At The Bar

I like to do writing
Where things are exciting;
The bar's got bad lighting
But works fine for me.
There's plenty to see,
The game on TV,
The gals and their guys,
The kids eating fries.
The waitress just flies --
She won't hit the ground
When folks are around.
And then there's the sound:
The TV is drowned
By rhythm and blues;
It goes with the booze,
That nothing to lose
You see on the news.
They walk out the door,
Planning to score,
Escaping the roar,
Away from my sight --
But I can still write!

-- Cortland Richmond 1998

Cortland is an engineer/poet who has been known to compare falling in love with the science of aerodynamics. And not many poets spent 21 years in the Army.

Dreams For Sale

Dreams for sale...
Ten cents on the dollar.
Yes, they have been dreamt before,
but you can dream them taller.

Try your hand at magic,
and dance the dance of dreams.
Musicians are morticians,
or wish they were, it seems.

The desert smells of sin tonight,
I should have brought a shawl.
I could have bought Britannica,
but then I'd know it all.

Instead, perhaps, I'll buy a dream.
It is a tempting price.
Ten cents on the dollar,
and the dream is very nice.

But I could never do that step,
the dance is far too fast.
I've never felt so brave as when
I took the chance at last.

Well, chances are, I'll make it.
But chances are, I won't.
The trick to taking chances is,
you either do or don't.

You can always sell a dream, though,
no matter what you do.
Ten cents on the dollar,
and the dream is good as new.

--Kathy L. Casper

Kathy Casper, a freelance writer and web site developer, writes for Delphi's Business Strategies, and is a business columnist.

beating the day down and out

i.

chilled sake shakes my jawbone -gung-ho 'chungha'
my breath full of college days come back.
neither sober nor drunk yet
I liquefy myself after the day's beating,
my teeth gently clamped on a tongue
that will not cease
talking, shaking, swelling with too much unsaid.
there are many days' worth of words
layered in scales on my bones
and the carvings shine as much as they stink -
miniature dead fish slicing into me as they rot.

ii.

guilt, gain, loss and trial
each day unlayers and the double scales
meander between the mandolin breezes
until a note clarifies and they sway towards guilt
-- I almost slapped my child --
his neglected face feared towards my raised arm,
his crying brother clutched me with bloody hands,
the triangle of kitten facing the cupboard door
hooked me with eyes waiting for the slam of darkness,
then I release them
and the paths split through splinters and cymbal crash
-- my daughter sends me away,
one cookie-clutching son hip-balanced
while the six year old kicks and kicks
at the door that keeps bruises locked away

-- SCIAF ksdgk@earthlink.net Debra Grace Khattab

Debra Grace has been published in Blue Building, Sacred River & Sonoma Mandala. Working on SF&F, horror and children's also. Influenced by Sylvia Plath, Orson Scott Card, Sturgeon, Pangborn, & Ellison.

Untitled

I can't say "I love you."
What is love?
The opposite of broken promises
And dreams once so hopeful
Now shattered?

Or is it the warmth
Burning in my thighs
And kisses so intense
That breathing comes in gasps?

Or is it flowers
Sent for no reason
Delivered by the errand boy
Who has also felt my sheets?

Enveloped there
He panted, "I love you"
Because at that moment
When he lost his boyhood
Nothing else seemed appropriate.

I can't say "I love you"
.......Love has never known me.

-- CATBIRDLADY pennylee@gibralter.net Penny Parker

Penny Parker is an observer and believer who sees her writing as both a catharsis and a means by which she connects to that human element around her.

Rubber Duckies

Once there was one, but...
One was not enough.
The need is universal

One was enough for me, but...
One was not enough
For her.

Once, then, there were two, but...
Two was too many.
The need is elusive.

Two was enough for me, but...
Two was too many
For her.

Once, then, there were none, but...
None is not enough
For me.

Still there are none.
None is still not enough
For me.

-- Lou Rose

Lou was brought up on Robert Frost's poetry and an obsession with studying Napoleon's life. His favorite poets include Kipling, Frost, Emily Dickinson, and Edna St. Vincent Millay.

Captivity

Come capture this panther, lion heart;
you try, with seductive eyes
and slight touch of back
to captivate me,
and you wonder that I am not won.
Each glance is given
yet furtively, not freely,
so I sense your own captivity.
When you come to me
freely given,
strength enough for gentleness,
mind free of conformity,
beauty in heart and soul,
thought lucid and bright
then shall this panther
bind itself into your captivity.

-- Tara Tambollio WICKEDT tara_tam@hotmail.com

Tara currently lives in Indiana, though she's roamed. She writes poetry, does rollerblading, lifts weights, and surfs the net to collect more poets.