She was half Lady and half cat–
What is so wonderful in that?
Half of our lady friends (so say
The other half) are Cats to-day.
In Egypt she made quite a stir,
They carved huge Images of her.
Riddles she asked of all she met
And all who answered wrong, she ate.
When Oedipus her riddle solved
The minx–I mean the Sphinx–dissolved
In tears. What is there, when one thinks,
So wonderful about the Sphinx?
by OLIVER HERFORD (1863-1935)
Public Domain Poetry
poetry is cold and empty like outer space
like voracious cronus who devours his own sons
no matter how many verses you’ve thrown to the gorge
it burps out, calling for more
poetry is cold and empty like outer space
there are always moons where no foot may tread
no matter how loud you’ve shouted to the craters
it echoes out, calling for more
poetry is cold and empty like outer space
stellar wind drives tumbleweeds through the milky way
no matter how far you’ve overstepped the bounds
it erases out, calling for more
by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2021
the oncologist called
said the tumour was benign
i returned to my laptop
an open tab beckoned me to proceed
looks like i’ll be transitioning
from mortal fear back to dull career then
but, damn, even if the tumour’s benign
why should i continue this drawn out
malignant metastasizing existence?
so i click ‘yes’ and proceed
to my merciful mail order death
by stoning and virus coroning
they ask for the expiry date and cvv
i type six six six and laugh
by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2021
I am a shell. From me you shall not hear
The splendid tramplings of insistent drums,
The orbed gold of the viol’s voice that comes,
Heavy with radiance, languorous and clear.
Yet, if you hold me close against the ear,
A dim, far whisper rises clamorously,
The thunderous beat and passion of the sea,
The slow surge of the tides that drown the mere.
Others with subtle hands may pluck the strings,
Making even Love in music audible,
And earth one glory. I am but a shell
That moves, not of itself, and moving sings;
Leaving a fragrance, faint as wine new-shed,
A tremulous murmur from great days long dead.
by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET (1898-1943)
Public Domain Poetry
heed the silence that follows
truer than any promise made
the sound and fury of a hidden life
you cannot dream this into submission
by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2020
unbolt me 