Lily Tierney- Three Poems

BRANCHES

I kept watching as
the squirrel jumped
from the branches.

A Cardinal flew away
the squirrel was
getting too close.
I stood and watched
this time I wasn't
running away.

VANISHED

Daylight streaming
through a broken window.

Dreams in the night

flowing in her subconscious.

At the break in dawn

all vanished.

If only, she would fix
that window.

 

 

 

ROOM

A ringing phone

knock on the door

neither was answered.

Sleeping, his dreams

never traveled far

enough to be

with me.

He'll wake up, and

see the room he is in.

 

 

Jane Blanchard- A Poem

Jane Blanchard lives and writes in Georgia.  Her work has appeared previously in Calvary Cross and recently in the Anglican Theological Review, The Seventh Quarry, and Thema.

 

finding one lost sheep

 

too often translates into

 

losing ninety-nine

 

 

Bruce Mundhenke- A Poem

All That Is
(For Charlotte)

You are not more,
You are not less,
You are part
Of all that is.

You are not more,
You are not less,
You cannot imagine
All that is...

Though you are small,
Nevertheless...
Without you,
There is no all that is.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Waiting Room

First time seeing this doctor,

a specialist. Took a month

to get an appointment.

The waiting room’s packed.

I grab the last seat 

next to a lady in a wheelchair

knitting something,

perhaps for a grandchild. 

I pull out my cell phone 

like everyone else

but just to check messages,

not into games.  

No one’s looking at magazines,

it seems, any more.

It’s a cell phone world,

messages and Tic-Tac-Toe.

Half an hour later the lady 

stops knitting and whispers, 

“Sit back and relax, son. 

Life’s a waiting room.

We all have appointments.

Every name is called.

Even those who believe

no doctor is in.”

——————————————————

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri. 

 

 

Richard Schnap- A Poem

BLACKEST OF BLUES

He winds his way down the crippled streets
As the crackle of gunshots punctures the air

From a store where nothing is worth what it costs
Where he learned that day he had been laid off

Now he is caught in a fresher web
Unsure how to pay his meager rent

Feeling once more that to be alive
Means learning to live with the fear of death

For the doctor had ordered an expensive test
To gauge the damage he carries within

From the uncle that raped him multiple times
Infusing his body with the threat of AIDS

But like so many whose chances are slim
He places his life in the hands of God

As he opens his Bible to the story of Job
To read once again why he shouldn’t give up

Donal Mahoney- Three Poems

Judgment Day

If I knew I'd live forever 

I'd never send a poem out.

No poem ever comes with

ten fingers and ten toes

so I’d keep revising, add 

what's missing, remove

what shouldn’t be there

and put in the right fillip.

One can only write 

while the sun streams in 

because too soon 

the moon comes out 

and in the dark 

one can’t fix a thing.

Once you’re dead

your poems live on,

warts and all, naked 

on a sheet of foolscap 

or afloat in cyberspace 

for all to read and fault.

It’s Judgment Day.

Billionaire and Beggar

A billionaire and beggar

die on the same day,

miles apart. They

never knew each other

but that’s no matter.

The billionaire is buried

with pomp reflecting

wealth and stature.

The beggar’s lowered 

in a potter’s field.

Two workers shovel. 

One says a prayer. 

Years later 

a major quake tosses 

thousands of caskets. 

Popped lids confirm

a truth the billionaire

and beggar share.

Dust and bones 

in both their caskets.

Equality lies here.

Just for a Day

If you want to know

what it’s like to have nothing

just for a day

head for Skid Row.

Trade your suit and 20 bucks

for the attire of a resident

standing against a wall.

Buy a tin cup and yellow pencils

and go to Union Station in time

for the evening rush hour

when suburbanites with jobs

on Michigan Avenue go home

for dinner and a little HBO.

Flop down near the entrance 

in your tatters with pencils and cup.

Wear Charles Bronson sunglasses

and hold high a sign that says,

“Will Work for Food.”

Count the briefcases that sail by 

and see how many pencils you sell,

how many people even look at you 

before the gendarmes arrive

and poke you with a baton

then walk you away.

————————————————————

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

 

 

Ramona Thompson- A Poem

Ramona Thompson has been writing for more then 20 years. Her past publishing credits include Dead Snakes, Calvary Cross, Infernal Ink, Erotic Tales of The Paranormal, Howl and many more.

Fans/readers may reach her via facebook or her e-mail reddstar111@gmail.com


 
Why Santa Claus? Why Not Jesus?

Caught up in the holiday hustle and bustle

 

It seems
Once again
We have lost our way
All merry and bright
We find delight
In all the wrong Earthly things
And none of the right Heavenly ones

Forget the reason for the season
Swoon over
Selfish gift giving
And make gluttons of ourselves
At the tables of greedy holiday feasts
Pretend to care
For family and friends
In other times
We go so far
As to call fiends

Misplaced values
Selfish deeds
We make it
Again and again
All about the money
What we can get
And from whom
Giving Him the coldest of shoulders
What the Hell are we teaching our kids nowadays?

So enjoy your stocking stuffers
All your many pretties
Under the tree
In time
They'll pass away
While He'll still be here
Now the only question is
Will there be enough of your soul left to save?
After this holiday season has passed

2015 Ramona Thompson