Wednesday 28 March 2007

Off The Menu by Mike McCulley

Every joint has its specialty,
a signature tune recorded in Chicago
in nineteen forty-six, a cranberry-lime drink
mixed by a barkeep named Aurelya,

a baked quail recipe discovered
in the archives of an ancient medical library,
written on the walls of a Buddhist temple,
a secret recipe passed down

from Great-Grandma Nettie, with ingredients
from an herbalist in eastern Oregon,
from a secret stash in Louisiana,
flown in from Kaktovik.

Put away the menu, Aurelya,
serve up your best dish,
make your best moves.

Mike McCulley, Montesana, WA, USA

Wednesday 21 March 2007

Catch of the Day by Gary Beck

He died in disunity
we shall never wake again
and never look upon
regiments of lustful eyes
casting like fishermen,
urgent to take you home
and cook you for their mothers

Gary Beck, New York, USA

Sunday 18 March 2007

haiku by Pete Lee

vegans coming over --
my wife takes down and hides
my trophy bass

Pete Lee, California, USA

Wednesday 14 March 2007

Sunday 11 March 2007

Prey by Gary Beck

Birds of unsoft eyes
flown by women with thin beaks
and sharp tongues,
swoop down upon our weakness,
as silent as surgeons
entering flesh.

Gary Beck, New York, USA

Wednesday 7 March 2007

Cold Gray by Michael Lee Johnson

Below the clouds
forming in my eyes,
your soft eyes ,
delicate as silk words,
used to support
the love
I held for you.
Cold, now gray, the sea tide
inside turns to poignant foam
upside down & separates-
and only ghosts now live between us.
Yet, dream like, fortune-teller,
bearing no relation to reality-
my heart is beyond the sea now.
A relaxing breeze sweeps
across the flat surface of me.
I write this poem to you
neglectfully sacrificing our love.
I leave big impressions
with a terrible hush inside.
Gray bones now bleach with memories,
I am a solitary figure standing
here, alone, along the shoreline.

Michael Lee Johnson, Chicago, USA

Sunday 4 March 2007

Mosquito Loves You by Mike McCulley

When your one true love moves
across town to touch the hot singles,
changes their phone, sends for their clothes,
and you can't remember the last time

you had any serious loving in the sultry evening
when the sun goes down, remember,
the mosquito loves you.
When you come back from a hike

through a backwater marsh, reeking sweat
in your shirt, sticks in your hair,
pants stinking of fermenting leach,
boots full of sucking mud,

one thing to keep in mind,
mosquito still loves you.
After a day at your gut sucking job,
when retirement's in sight and you're looking

ahead to time alone when
the only calls are from
the come-on lady who gets paid
two-nineteen an hour to sell cable

upgrades, phone sex, and vinyl siding,
you can count on, and don't forget,
mosquito still loves you.
At winter camp when the ground is frozen

two feet down, snow blows in
from a mile off, clouds never
blow out, remember, mosquito
is waiting for spring.

Mike McCulley, Montesana, WA, USA

Friday 2 March 2007

Sacred Stones by Brian

Damp blanket in white tendrils
Covers quiet meadow
Heather crumples underfoot
Bleat of wool unseen
Slope of land pitches sharp
Gurgling moss slick
Rutted path spirals higher
Light fades away
Gentle wind tearing holes
Blackness revealed
Crown of stars at summit
Clash of steel
Dreams gone now forever.

Brian, Florida, USA