Poem: What Next!

Poem: What Next!

 Eight-carbon molecules in rivers of waste, and the sun in a sack cloth hauls itself up again into the sky. And looks down in disgust at what was...a good idea.

POEM: PRIMO MANE

I was there in the first hour on the first morning.
The air clear and about all, and never breathed before,
never seen and cool and soothing about my face.
And I looked up
And the sun and the moon fell in love as I watched.
She sat, as a blushing pearl against Cerulean blue.
And I turned, and my father's light shone into my eyes.
I walked along and watched it all wake, from a long and cold dark sleep.
Further on I saw eleven great birds in flight...
and wondered about their defiance of the ground and the air.
How had they separated themselves from all the rest?
That air first breathed deep returned warm from my lungs,
and caused a mist to drift about my mouth...

Poem: BREAKER BOY

by Michael Burns

The newsies and the match girls, and the breakerboys in back.

They toiled away their little lives to keep their mamma's happy.

Six days a week they left their youth inside the warmth you purchased, and easy reads from newsie feeds that salted your accounts...

POEM: YELLOW FISH

I was painting ten paintings the other day. In the music studio and lost an idea among a pile of dead poems sitting on a shelf,

it was a good idea!

It was something about the sound a bird makes after a terrible storm;

for the world is stilled and made over completely in that single solitary second.

This is not the only world…by far...

Poem: Poets Hospital

There's a hospital for poets...

End of the road for a broken dreamer, and an artist with tarnish on his soul.
There's no line up there, you just walk right in and get into a bed.
Dead dreamers are wheeled by on gurneys on their way to reincarnations.
The place is filled with unspoken words, and half filled remnants of...those angry hearts
Ghosts walk the halls of the unpublished, asking you for a word...ah, "Please will you listen."

The great Dylan Thomas died here and the place reeks now of a writing shed. Corso walks by holding an antiquated toaster and speaks to him in tongues about the substance of a symbol
"I was born here and I will die here." He exclaims in the accent of an Italian Hamlet, on passing...