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COFFEEHOUSE POEM #282
by Erren Geraud Kelly The woman with the titanium Leg waves at me from Across the room, but I don't really notice a Prosthetic leg at all It is long and sleek "A souvenir from Desert Storm" She jokes She was a Victor, not a victim It reminds me of a missile When she walks, she cuts A path like the blade runner She told me she ran a Marathon on her bullet leg And i am dumbfounded Though she laughs like a Song, when she admits Sometimes, she is clumsy When she's dancing |
PURPLE HEARTS by Ruben Briseno Reveles |
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GILDA'S WINDOW (for Laura Nyro) by Stephen Mead There are no missiles here, only mint leaves pungent between fingers, each tip a catnip universe for a small lavender nap. Next to that abundant grape leaves come, an arbor of such vines just waiting for succulent stuffing and delicious mouths. Where is the glass? No panes seal this diorama of golden lamps. Inside the shades are all made of pressed flowers or are Japanese spheres promising that the global is safe. You could make a harbor here and set yourself lotus floating. You can leave the wooden shutters open and admire their paint's peeling layers: Viridian, opal, the world a pearl and Gilda the pictured girl, while from windows further below, rising up, is her daughter's piano, the chords of pure spirit. which resonate. |
OAXACA KIDS by Ruben Briseno Reveles |
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DELIVERANCE
by Erin Farias scarecrow skulls woven from straw scratch the surface of skin where stories sing softly humming haunted melodies that peer from sockets starving for deliverance. |
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