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


by Carol Louise Moon

I stared at the cat for hours.
She became "picture-perfect"
with all that that means.
But meaning is only temporary,
and time passes this way—
a clock circling round itself.

And the cat circles round itself,
the cat, lapping paws for hours
in the same hypnotic way,
the same hypnotic, perfect
way that things are temporary—
and what that means

for us— what that means
for a cat who is itself
only temporary.
When one considers the hours
invested in a perfect
life, one considers the way

life spends itself away.
So that, by any means,
the way to perfêct
life itself
would be to study within the hours,
study with temporary

zeal the passing of the temporary—
and the way
one loses hours—
in order to gain what it means
to be the cat itself,
or any self. A perfect

being: a perfect
definition of the temporary—
or, perfection itself.
So that the way
and means
of accepting the loss of hours

is a perfect way of accepting
the temporary—by the means
itself: by passing through the hours.

IS IT NICE TO BE ME by Nigel Ford

IS IT NICE TO BE ME? by Nigel Ford

by Nigel Ford

Is it nice to be me?
she wonders
when you do not know
what the time is
at any shade of day.

When the dreams
bring down
the leaves of scorn
blown by the bluster
of those
that know what they do.

It is so nice to be me
on my own
to walk the trails of private gardening.
I rustle round the grass
like a whisper.
In the blue forget-me-nots
that flutter in my company

Who needs people?
if you have sown
the pretty pinks
to keep the head warm and cosy
in its bed of confidence.

I am so special I know
there are places to fly
to say the crazy things I say.

by James B. Nicola

When I saw a will-o'-the-wisp in the night,
floating and fluttering, loving and free
as you, I was smitten with the sight,
but not deceived as it came toward me

as you once did, a bodiless light
in the air, no strings for the world to see.
When it disappeared, I was all right,
almost as if I already knew

that that was what it was there to do,
that that was how it had to be
with a wisp. As with the flowers you brought

the night you brought flowers, for a while as bright
as the light in your eyes. As with this passing thought
of you.

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