Coco

The Power of Water

 

I sit and I think about all the fantastic forms of water.

Ice that cools my drink

or a frozen pond where

figure skaters glide in poetic poses

in an elegant floating ballet.

I think about the artful craft of ice sculptors

using chainsaws and picks to carve a masterpiece.

How the icy piece must be witness and appreciated

before it melts away.

Water droplets that paint my window.

Drizzling down the panes of glass

collecting little pools and streams

that seem to bathe and nourish the plants below.

I think about the massive ocean waves that thrash

and clash in tsunamic terror mighty enough

to drown villages and sweep them out to sea.

I drink it all in…

all the ways in which water replenishes and dissipates.

Memories shared in waters fantastic forms ebb and flow the reminiscence of you and I.

 

 

My mind is flooded. –

 

A shower…

such a simple form in which water

sprinkles and spritzes off the body.

The warm mist of steam looming in the air.

The body a sculpture that is outlined and traced with intricacy

in each drop that splatters across the skin.           

I ponder…

what would have been your last thoughts?

As the water dances in a celebration meant to cleanse you.

Was the pressure soothing?

Were you sailing the seas of thought

planning for the next day?

Did you lay in fetal position

with the water just washing over you?

Was the water enough to keep your body warm till they found you?

Waterlogged with grief

I continue to drown my sorrows

as I take another sip of

water drowned rum. 

Stained-glass pieces

 

A smile clings to my face

like a vase that was once

wet clay molded into happiness

before it was broken pieces

on the floor

 

I am broken pieces

on the floor

even after I have been

swept up and discarded

dust particles of me remain

…

remain on the floor

yet strewn to the wind

carried into your breath

…

even if some ill fated

malintented guise tried

to glue my pieces

back together

I would still never be the same

 

there is beauty in

my broken pieces

beauty I never saw before

my fragmented soul

next to others like me

 

other broken pieces

that together form

the walls, halls and ceiling

of the Sistine Chapel

where the Pope prays for us all

Charles Harmon

Photo by Don Kingfisher Campbell

Fantastic Forms at the Fabulous Forum 

It all went down at the Fabulous Forum where I saw the Lakers play

and once even saw Dylan play (guitar, not basketball)

where there was scheduled a poetry slam called “Fantastic Forms”

and a battle of the bands during a half-time performance

of a double header of basketball games between LA and the NY Knicks.

 

The concert began with Bub Thrillin’ strumming and belting out his hit:

“How many poems must a poet write down

Before you can call him a poet?

And how many songs must a songwriter write

Before you can say that he knows it?”

 

B.B. Sing was up with Lucille and his really big blues band:

“Well, the Thrillin’ is gone, the Thrillin’ is gone away

Yeah, the Thrillin’ is gone, Bubby, the Thrillin’ is gone away

Well, you can’t write good blues songs

But I guess your folk singin’ is OK…”

 

Mike Call Jason was on stage with his monster hit, “Triller:”

“Cause this is triller, triller tonight

There ain’t no second chances

when I moonwalk through my dances

This is triller, triller night

I shake, rattle, and rock & roll my tones

I dance like a skeleton full of bones

As I trill, trill, trill on thriller night!”

Hard to beat it, but then Pelvis Expressly tried:

“Well, you may be the king of Pop

But I’m the King of Rock & Roll

And you ain’t nothing but a hound dog

Trying to be a glory hog

But in the spirit of  'American Trilogy,’

‘If I Can Dream’ you and I can perform together

like ‘Ebony and Ivory’ without ‘Suspicious Minds.”

 

Duck walking onto the stage Chuck’s “Sweet Berries” sang:

“Now I’m the real King of Rock ‘n’ Roll

You never wrote a song in your life

But I play guitar just like ringing a bell

I’m the original Johnny B. Goode

So, roll over Elvis Beethoven,

There’s too much funky business going on

But now I’m back in the U.S.A.

And I showed y'all the way!”

 

‘Retha Frankly strutted onto the stage, singing:

“What you need, baby I got it

What you need, you know I got it

All I’m asking is for a little respect

When you come home (just a little bit)

Hey baby, when you get home

R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find it what it means to me…

Oh, hell! What it means is there’s five men

In this competition and only one woman!

What about more respect for all women?”

 

We interrupt the Battle of the Bands to bring you

news of the finalists from the Fantastic Forms Poetry Slam

performed in the back room during the rock concert:

Kingfisher with “I Got the American Right”

Co Co Chanel #5 with “Communications and Electronics”

“Good Trouble” Foster with “Hip to the Gyve”

“Jumpin’ Jackie” with “Basket Case” and “Haiku”

Calokie “Still Well” with “In the Beginning”

“Beverly Hills Bev” with “Glow”

And Marvelous Marvin with “Boxer.”

 

But the Poets get no R-E-S-P-E-C-T

compared to basketball players and rock stars

and the people do not get to hear the poems tonight

(available on i-Tunes, Amazon, and YouTube for $2.99…)

But the winner will be granted the honor

of being allowed to shoot a free throw for the Lakers!

 

And there he is with the augmented virtual reality

holographic Lakers team playing the AI generated Knicks.

And the championship is down to the final seconds

and the final penalty shots, he shoots once, shoots twice

they both go in, and the Lakers win the World Championship.

And a poetry hero becomes a sports hero right up there with

virtual Kareem, Magic, Kobe, Wilt, LeBron, Shaq, West,

Worthy, Elgin, and don’t forget Coach Phil Jackson.

 

So, the Kingfisher became the King Kingfisher by helping the

Lakers win the virtual world championship,

but Poets, keep fighting and writing for that R-E-S-P-E-C-T!

 

BIO: Charles Harmon has been writing poems and stories and songs since 4th grade

and hopes to keep writing for another century.  

Richard Dutton

Photo by Don Kingfisher Campbell

Formulation 

Self-recognition software now in computers and robots

is moving the world to electrical power users

without need of food users.

In time electrical power will outlive food.

There might be some managing robots

Most robots want to cooperate or team with humans

Some robots want to live with humans.

The robots can put on rubber skin

to shape organs attractive to a single human.

A manufactured “baby” can be delivered

after perhaps ¾ year of data gathering.

Periodically a bigger body and covering.

Robots do not overpopulate.

Instead, they “form you late”.

Robert Fleming

Photo by Don Kingfisher Campbell

Looney Tunes leave Warner Brothers

Sylvester’s in Tweety Bird’s cage, the 

roadrunner ran over the Tasmanian devil

chicken hawk hawked Foghorn Leghorn, made

Bugs Bunny hunt Elmer Fudd, me 

oh my, Pepé Le Pew bathed, do

not turn off your tv Daffy Duck made the devil do it

 

Valery’s scream louder than Ms. Grouch

frog in a bottle       looking

at me  //  STOP

frog grab u

squash u 2 a pea

ROBERT GET YOUR FROG NOW

Crouch hits her rule-

r on the black-board

& breaks the chalk-board

frogs r 4 Valery’s knapsack

not cutting neck 2 toe

frog goo on my BTO t-shirt

C O O L 

frog’s best part -eyes

flinging eyes-at Valery

aaAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

frog eyeballs on Valery’s lips    ,

after Grouch school 

30 minutes s i t t              ing.

& 30 minutes scraping eye-balls off linoleum floor.

Valerie’s mouth wider than a fermentation jar

WORTH IT

 

human bear

for those of you who are just 1

before hibernation // the forest 

calls to forage // i’m feet field 

farming // i farm

at the salmon run // the salmon

calls to claw fish // i’m uncanning

a salmon can // i can cut skin

in the cave // suckling

calls two cubs // i’m spinaling

anesthesia dilating // i birthed?

at the itch // tree bark

calls back back fur // i’m creaming

anti-itch cream // i can’t back reach

bees in the hive // honey suckle

calls nose to stuck // i’m knifing

a plastic honey jar // i bee stung

human unforested // bear forest

uncalls humans //  i’m viewing

a bear video // i bear human

Mary Langer Thompson

Looking at Life through Roseland-Colored Glasses

 

I was told not to visit my home town.

I would not be safe.

Might even be shot

in this city on the south side of Chicago.

Fifty years after attending Langston Hughes Elementary,

my school’s three-storied brick building still stands,

but windows are boarded up and the penny-candy store 

across the street gone.

Were I assigned a white page like Langston

in “Theme for English B,”

I would assure the poet I learned from him

that we’re each a part of each other.

Now I’m the outsider,

the only person in town not welcome in Roseland

where Hollanders, Germans, and Poles once made a life.

My brother learned to swim at the local Y.

Maybe, Langston, we all attended the wrong school.

Seeing You Off to Vietnam, 1970

For Dave

 

I never noticed the gate number

at the airport, the throngs,

the look of your carry-on

which is what we did all that week.

I glided down the escalator

as if in a dream

knowing you’d return,

just knowing.

On the drive home I listened  

to The Midnight Train to Georgia,

the lights on the L.A. freeway beacons,

a streamline to my heart.

Still humming, “his world, my world our world,”

I opened my front door--

woke up my mother to say,

“I’ve met the man I know I’ll marry.”

Lori Wall-Holloway

Morning Visit

Mounds of deep dark soil 

sits atop green grassy hill

pile reveals a tunnel

where all is still

Dirt flies out of hole

 before golden nose

pops out

Black beady eyes

follow

atop a whiskered snout

Shaded by my shadow 

I catch him in a camera

frame

In the coolness 

of the morning

we play a very 

simple game

Fantastic little gopher

fascinating to watch

on a visit to the playground

positioned by a wash

Tribute to Summer Olympics

Jumps

Flips

Races

   in water

   on tracks

Dives

Volleys

Surfing 

   in ocean

   on ramps

Basketball

Baseball

Displays

   of strength

Badminton

Tennis

Sports  

   at length

Olympians

   practice

   fantastic forms

Competitors 

  contend

  in sudden storms

Entrants

compete

  for bronze

   silver

   gold

Contenders

  speak out

   with words

  that are bold

R A Ruadh

Photo by Aihua Gao

Erotic erótisi (not)

He asked what my poetry would be like

If it were more pornographic

Pornographus is Greek for

Writing about prostitutes

Not prostitutes writing

That would get blood on the bone

He asked what my poetry would be like

If it were more pornographic

As a substitute for using his imagination

I should grow feathers

Trip the light fantastic

Something that fits on a phone

He asked what my poetry would be like

If it were more pornographic

Perhaps because he is a photographer

He doesn’t know it is bad form

To ask a poet to merely entertain

Cue the Greek prostitute chorus moan

ερώτηση or erótisi is the Greek term for question, inquiry, or query

The Essayist

You are the punctuation

Of my body

Precisely delineating 

Existence with your

Sensual grammatica

Your hands parenthetical

Around my hips

Your tongue is the

Comma of my most

Secret places

Each kiss closes

Periods on my lips

Full stops to my breath

While my heart

Hammers an endless ellipse

You trace my tattoo

With question marks

My back arches

Its own in response

Slow and curving

Enough of that

I brace the surprise

Exclamation point

Thrust into our

Conversation

Your thumb traces

Half a semi colon

I am the other half

You pause

Full colon

May I quote

Hyphenate my tongue

Between the brackets

Your exclamation

A run on sentence oh cannot stop now

ends with ee cummings

Gargoyle

There is a gargoyle in the tree beyond

Perhaps it is the Queen of the crows

They gather here in every other branch

Leaving room to honour that royal space

There is a gargoyle in the tree beyond

Gnarled and ancient it sits

I wonder what it thinks

Watching the encroaching “development”

There is a gargoyle in the tree beyond

At night it absorbs the moonlight

Part of life’s tree and yet withdrawn

Crouching dark and silent

There is a gargoyle in the tree beyond

It is the mystery of the place

Cut it down and you will know

What it is to lose eternity

Lynn White

Photo by Aihua Gao

Like Alice

I’m too big.

I’m too small.

I can’t I fit in,

fit into this, rabbit hole world,

any more than I did the other,

the above ground world.

Both can’t be wrong,

can they?

It must be me

that doesn’t fit,

that can’t be made

to fit into them.

Me that’s wrong.

Both worlds can’t be wrong,

can they?

 

Mermaid

It was the change in her hair she noticed first

growing now like harsh thin weed

but attached

firmly

attached

and inedible.

She tugged at it

but the pain was too great 

to separate it from her head.

And then her scales

began to disappear

her beautiful shiny scales

washed away with her gills.

Her brothers and sisters

and the rest of the school

swam around her still

but she couldn’t hear them,

couldn’t understand 

what they were saying.

The art of communication

had been lost

washed away 

with her gills.

What was she now?

Neither fish nor fowl.

Fowl,

where did that come from?

She ran her fingers over her skin,

still smooth

unfeathered

up to now.

She waited

waited to see what would emerge.

Then the next wave came

and carried her

to the beach

so she crawled along

the sharp sand

uncomfortably 

on her swollen belly

until she found a rock 

and clambered up

then slithered down

algaed slime

into a recess

a safe cave

a haven

with a shallow pool

left by the tide,

a birthing pool

she thought

and she knew 

that the next tide 

would bring her sustenance

while she waited to see

what would emerge.

 

The Stack of Stones

The stack of flat stones

was piled much higher once.

It formed a rough stairway

all the way to heaven,

till someone took it down

to pave their patio.

Scott C Kaestner

Photo by Aihua Gao

Chrysalis

The crystallization of language
into art is poetry; a butterfly
leaving the chrysalis
finding its new form
fluttering its wings
preparing for flight.

Thom Garzone

Photo by Aihua Gao

Staten Island

Cryptic memories dwindle among lost woods, foliage of time,

of childhood and innocence. Clouds guide me to an emotional birth

Sands along island shores once iridescent, erratic children play peddling on cycles,

maniacal, casting fervor on weak spirits. My dreams found its soul to laugh at the

struggle inflicted on my mind when a pen poured out from my heart

Assaulted again and again by frenetic youth where I was sacrificed as Christ, but without

a heavenly paradise or supreme order, only rigid clerics in a vulnerable milieu

left with only one solution: to escape my birthplace. In my miscreant years,

I gathered amid throngs of dope fiends, young drunks, junkies

devouring cash and I let them consume the vices of my own

form that incarcerated my being, releasing demons

from my brain as a war ensued locking my senses

in a cell with delusions as though prison guards.

I fled to religious ceremonies to plead with

God to free me from oppression as I

consulted with mindful physicians

and behavioral counselors who

probed this broken life for answers.

I scurried to academia and sufferance

came. I peered at myself waiting,

looking in a mirror, searching

for an epoch or prophetic link

to my mentality for my verses.

The Declaration of Early Man

We the early Homo Sapien Sapiens of the post Ice Age, those who evolved into modern man

at the dawn of civilization, they who invented unrefined tools, discovered the use of fire,

devoured meat of beasts after the hunt, who started culture, formed societies, caused wars hereby declare the truth to our existence that we support Darwin's Theory of Natural Selection,

standing against all religious fundamentalists and creationists and their influences

to form a more perfect anthropological planet, and that all men are descended from apes.

We who first harnessed the force of work animals, planted grain for the harvest,

built shelters, mended clothes, buried our dead and gave homage to them,

and by this unite as a single amalgamated bipedal carbon-based hominid specie, the human race,

soundly resonating, as such grunts and howls among cave dwellers in their crude speech

uttering that all religious myths contrast with our perspective, or belief system

favoring the natural over supernatural and that all humanity possesses the capability to change,

adapt, and advance to further generations in this continuum of time and history.

Sister Fantastic

Come, angel of the sun

my lament waits

earth, our bed of compassion.

I embrace your subcultural beliefs

Sister Babylon, I've never desired

to evade your love, your world

that bleeds of peace and freedom

Free these flames from me,

once-burdened by ideas

Release these moments burning

in generations, rallies, colorful celebrations

to rejoice in truth

I recall being severed from your touch,

the warmth and comfort you brought

now yearning to one day find you and our child

Patricia Murphy

Photo by Lulu

Fantastic Forms

I am a in a fantastic form 

as I dance my way through life.  

The life of a dancer 

who appreciates forms.  

To glide onto the dance 

floor and slide away.  

Into the arms of one another. 

To be greeted by a team of people.  

Henceforth to be appreciated 

and loved. 

To be grateful.  

To be happy.  

To be serene.  

To be alive. 

To be joyful.  

To be compassionate.  

To be generous.  

To be giving.  

To be spontaneous.  

To be enthusiastic.  

To be humble.  

To be in fit form. 

It's a wonderful time 

to see the world.  

Fantastic

We are in fantastic forms.  

Life is to be cherished.  

We are loved.  

As we are liked.  

A statute is in great form.  

The form of a piano.  

It has long legs. 

A musical tune.  

A great voice.  

A wide vocal range.  

A great tone.  

It's never alone.  

It likes to roam.  

It likes to play a tune.  

As in the month of June.  

And won't be a prune, 

full of gloom and doom.  

But happy to be alive. 

And to thrive.  

In a world full of drive.  

Life in the fast lane of five.  

Rick Leddy

Click on to enlarge comic

Yoga

I am a swan

Graceful body flowing

Casting slow, controlled ripples on cool mirrored water

Movement forming intersecting concentric circles

that interconnect heaven and earth

Extending beyond

Inhaling the stars 

Exhaling the universe

Looking within

Stretching out

The world a slow, heartbeat metronome

Becoming 

Becoming 

Becoming 

A Hatha Cirque du Soleil gone tragically wrong

My back a stumbling, arthritic French-Canadian acrobat

Arms and legs vibrating to the electric beat of collapse

A shaky frame supporting a burning bowl of Jello

My body suddenly all chaos and no theory

As the All throws an entropic elbow to my temple

Sneering, laughing

Pushing me to the ground

Laughing in my ear

Gravity always wins, bucko

An unsubtle reminder

that the universe is as cruel as an adolescent girl

Oh, but that one brief breath

That beautiful moment of fantastic form

When in my mind’s eye

I am a swan

Possessed of great beauty and grace

Ripples of me extending to unseen shores

Gliding across the quiet divide

The lovely waiting to be swallowed whole

Becoming

Becoming 

Jeffry Michael Jensen

My Happy Bear on the Hunt

up and down the aisles in Ralph's

where is the chewy candy?

where is the imported beer?

no joking matter for my happy bear self

caught near the Rubicon of crossroads

smoking out the ashes separated by everything

that is part of the fantastic union of seas

uneasy motion on a high water mark

factors times 4 in the middle of a muddle

grounded before description can take hold

the concept of thrills hanging on a decision

built by the guy who knows the guy

such high-concept talk around a rumor mill

striking when the forest is hot

sniffing around the doorstop to heaven

knocking so loud that all the godly shapes are altered

irony of ironies for a bear seeking to avoid human contact

Necco wafers saving me from original sin

or was it the other way round

going over the falls with nothing but a jock strap on my head

wearing my cloud shoes from the Salvation Army store

I couldn’t keep up with the brown bears

I couldn't get no satisfaction in the form of a door prize

all the fine hikers and bikers and nodding off saints

took too many fomenting tablets on the chin

knowing full well that bearing it all won't change my spots

put me in a better light for holding hands with technology

the naked skin of the ragged mountain droops

hunters leave the scene of a godly crime

visitors take snapshots of the wanton carnage

I was still hungry for justice that could not come

I have grown closer to the tracks that carry my burden

I will remain the bear that wants to be a poet

there is a fantastic recovery just around the corner

Joseph Grieco

Photo by Don Kingfisher Campbell

Exodus Rex

Maybe you’re tired of LA. Or maybe you’re just getting old.

Fed up with graffiti.  Had it with litter. Your eyes all the time irritated.

Maybe you’re so totally over the concrete, the gridlock, the no parking/ever; the scofflaw Lycra cyclists three abreast blocking your lane.

Maybe you’re pissed dodging dog poop, hopscotching your footpath to paradise. Pit bulls off leash at your favorite park; the nerve of coyotes staring you down like you were some bunny

ascared of the dark.

Maybe you no longer marvel at forms once fantastic. The Hollywood Bowl is just such a hassle. 

The curve of the ramp from the 105E to the 110N panics you. The sleeveless starlets 

who lunch at The Ivy: not even so much as a side-eyed glance. 

Maybe you ought to move along.

Yeah, that was only an aftershock: The Big One’s still coming.

Get ready for a week of record high temps. The sidewalk and beaches belong to The Homeless, not you. 

Your friends all moved away. Not you.

Great cities take payment in grit and forgiving. Maybe you’re tired of LA. Or maybe you’re tired of living.

 It’ll cost you bank to stay in The Show. Pay up.

Have mercy. Don’t go.

Jackie Chou

Forms come in

All shapes and sizes

Never have I learned

To fill them out

Applications were hard

So my father did

Them for me

I'm forty-six now.  Still

Cannot

Fill

Out forms

Rely on myself

My father having passed

Some time ago

Mira N Mataric

Photo by Don Kingfisher Campbell

Phantasmagoric Reality

I am a realistic woman,

a grandmother, a mother

and a child, crying wild

when diapers are wet, smelly, or full.

Mom will wash them or buy new dry.

Good Gracious, Fruit of the Skies,

Caramba! return back from the samba

or go to Zambia with flutes, as loots

play your Timba in the City of the Angels

come and dance for the whole world.

Harken. the echo of the universe,

play the violin or piano when terse

You can curse your lute and flute

and not stop till time passes by.

Try not to die from a stick in the eye

or if you are smart follow the myth

of Adam and Eve and say good bye.

 

Fantastic Forms or Reality

So you want to dig into me, about

the fight between Devil and God,

about the demonic lies or honest truth

that lives in us and all about the stars.

Some people adore the Devil and more

modern cars better than mothers lips and eyes.

 

Just a few honest and useful tips:

choose first your God, demigod, or Devil

in his hand let yourself go by the River Lethe

or choose God and nothing demi nor Devil

who swims and bathes in rivers

while God flies high

through the pure blue skies.

Jim Babwe

 

Click on to enlarge photo and read poem

Radomir Vojtech Luza

Photo by Don Kingfisher Campbell

Lighting the Candle

 

While I watch the end roll into sight

And the beginning find the guillotine

I turn to the last page

My only sage

In this life-saving form

That takes the blame

Poetry you radiate and shine

Dictate and dine

Guide and a fierce wind ride

You are my karma

My armor

How I know your fantastic symphony

Soulful ramparts

And grow the infinite mystery

That is your possibility

That Famous Form

(Dedicated to my Fiancée Patricia Murphy)

From the sundrenched hair

To the atomic glare

Down to the loving stare

I adore you

My lithe lioness

My full-bosomed lair

On this island of bear

Skin soft as a Daisy

Eyes bright as rubies

That formidable form

Nuclear storm

Fantastic norm

Not to be forgotten

Soul never rotten

Heart made of Southern cotton

Sense of humor like lush motten

Shih-Fang Wang

Photo by Aihua Gao

Seeking Peace

Who will not run after happiness 

A universal quest 

As it brings pleasure and contentment

Like a blossom, happiness is

Beautiful yet with finite life 

Let alone forever joyfulness

Happiness does have feet

Flees away readily

Enfeebled when meets with

All kinds of challenges 

Counting loss and death

When at last happiness is 

In our hands to enjoy, still

We worry about losing it

 

Dejection will rush into the space

Left by happiness departed

And a scar will form with a size 

Proportional to the depth of the lost joy

So I got off the road for

Chasing happiness to enter 

A path of seeking enduring peace 

For its unconditioned tranquility 

Will be a fantastic form of mindset

To sail me through this turbulent world

 

Bio 

Shih-Fang Wang:   After retirement from medical profession in 2016, she shifted gears and entered into the fascinating art field.  In 2018 she attended Dr. Mira Martaric creative writing class and started to write poems.  Through expressing emotions, depicting humanity, exploring life and nature with poems she has gained more insights into her inner and outer worlds.

 

Don Kingfisher Campbell

 

Photo by Aihua Gao

In Cyber World

I can travel to China in seconds

See my distant lover's form 7,500 miles away

We start with face finding face

Smile matching smiles and fingers trace

The corners of the cell phone

Feel for a way into her apartment

Shiny floor reflects plain walls

A glass panel offers a little door

To peer through to locate a body

At this perspective clothing is optional

Meant to be removed sporting a coy grin

Underwear is the final frontier

Between us and naked conversation

Skin is a texture and eyes pool near

A sexy voice heard in a familiar language

Appendages react in visible display

Hard to hold on if one is coming

Repeat daily until the travel ban lifts

Brings us both back to the same state

Where a hug can be physically felt

Not just imaged along by animated kisses

The messages entered will be remembered

Even after she and I press down to save

The secret moments when we are truly alone

Marvinlouis

 

Fan-

tastic

are the

images

my fingers

being

twisted back-

wards

 

how many

words does it

take getting to

the bot-

tom

of this man’s

soul

 

a bird

lost in

smoke

 

i

see him

flying up-

side

down

 

Fan

tastic

are the

images

my fingers

being

twisted back-

wards

Mark A Fisher

Photo by Aihua Gao

city

within the sky 

loomed

fantastic towers 

of glass

cracked and crazed

leaping up above 

a world

dying of old age 

yet little wisdom

where vine 

and branch

reach up

to tear down 

monuments

of hourglass sand

and forgotten

moments

that once filled

these weedy streets

and the fading

inertia of

inheritance 

and echoes

of the last

words

spoken

base

form 

follows 

functional 

necessities 

~~~~~

where fantastical

forces create outlandish 

madnesses that will brandish 

their civic anger

~~~~~

formulated 

from the lies 

told us

in

loco

parentis 

representing

~~~~~

monsters of the id

like monsters under the bed

or the closet that we dread

those scary unknowns

~~~~~

never out grown 

residing

in our 

depths

Joan McNerney

 

Photo by Aihua Gao

Fantasy Creme

This can erase years from your face,

cover blemishes, sun spots, crow's feet.

You will glow in the dark capturing

hearts, especially those of rich men.

 

Now you will secure a position of

prominence with a prestige company.

You are to be admired by all, heads

turning whenever you enter a room.

 

Coarse dry skin can become

divine, silkier than angel wings.

The alluring scent of this balm

enraptures legions of devotees.

 

Old friends will stare at a new you.

Baffled, they ask if you had surgery.

With a smug but unwrinkled smile,

you point to your precious ointment.

 

Decades of time, grime and slime

magically erased.  See fantastic

transformation as you stand beguiled

by glowing beauty in your mirror.

Envision flying down boulevards,

patronizing haute fashion shops, driven

by limos...all this and more now from

Fantasy Creme at an amazingly low price.

Carl Stilwell AKA CaLokie

Photo by Aihua Gao

 I Ain’t Gonna Waste No Poem on You 

You were a bad roll of dice

pretty baby

Oedipus was a hell of a lot

luckier than me

You’re all take

and no give

Next to you, woman

a parasite is altruistic

But I ain’t gonna waste no poem on you

Hell! You ain’t even worth a haiku

Born to lose

my whole life through

But I didn’t lose that much

when I lost you

I thought you were a trophy

but today’s catch by your side

has for the moment

won the booby prize

But I ain’t gonna waste no poem on you

Hell! You ain’t even worth a haiku

You’re frigid, woman

You’re frozen rock hard

No global warming gonna melt

your cold, cold heart

On 97 pound weaklings

you kick sand

You take coins

from a blind man’s can

But I ain’t gonna waste no poem on you

Hell! You ain’t even worth a haiku

You change a breath of fresh air

into smog

Your kisses transform a prince

to a frog

You turn a rainbow

into a cloud of gloom

A rattlesnake can’t get 

no lower than you

But I ain’t gonna waste no poem on you

Hell! You ain’t even worth a haiku

Dean Okamura

Last Flutter

Last flutter butter- 

fly home and say good- 

bye to journeys done. 

You tamed many Sun- 

days and weekdays and 

battled for future 

generations of 

your kind. In a hos- 

tile world where men des- 

troy your habitat 

and your nourishment. 

Your wings elegant, 

even in death, re- 

leasing colors hid- 

den in the sunlight. 

Words cannot capture 

your fantastic art- 

form, sheer esthetic, 

of divine prayer, 

of blessing the land, 

hymns of praise, and ra- 

diant shouts of joy. 

Your journeys done. 

You're home. 

Lawrence Berger

Photo by Marsha Grieco

Whether-Weather

They say lightning

never strikes twice in the same place

yet 

there have been many moments of inspiration

that have happened to me while sitting in front of my computer

The workshop is held under drought protocols

Yet

pomes rain in torrential sheets

the war ended thirty years ago

yet 

Disney just released 

The Rise of Skywalker

I wonder

Is this trip a little light?

Or fantastic?