Corey Mesler, Graeme King, Cat Cashman and Graham Burchell
I am not a strong man
though sometimes I play one
in the family play, Jackpot!
It’s for the kids.
Some nights, though,
backstage when it’s just me
and my greasepaint
I wonder if I exist at all. Those
are the times I act like
a god, one the world, the
old theatrical world,
has no more use for, a numb god.
It’s the role of a lifetime,
It’s the role I slip around in, even
with you, even in the daylight.
Again, the Scission
I was hung like a star.
I was lonely like a wandering.
I was alive like the need for death, the ancient
You were such a lovely lie.
You were anxious, a thrum, a current of blood.
In the end we ended up at the beginning, the place
where you hold out a hand and expect it to be
snapped off. We never even touched. We live with
that stain. Alone we contemplate it, with our
philters and our dangerous duende.
Corey Mesler has appeared in numerous journals and reviews including the Adirondack Review, Turnrow, the Mid-American Poetry Review and Three Candles, just to name a few! Since I cannot do him justice here, please check out his website and other works at www.coreymesler.com.
Blue skies and butterflies
draw me outside to where
my cryogenic heart thaws
in the sunshine of your love.
The leaf section of my
plays blues with cool affection
then plucked by the wind
gives me a ticker-tape parade
then lies like a yellow brick road
on my trail to happiness.
Bird lyrics call me fool
to think I could freeze
or grow love in trees
to pick when I please.
All the while
my smile mirrors a daytime moon
as tree trunks
volunteer for diary duty
and I wear a teenager's blush.
A cheeky breeze blows prose away
and delivers fresh thoughts
of a promised summer
when we won't care
building ice cream castles
in the air...
you and I
a blue sky
and mulberry pie.
Slowly cresting the hill
stop and ponder
where I might be
Epiphany came calling, I was out,
Too busy to receive my inner light;
It certainly will come again, no doubt,
Perhaps that glow will visit me tonight.
Enlightenment knocked on my door one day,
My stereo was turned up far too high;
It rapped again, then sadly walked away,
Who needs it? I’m a well-off, new-age guy.
The answers of the universe were there,
Forgiveness for the countless times I’ve sinned;
I ran past in a hurry, didn’t care,
Solutions blew away in swirling wind.
My deadlines meant I had no time to think,
Or ponder on my future here on Earth;
I climbed the ladder, had no time to blink,
A man is judged by how much he is worth.
One day will come a light not seen before,
To draw me in, and introduce my fate;
I’ll stand there, lowered head, at Heaven’s door,
I’ll know the answers – sadly, far too late.
Graeme King is a versatile and extremely talented poet/musician from Australia. Please check out his website at www.kingpoetry.com.
to know love
to know love
is to delight in all her ways
precious in darkness
and in light
...is to feel the beat
of her heart, as if it
were your own,
keeping time with
life's tides as they
ebb and flow
...is to hold a gem,
sparkling diamond shine
with hands tender
embracing her core
yet setting her free
to be her own
...is to know pain,
stark and brutal
when she leaves you
cradled in sorrow,
falling to break, open wide
like a child
the wind and i
i dreamed the wind
into my sails
as if she were real
through my hair,
love's open doorway
in bayview blues
and seagreen hues
carried us skyward
out to a heaven
meant for two
in sweet embrace
we lingered long
on our ship of fools
Cat finds poems, like shells left upon the shore
from waves that come and go... they are gifts from the muses..
Cat is a songwriter/musician who recently took up the banjo. She lives in Washington State with her roommate and ten very pampered cats.
Pebble, one amongst countless, gabbling
when the salt edge turns them over, ensures
they are dressed smooth for nature’s display,
at a hem line, where a water world
meets an air world, like those special places
where a continental plate greets another,
where the bones of a skull are stitched.
My pebble is a perfect sphere, revolved:
an eye in a scaly face, urging me -
pluck it out and see similarities;
the more blue than gray – white-veined,
white smudged, but without the heart
of fire like the small marble that is earth,
lost, rolling at the hem of a universe.
They clack on strings in lines or strung like nets
upon the open sea that stretches south
from lithesome neck to swell of breast,
or sometimes hang like tears from lobes
married in air to filigree,
the stones are masks of eyes alive,
yet sound dead echoes in the bowls of ears.
They are beacons of your heart that brush
the scent and softness of your hair,
touch circles of your neck or fingers;
symbols of your place amongst the beauty
of this earth, viewed with more than magpie eye
that simply craves each bright ray ricocheted
from all the gem stones thus displayed.
Graham Burchell was born in 1950 in Canterbury, England. He is the winner of the 2005 Chapter One Promotions Open Poetry Competition, and the runner up in the 2005 'Into Africa' International Poetry Competition. His poetry has appeared in many literary magazines. He is the editor of the online poetry journal, Words-Myth. He now writes full-time from his home in Houston, Texas.