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.
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
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.
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
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
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.
we cannot survive the shifting of atoms.
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.