Little pebbles dripping,
running window panes,
and I breathe in the lust
of drudgery as each pull
their path to the sill, still
I am, lump and frump,
while the grass grows
to the moon, and each
moment of solitude I
age eons waiting for a
final change, awakening
and finally awake, like
this place, nestled among
fields of corn, the safest
I have yet to feel since
birth long ago, when
no one was there and I
was left to wonder woe
by SHAWN M. YOUNG
© All rights reserved 2022
There’s no such thing as the perfect birth when an egg gets cracked in the process.
On the other hand, how to get born without some generous slaps to one’s silky-smooth bottom? Gotta spill some precious yellow soul to learn that life won’t be easy—best to get acclimated to that fact right away.
The cracks over one’s shell become like wrinkles on a face over time. They’re signs of wisdom and emotional endurance. Some fragility is to be expected.
And it affords all the King’s horses and all the King’s men a reason to buy shiny new glue guns!
by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2022
suppose you stop snickering
and get shut of the need
to scorn those folks over there
fingering slipcovers
in the discount aisle
talking only to each other
when they speak of
perfection and how well
these would go with
the drapes in the front room
and suppose
you quit sneering at those
who proclaim their love
for the Beatles as you cannot
distinguish between
an emotional bond to their
soundtrack of a lifetime
and your own decidedly
up-to-the-minute
lasting-maybe-a-minute
enthusiasm for whatever minute
you find yourself in
(unless
of course
it hits you
RIGHT THERE
like a never-ending
cryogenic block
on your future)
and suppose
you get your head
out of whatever fragrant
arrogant nook
you keep it in
and see yourself
years from now
dressed fifteen years
too early for retro fashion
choosing from cheap mirrors
in a bargain aisle
while humming
yesterday’s
greatest song ever written
by TONY BROWN
© All rights reserved 2022
Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air;
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.
Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go;
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all;
There are none to decline your nectar’d wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.
Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a large and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.
by ELLA WHEELER WILCOX (1855-1919)
Public Domain Poetry
unbolt me 