the bouncy ball man’s bi-polar journey
unlike the yo-yo with its advantage of a straight trajectory he rises into the heavens where he dances unabashed with comets using astroids as castanets while his castilian boot heels click across the sky his silky sable hair being blown by cosmic wins his head thrown back as a gleeful song rises from his throat the blessed cold and dark do not bother him His descent takes him past us and as he passes he laments the fact that we don't see him he thinks below in the depths the pressure is so onerous like atlas or the turtle he struggles to hold up his own world the cursed heat of pain and sorrow subjecting him to merciless vexing light and unbroken rage eventually sets him alight and as he burns what comes from his throat sounds nothing like song but as does the phoenix he will rise from the ashes again transitioning once again a passerby in the land of man he still laments the fact that we don't see him he thinks but this time he wonders ( Linda Imbler is the Kansas based author of “Big Questions, Little Sleep.” ) Lightning Rod
The garden of the gut – flora and fauna, lush as a jungle, seeking perfect homeostasis at all times as nutrients are absorbed and toxins are flushed out of the central hub to constantly create the organic system anew as a holy temple where consciousness beyond the pale can be divined from the source and flooded through the synapses of the mind which acts as an antenna by tuning in to vibrations of electricity and energies that pulse from dimensions which have yet to be fully understood by the incomplete theories of modern science. There is more happening here than can be seen or heard. There is a truth that burns far hotter than any gadget can measure. There are answers found within the soul which cannot be discovered through simple observation. There is a love which resonates at such a high frequency that only a pure and open heart is able to experience it. There is an infinite and eternal state of perfect peace which can only be gleamed when the body and mind are completely clean. There is a path which leads to the Kingdom of God that is paved with intentions that glimmer more brightly than gold. (excerpt from Happy Hour Hallelujah) Daring the Impossible A thousand beams of buried lies hiding just behind those twinkling eyes and it’s not a shock nor a surprise when the truth bursts forth into the light …but enough with all the silly rhymes for while they might be fun to dance around with this really is no laughing matter More like a disaster that comes to bear as a tired witness of the despair born from a thousand years of tragedies piled on high when dropped from ivory towers Bombs of broken apathy disease a disillusioned populace when the wicked wages of war become too heavy a cross to carry Sad is the state of abysmal affairs spreading as a pestilence across the earth How long, Lord, how long? There is no easy escape, it’s true we’ve all these problems, and know not what to do We whine and moan and blame each other but no solution through such means is discovered The only answer that’s worth a damn is when united we decide to stand To pluck both the apple and the mote from eyes behind which our oppressors hide But there I go again with rhymes when words are meant to be drawn as lines Upon the sand to be clearly seen by all those of us who still dare to dream About a time born so soon now when faith and hope are fully allowed To enter unto the hearts of Man as we come together with a foolproof plan That breaks the chains with which we’ve been bound and opens our hearts to the holy sound I’m not afraid to sing such a song for I know there are others who will sing along As together we raise our voice on high and give peace on earth one final try (excerpt from Happy Hour Hallelujah) ( Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa.wordpress.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, reviews, and books can be found.) Pathologies
A figure lies forlorn on the steel-bed. Strapped to catheters and tubes and a blinking monitor, covered with blanket. Breathing slowly, in the ICU, where antiseptic smells and a deathly silence combine and strongly prevail, magnifying the tread on the bare floor or the scratch of a gifted golden fountain- pen or the muffled coughs around---borderlands of life and mortality ever shifting so arbitrarily; everything is clinical, measured, cold and couched in expertspeak, total Greek to the hapless carers, blinking eyes, in a dim shrine. There, yet not there--- slipping. Emotions are strictly forbidden entry in this rarefied province. Inmates are at the mercy of the machines and mechanical gaze, gesture and tone of the guys in the white. An imposed order and sanity on apparent turbulence of different kind. We are just numbers here! Pain. Suffering. Weariness of soul. Exhaustion. Stress. Hope against flickering hope. The moods varied, all collide in such a cramped space both material/mental, strange alchemy. Doctors arrive; exit, with the accuracy of the subway trains of a wounded Paris---automated, punctual and precise, ferrying thousands to destinations scattered. Every minute, every footfall counts by the billing department. Outside the mystery of an ICU, sits a hunched figure on the bench, on this balmy Mumbai evening---teary; shell-shocked; silently praying to a chosen god out of a million, for comfort and mercy divine, in a polis where everybody is rushed. Expecting miracles that can defy the verdict of approaching death. Bewildered, yet looking for some opening in a cul-de-sac. Faith Vs fact; Optimism Vs commerce collide. The wait can be terrifying inside/outside. Uncertainties are killers. Mind refuses reality. Healing might occur any time! Hospitals! They are the real places for re-learning on the human condition and existential angst. And a bonding among patients and their relatives---a shared experience of loss and gain, across assorted geographies and demographics. And a will to survive in a most bleak place where fresh beginnings and exhausted endings happen simultaneously in a never ending game. Sounds The waves crash near the coconut clump where the ocean comes up to kiss the sands of the beach secluded from touristy feet and talk to the matted brown kid about long boats, fishing, laughter, boisterous dad. The young kid gets lulled by these sounds and dreams of a shack, a coughing mother and siblings eaten by a hungry typhoon one horrible day. Sounds! They often remind of things that will not be otherwise remembered! Waves---crashing, hissing, singing their own symphony that resurrects the dead for the sad orphan and others orphaned of many sweet possessions. Sounds both sweet and bitter comforting scary for a mind on a rewind mode. ( Sunil Sharma is a Mumbai based senior academic, writer, freelance journalist and editor with 18 published books). The Wall
There’s a wall that gaps between the meaning of my existence and the meaning of existence in general. It’s a wall I can’t climb, a wall without measure, a wall without borders. Because of this wall is why I’ve been blind for so long. It’s why I leave the lights on at night. It’s why I cover my face with shadow figures not wanting anything to remember my complexion. It’s a wall made up of everything I’m afraid of. Things that make a paper-cut-throat gush with the screams you never knew existed. Things that cause teardrops to not only fall but instead break the barriers of sanity. Things I don’t like to speak of. Like how when I was younger, I couldn’t differentiate between sane moments and the moments where everything seemed perfect yet I was a suicide-time-bomb ticking away. As if an alarm were trapped in my wrists. As if a god were dictating from inside my veins, from inside my bones, until I exploded with the questions never answered until it was too late. These are the things that make my stomach curl into the fetal position until I rebirth new moments of wanting to be alive. These are the moments I can’t relive until I can actually live again. This wall, this wall of terror within my heart will never crumble until I can leave the past in the past and remember that my future is bright. This wall is a concrete resemblance of power, a mountain so planted in my thoughts it can never be removed. Never be consumed by the tsunami of my ambition. Never become a path I can easily walk to the other side. It’s this wall that keeps me afraid at night. Keeps me from jumping the fence of my mind to the other realm of my reality. It’s this wall I can’t replace with one easily escapable. It’s this wall. This wall I find so unmistakably hard to confront. This wall that has never been moved, never been shaken from my psyche’s foundation. Never been remembered as anything but a traumatic remembrance. But everyday for the past three years, I’ve found myself staring at the wall. Challenging it. Whispering ideal chants and hopeful phrases into it’s core. Until I’m not afraid anymore. Until I realize borders cannot define my destination. This wall will know I will not bow down again, I will not crumble to it’s mass. Or answer the echo calls bounced off its sides to scream lies into my soul. NO, I can now turn the lights off, I can uncover my face from the shadow world and face the wall with unveiled freedom. I will conquer, I will prevail, I will tear down the wall until each piece is nothing but particles of dust on life’s shelf. The wall will never again define me this wall will never again be resurrected. This wall This wall This wall I am free... (Levi J. Mericle is a poet from New Mexico whose work has appeared in over 30 Literary magazines and journals from over half a dozen countries). Manic
I dash beneath the arch, down past the boarded Legion. Rain comes down in streaks. The drink has failed to execute its tricks. Now ordered lawns lapse to a tangle of fields and woods where hungry feelings stir desire: Dangerous as diabetic thirst, as fire pulsing for oxygen. Psychiatric Nurse in January Spring feels far away. Distractions of the everyday neutralize magic. Trees are blossomless. Weeds crowd spaces snowdrops should poke noses. A dull drizzle dirties Castle Hill where the sinister, lopsided monkey-puzzle looms in my dreams of coroner’s courts, wrongness in abundance. I ready my work-bag for Monday’s shift, my plasters all too small. The Cat that Comes and Goes with the Mist We know when it’s coming, ears to the ground like Red Indians – its drum-drumming like hooves up the track, pawing the earth. What started as anger – that red roar on the plains – returns as fear now, fear shifting like sands. It’s worse when darkness falls. Its hunger’s a palpable gnawing in the chest, a heart digesting itself. Light torches, stoke fires, take to high ground. It loses interest. Sun will rise. ( Kitty Donnelly is a nurse and a poet. Her poems have been published in Acumen, The American Journal of Poetry, The Fenland Reed, The Dawntreader, Mslexia and has work due out in Sentinel Literary Quarterly and Granta amonst other publications. kittydonnellypoet.com ) |
The Beautiful Space-
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