife
He realized the mistake we made
Haiku is not an overweight woman, so he returned it
Calling it bland, loveless and torturously trite
I injected a diaphragm on the haiku 2nd line
To prevent undo pregnancies
When left alone to expand, haiku will multiply on command
It grew from 3 to 23 lines in what Japanese call, disgraceful
Hijacking haiku and adding more lines is wrong
It changes the meaning and is far too long
Haiku will never be the same again
I sent it off to India on a train…a quatrain to be exact.
I have no shame, and that's a fact
20 Line Haiku Hijack
I stole a haiku from Japan
Stuffed it in a duffle bag, added 20 lines
Fed it chocolate day and night before the flight
Then placed it on the market when I landed
Shrimp and whale tails make sound haiku
Deliciously simple like sushi. Japan hated mine.
Called it distasteful, too heavy and rude
Complaining it suffered from too many lines
I sold the stolen poem to a toothless man next
An Afghanistan Taliban in need of a wife
He realized the mistake and returned it at once
Calling it bland, loveless and torturously trite
I injected a diaphragm on the haiku 2nd line
To prevent undo pregnancies
When left alone to expand, haiku will multiply on command
It grew from 3 to 20 lines in what Japan calls a crime
Hijacking haiku and adding more lines is wrong
It changes the meaning and makes it too long
Haiku will never be the same again
In the end I put it on a train to India…a quatrain to be exact.
Hearing your voice as it beckonds in my ear,
I can still see your smile as my eyes shed a tear.
Memories of you I still carry each day,
as I go back to this place where they led you away.
They sounded off the guns with the twentyone gun salute,
you served so proudly in your worn soilder boots.
The battle crys could be heard through your fellow soilder's ear,
as he slapped the ground hard it came true his worst fear.
Recalling the day shots went off as you clutched your chest,
saying goodbye to the world as your soul went home to rest.
A flag was carefully folded in rememberance of you,
an honorable acknowledgement of when you served the red, white and blue.
I see you in my dreams holding your flag up high,
as you sling over your shoulder your big green duffle bag as you wave goodbye.
Displaying a big grin as it dances across your face,
as you disappear into thin air stridefully full of grace.
I had a yard sale today and I threw out all of your stuff
It was crowding my house, it had been here long enough
I put a sign in the front yard saying " IT ALL HAS TO GO"
"COME AND GET THIS MESS PLEASE, I DONT WANT IT NO MO'"
I emptied all the mess that was in your duffle bag,
Yes, I had a yard sale today, and sold all of your trash
By the way, when I was cleaning out your closet, I found a picture of a child
And don’t deny that he’s your, the little boy has your smile
So please don’t call me again, asking if you can come and get your clothes
Because where they are now, heaven only knows
See, I started to pour bleach on your jeans and burn all of your shoes
But to be quit frank, my dear, that would have been too good for you
So I had a yard sale today, and everything is gone
You have nothing else here, so now could you please
STOP BLOWING UP MY PHONE???????
Rude andcrude andineffective
The duffle bag is blue with a logo
From a tent making place eye can say that the Apostle Paul gave it to me
because he was a tent maker and man of means in a cold dark place preaching
religion and stopping the villagers of ROME from building temples made of stone
to worship PAUL hisself as GOD.
The old man suffers when the young ones want. Eye heard the little boy inside
the gang there must have been about fifteen of them all told and they were not
mean but having no gold they must survive eye heard him saya OH LOOK there
is my bag that’s my bag is what he said eye hope he don’t ever try to make this
thing that eye have found to turn it into gold because its mine this old man found
and scrounge is better than a gang and take this poem is for FOUND things.