2020-05-18 11:55:28 UTC
by Michael Pendragon
How strange this wide-flung, waking world
Whereon we sojourn but an hour,
An endless tapestry unfurled
Before us by some higher power.
A leaf that flutters in the breeze
From trees that spread grand canopies
Beneath the dragon-clouded sky.
The Autumn chill, the April rain
The winds that sweep across the plain
The locomotive's hoboed cry
That cuts the brick and mortared range
Of towers arching toward the sun.
The hush of night when day is done...
How strange, how very strange.
Life ofttimes seems a shadowplay
Spilled forth from pools of liquid light,
How does one tell a dream by day
From those he dreams at night?
How does one gauge when life began
Or where our dayfly journey ends
Or parse the patchwork fool called Man
Whose motley, pasteboard world depends
On ropes and pulleys worked by unseen hands?
And when the final curtain falls
And silence supersedes applause
We shuffle off the darkened stage,
And as our lines fade from the page
We wonder if the playwright understands.
The Eyes of Age
by Michael Pendragon
When I was young, I marveled at the sky
Rolled in the fragrant grass with wanton glee
Drew faces on the clouds that sauntered by
Caught wood nymphs peeking out of every tree
Delighted in the songs of Summer wrens
That filled the day with symphonies of joy,
The solitude of sultry Summer glens
Where black-eyed Susans watched a sun-browned boy
Enchanted by the beauty of the scene.
And every day new wonders would unfold
As Earth unrolled her tapestries of green.
In Harvestime, I watched them turn to gold
Or blaze with hearthfire's scarlet-orange flame.
Then Old Man Winter spread his robes of white
And snowflake pixies bade me join their game
While goosedown blankets welcomed me each night.
Then Spring arrived with crocus-scented mirth
And Easter buds pinks as the morning skies;
I didn't stop to think what life was worth
Or count the sparkles in my mother's eyes.
But staggered years bore heavy on my back
And worry wore my sun-blanched hair to gray,
I watch the world and wonder what I lack
And how I let life's mystery slip away.
by Will Dockery
To awaken on the morning of the journey
cross out the front lawn
to the pass.
It was a crisp blue Spring morning in Atlanta
the sky was a rich cobalt color
seemed melancholy and sparse.
mother of the hill.
The hot dog skate land pizza pie with cheese
and all the wide-eyed people
in the park.
We sat on the concrete slabs
of an abandoned highway
overlooking the sewage dunes.
There was a balmy wind
cutting from the South.
The horns were instantaneous and gone
gone as quickly
merged in with the other city sounds.
An impossible group of cars roared by
they left me disturbed.
So let them all just vanish in the night
take their bright showmanship
and egg rolls, too.
Break it up soon and go on home
the policeman told us
there would be no more jazz to hear there
Fool Me Once
Isn’t he the one, son,
who has been seen lurking about
our manicured lawns
and white life.
Get the truck.
Lock and load, daddy?
Lock and load, son,
we’re gonna end his run.
How Do I Look?*
The subject of my aggression
soon changed his perception
when I shot him in the head.
Any crimes bold like that,
presume that they are mine.
The cops tried their best to grill me
but I can do a fine crime spree,
I look sad like a basset hound
and win the case hands down;
I’ve never been confined.
I don’t do a masquerade to catch them,
so they’ll never know they’re in my snare.
But these blockheads lust visibly--
I show what I want to show,
am through when I run them through,
and hardly muss my hair.
The topic of my affliction
will cause some major friction,
from fright to mostly dead.
I’ve learned not to tip my hand,
before I plug the swines.
*With thanks to “The Object of My Affection” by Coy Poe, Jimmie Grier, and Pinky Tomlin
Up Up and Away
“Clark, you’re so conservative,
get some steel in your spine.”
“But Lois, (adjusts glasses) I am what I am.”
(Winks at camera two)
Happily Ever After
You think that you will be the boss.
I suppress a hearty laugh,
for you will end up at a loss,
screaming for a polygraph.
When the ring is on my finger,
shunting you to golden sidebar,
I’ll become a freelance thinker,
only loving what, not who you are.
by Karen Tellefsen
What I see is just one thing
while you see something else.
I say live and you say dead;
it doesn't have a pulse.
Is it light or is it dark?
We never shall agree.
It all depends on point of view;
the different ways we see.
Sigmund Freud once said
you can't remember smells
only be reminded of them.