Ode to Sunday by Eamon Thomasson

Compounded by translucent philosophies

The gelatinous gears of day grind on.

A sense of urgency, backed by vagueness, that gets one out of bed in the morning.


An evaporating feeling of escape on the morning walk.

A sequence of dogs in various states of zeal.

Sandwich makers practicing the finest craft.

The sidewalks panhandling for the passage of feet.


As noon approaches, the delayed meeting of friends.

The conflagration of mealtime illuminating recent adventures.


Pupils magnetized towards shapes of text.

Accidentally searching for musicians in the thesaurus.

Brazilian radio stations.


Waging a muscular war against props of iron.

Symbolizing triumph

Not deciding what to do,

but eliminating what not to do.


Analysis of screens.

Biting into idleness with no reluctance.

A concluding sigh.

Returning in the evening through the dim passageways

To the glimmer of tomorrow’s possibility.


Bees by Eamón Tomásson Raphael Gilliam

Born out of toil and labor,

The fleet of death was arriving

Slaving through the doom of sorrow and pain.

The dove was sent out as a last hope,

to bring the message of hope to our hearts.

But all that returned was a raven,

clamoring on the dark hours of our time.


Satan sent his light,

and we welcome the dawn.

The flowers and fruits

of our heroes

are to be rejoiced in.

Out of the blood of conflict

was born a singing chorus

of the glory of our martyrs.


He dug in and dug out

the dread delivered to us

she clasped her rosary

with her trembling hand

but it was too late

From the mountains to the sea

The Pharaoh’s army

crashed through the land

sweeping away the dominions

born of kings of a lost time.


The boundless love

under their waving banners

shines throughout the sky

as the sun chariot flies

day by day.

Then with majesty

enters the fruitful Nature,

restless and effervescent.


The fruits of Nature

bear sweet revolution.

Repeated in the sedentary soil.

Most especially

in the rose bushes.

From the lowly bush

burst forth and prosperous bud.

A tribute for the lowly serpent,

sprung forth from the tree of life.


The joyous birds sing

for her virgin chastity

And whisper from the woods,

demanding from her

the retention of the watery image

of her nymph-like sisters.


Though she hasn’t died yet,

the beings of the forest

still await for the day that she is lost.

The inevitable, not the impossible,

ticks away on the Clock of Life.

That celestial watch,

which listens to her every move.

Controlled by the Fates,

and maintained by the Beast.

Purging the innocence of her breast,

and waiting for the time in which

she can only hope to succeed.


But the time that she is waiting for

may never come for her,

as what she thinks she sees

may not be what she truly believes.

The clock may be broken,

for her breast may never be spoken for.

That time that she is to die

may only be a lie

perpetuated by those

that she most cares for.

The sound of her silence

may burst further

that her forbears could expect.

The bread of life multiples

the system from which she

most cares for.


The flames of her want

are not yet fanned.

For the time in which

she is to wait

has not yet begun.

Claiming her love

to cool the desires

of one’s heart

would merely placate

the lust of the demons.

The frost and ice

of her chilled persona

would not be enough

to find the tree

in the forest of Nature.


The tree among forests

is the island in the sea

that waits for no man.

The sirens’ songs

sing a melody

sweeter than any man has heard.

But the unheard melody of the forest

is much sweeter.

The horde of melodies

sung among the forest creatures

is not enough to subsist in the tree.

For the tree bears no fruit.

All that the tree bears

is the fruit of knowledge

within the mind

of every Self.

And among the forest

lives the creatures of the forest.

And the most mindful of creatures

was the bear.

Moving majestically among the honey

of the mines of the quarry.

Seeing the honey’s mind over there

leads to the realization

that among the forests of animals

the bear fears nowhere.

The finishing line of the time

reveals the truth

that throughout the time

and eons of the lives of the many,

no peasant has ever survived.


But the honey of the bear

is still the most important treat.

Surviving whenever it lives.

For the spirit of the bear

is in the tree beneath the honey.

But look at what it’s not,

and believe so.

As the most possible to obtain

is often the hardest to find.

The ghosts of the past

may often haunt

the times of the present.

But the honey loved by all

is the water for all mankind.


This water is the water drunk by her

in her slumber and hibernation.

And throughout the winter,

one may find,

that despite the coming of the times,

the winter of her has become one

with the beared of the forest.

She may drink the honey of the forest,

which can drive the heart of man aside.

But the liquor of time can subside

the burden of the forest of the mind,

growing steadily, and climbing

the calibers of the mountains.


The treasure of the mountains

can not equate with the treasures

of the forest.

But they can compete.

Unlike the forest,

the culture of the mountain

is completed by a single leader.

And while the present of the summit

is knowable, the future is unclear.

The leader is the light.

The light is the controller

of the citizens of the mountain.

But the light is a snake,

guided by its venom.

The venom is the honey

corrupted by the evils of man.

The building of the venom

competes with the family

of the forest.

The eternal battle of time

burrows through the rock,

proving that in time,

all will come to pass.


The thickness is the strength

that all can find within themselves.

The thickness is that which

can only be found

in the darkness.

The darkness of the forest,

competes with the light.

The light of the bared mountain

does not equate with beared forest.

Great is the judge of all.

The conqueror is the king.

The winner takes the spoils,

if they are not spoiled by the venom

of battle.


The days of dread are not now

Common, but important none the less

By God, he was not present among them

But tomorrow is another day

You can feel your body then

You can say I would like death,

and such was the death that does not exist in the love of every man

It was sent down here

into this world against its will.


The craze of the world stops turning

for the whole.

The leaves of the tree

befriend the snow of the mountain.

The discovery of the ancients

defeat the modern.

The serenity and tranquility of peace

is the calm of the storm

that lies within the heart.

The date of the clock

may not exist

without the life of her.

But the mores of the society

may enlighten the few,

but not the many.

The times can change,

without the clock,

but the flight of the birds

may not every shift

without the approval of the one.

The father of time

will present the one

to the few.

And without the action

of the forest,

the life of the time

may cease to be born.


The figure from the colors,

distinct from reason,

drinks from the horn,

as we face fear in these times.

Return to him

all that you have seized.

You can try to reach out,

but what will conclude?

All turns on the self.

There will be bells chiming

in the sweet sepulchers

the night she sings

her final song.


The burden of the good

is the feature of the modern realm.

The life of the all

may subsist to the melody

of the sweet honey of time.

The plucked fruits of the sweet grove

may grow to the conclusion

of the changing sands.

But the sands of the life

of the sweet present,

may never believe in their

own ability to succeed

to their potentials.

The shifting snakes

and the believing bears

fight until the ends of the time.

But the passion of Nature

may never cease to fulfill

the pot of the heart.

The shade of the tree

may benefit the good.

But the chime of the crest

helps none.


The flail of the war

proves not what is right,

but only helps to show

what it is that is left.


Yesterday’s Flowers by Danielle Smith

The flowers I liked yesterday,

Today have gone.

They were there yesterday,

And now there’s none.

I kept meaning to share them,

When they were here.

I meant to share them tomorrow,

Or next week, next month.

Those flowers gave me pleasure,

Purple and petty.

I wanted to share them with you,

Lest you forget me.

Yet the flowers are gone now,

Soon you’ll be too;

But I’ll have my whole life to regret

Not sharing them with you.


Is by Aaron Sampson

I breaks on adolescence like split voices
on the crescent of a shadow.

I shivers with the presence of itself
and quivers at the sight. but

I paints pictures on broken mirrors
And smears resolution on one’s eyes. and

I rings with melismatic fervor,
polyphonic and discordant.

I is the monosyllabic white noise to block out We.
I protects us, and allows us to see what we like as reality is Me.

We cannot survive the shifting of atoms.
I can.
we cannot survive the shifting of atoms.
I can.


MULLED WINE by Gayathri Raj

“Bring me your best Chardonnay”

And a glass of liquid gold arrives.

The evening wears on, dragging its feet

In the mire of tired conversation

Our eyes wander, to watch the wall, and the waiter

Polishing the table.

Each digression is relished in all its glory

The bubbles rise and dissolve into nothingness

I sip my wine, shy and impatient,

Even as you declare it insipid.

I empathise with the wine.

Maybe I am not aged well,

Maybe it hasn’t been long enough for me

To be tasted on evenings like these.

My heels are too high and my cuffs too tight.

I am a fevered acolyte, there is no doubt

And you the aged red wine.

Dry and difficult for me,

Even as I scramble to appreciate you

To appear a worldly aesthete.

On such nights, she sheds her girl,

And I wear my woman.

Yet the little girl is never too far away.

She arrives with pattering feet, and a loud giggle;

Her pigtails and optimism are louder than I can ever be.

The girl fits poorly inside her.

You tell me about she you knew, he you knew,

You tell me about your fantasies and nightmares,

I profoundly do not care.

And I find myself thinking of when I

Stood waiting for your person to appear

I am unable to summon that warm feeling of anticipation.

The only warmth she feels is the wine

As it burns her throat.

Who knew that youth would become a regret?

Later you will sit across from me in a garden,

The girl will feel like a decanter

Of the poorest Chardonnay.

As it guiltily waits to be spat out,

Caught in its deception despite its gold.

I will be swirled and smelled, and sipped reluctantly.

There will be a grimace.

I shall still proudly wear my golden hues

And my bubbles.

One day, I shall hope to be the aged wine

That you like and know.

But tonight, my darling, I am my best Chardonnay.


An Ode to “Maggot Brain” by Eamon Thomasson

Wailing of the strings in the cloudless night

In the quiet abode of the stars.

Dying people wandering the expanses of the desert plain seeking

The water under their toes

The call of the coyote.

To feel there is nothing, but to be comfortably a part of it.

To feel that a throw of the dice could have given it all away

Or won it all for eternity.

To be under the weight, heaving upward.

To be the subconscious weight, stifling the rest.

To discover, upon diving, the corals and fossils of the depths

Emerging from the vacancy of the sea to the hummed chords of the distant sun.

the catalytic vibrations of the day in a cyclical dance

Tracing the avenue in its cement sarcophagus.

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