c o n v e r g e n c e:
an online journal of poetry & art


by William S. Gainer

It's not the muscle
or tendon
that keep the bones
from collapsing.
It's the rust, stale grease
and corner scum
of the factory floors
holding them up.

Too many years
on the assembly line
pulling the future
from the past,
too many dreams built
for no one to sleep with.
but there's always
that one last cigarette,
a cool place
out of the sun,
and someone
to pour the whiskey.
We grow old
and time moves on,
we've built ours.

The young ones
build theirs, empires
without soil,
not a blister,
callus, or a dirty
finger nail.
It's a new world,
"A better place
to be?"

IN PIECES by Christian DeLaO

IN PIECES by Christian DeLaO

by Marchell Dyon Jefferson

She talks to your dead mother still.
Your sister admits Mom has said
it was time your sister join her.

Mom tells your sister to spit up
her meds down the toilet.
Mom tells your sister to cut herself.

Instinct tells you to hide the knives,
and other sharp objects.
Instinct tells you,
you are not enough to guard her.

When she tells you 3 o'clock in the morning
she is set to leave in her personal Rapture
and of Mom's loneliness in Heaven.

by B.Z. Niditch

The thunderstorm
daydream leaps
over a mushroom search
my eyes are volcanoes
opening here in Aspen
chasing my sunny breath
on the bridge
late for an afternoon recital
the "E" string
walks away from me
unsuspecting the passages
of Ravel's embracing notes.

1   |  2   |  3   |  4   |  5   |  6

home   |  Table of Contents   |  archive