Of a certain age,
With hormones going crazy,
Causing my red rage.
I’m usually quite civil,
Objective and genteel,
But now I’m quite psychotic,
Eating crap for every meal.
I cry at any comment,
I snap at any smirk,
I yell when people cross me,
I won’t do any work.
My tummy is in spasm,
Nausea running free,
And all to bear the reminder,
Of my current fertility.
My face is pizza-riffic,
My hair, greasy and lank,
My ass, beyond recognition,
I’ve never felt so rank.
Just fend me off with chocolate,
And nod with sympathy,
Or you shall feel the wrath,
Of a girl with PMT.
Submitted Sept. 9, 2006
Once upon a time the story often goes,
tales of magic, wonderment, potential
dreams of happiness submerged within layers
of adjectives, nouns, verbs. Volumes
thousand year old histories that resonate within
my ears, deafening to the point of pure silence
that drips heavy with imagery,
drowning a reality not willing to be lived. Plots
twist and thicken, with the new characters,
storylines that get woven in, creating a hearty
stew within the mind whetting the appetite,
neurons to salivate at the opportunity
to devise more otherworldly creations.
Individual lyric intertwine themselves
a meshwork thick and dripping with the velvet
dew of irresistible idea trapping within its
webbing the innocent imagination
like a spiders web ensnaring its prey. Those
delicate lines tiptoe their way across
threads, easing their way, gingerly so as to
keep the suspense building. Deftly the plot lines
together, bringing the dance to its
climax wrapping, entwining faster and faster
until that final line binds the
finally drawing the conclusion tight but when is
The end really an ending?
Submitted August 9, 2006
View Crimson blood rivers
run along cold stone
heat of the flames
has fallen behind
but still a factor
. . . . . . . . . .
Oh how candle
when dropped on
and the receiver moans
(but more in)
. . . . . . .
scalpel sharp touch
another river is released
Submitted Sept. 29, 2006
By David Owen
Moth dust beaten, soft ashes between fingertips,
blackly against inked aerials on a blushing canvas.
air balloons, plump chaotic teardrops ebb
distant hills to meet the sun’s demise.
butterfly, wings speckled by a lunar eclipse
deftly on the net curtains before window close,
for the moths that heave against the glass
search of the warm sting of a placebo sun.
she lay with me that mild night,
gently toward that proud unerring butterfly.
hands, she straddled a man at half-light,
asked, ‘tell me a story about us.’
Submitted Sept. 15, 2006
a small tree leans toward where
the sun was yesterday, remembering hope and the thrumming sensation of something to live for. the sun looks onto the
world with a wistful what-if, jealous of what it must feel like to be alive. god sighs with his head in his proverbial hand, wondering what nonsense must sound like, casually fleshing his thoughts
into animal games, hundreds of teapots, tuesday next month, a formal goodbye. the universe smiles. begin again. tiny virtues spring forth like dandelions in your memory, bright and archetypal,
leading you home from the cold. you watch the ground go by underneath you and you remember. this is what it looks
like; this is how i feel. is how i feel. how i feel. how it feels
to be alive. animal games. hundreds of whispers. a perfect reply.
Submitted August 16,
Stained glass wings
like jewels fit for kings
adorn a butterfly on the sill
of my kitchen window. Delicate and still
he rests from the hot summer sun in the shadow’s chill.
legs like velvet potpourri.
Fly! Fly free…
Submitted August 16, 2006
(Mike Asleep on the Phone)
Your breathing has never sounded so
Until now I've
Only dreamt of you still,
Dreaming of me.
In the middle our bed
We lay, me wrapped
And tonight is no different,
Even if you sleeping on the phone brings me to tears.
Submitted August 1, 2006
Means To Hate America
During the drive to work, the morning news plays on National Public Radio.
Thirty children were killed today in an Iraqi bombing.
Nearly half of Asia’s 1.27 billion kids live in poverty.
Every day, 300 Filipino children
die of preventable or curable diseases like pneumonia, diarrhea and measles.
The day continues as usual, staring at computers in an air-conditioned office, selling PVC fences to rich customers
in Hawaii, unchanged.
Numbers are empty.
Today, an Iraqi child, age 7, held her brother’s limp hand as their mother scooped his shrapnel-encrusted body
from the dirt road and buried her face in her child’s chest. Tears of devastation fell from the girls large brown eyes,
creating pockets like craters in the dust. The air smelled of gun powder. Dust filled her lungs. Her body shook with vibrations
of revulsion. Eventually, the shock will wear off and she will grow to hatehatehate America and its filthy bombs.
Ten miles down an unpaved road in Thailand,
a 5-year-old child of thin skin and protruding ribcage carries a bucket of water home from the cow trough. His mother waits
at home breastfeeding his baby sister. There is dirt on her cheeks from smearing away the tears of a mother who can not afford
to feed her starving children. The hut must withstand another storm tonight and is already leaking from the roof. The air
smells of feces and unwashed hair. The children will grow up to hatehatehate Americans who pay to toss half of their food
in the trash.
There is a slanted tent where a sick child lies dying on a tattered dirty blanket. Her limbs are week from dehydration.
She coughs all night, keeping the other children awake. Her mother comes to hold her hand and tell her bedtime stories. Her
little sister curls up beside her at night when she is afraid of the dark. Children cry all night. The noise is unbearable.
In the morning, the tent workers will walk though and carry out the dead bodies so they don’t begin to rot. This little
girl has pneumonia, a curable disease. She may live, she may not. If she does, she will grow up to hatehatehate Americans
who are too stubborn to see a doctor, Americans who have a simple cure for pneumonia.
It is Friday afternoon. We listen to NPR on the way home from work so we feel like good citizens.
Uganda has a total of 1.7 million orphans.
8.4 million children are in slavery, trafficking, debt bondage and
other forms of forced labor, forced recruitment for armed conflict, prostitution, pornography and other illicit activities.
One third of Third World children’s identity
remains a mystery.
Submitted August 1, 2006