Roses in a Vase

Fresh red roses gifted crisp in a shiny crystal vase,

Deflated balloon danced gaily on its bobbing string,

Yet, spent no time or change for late night dates

Or other stale, male-female things.

Dry- bent stems flatter-chattered their small talk cheap.

Eyes saddened dull cried their cruel half-truth lies.

Stare-glare glances pierced hearts drowned in trance-deep sleep

As tender petals withered brittle, tumbled pity-parched to dry .

Gripping death shriveled crippled, dripping its unfelt cold,

Against a strain-wrinkled,  pain-crinkled face, 

As pink waned to brown, bitter romance  waxed old,

Mere dead rose tokens in a broken, ring stained vase.

~P.S. Colley

April 1989

Rev. Dec. 2024

Considering Living

I think about death more than I 

used to.  My death.  Nothing 

as grandiose as the planet’s

or democracy’s.  Something I 

can grasp.  I think of “Less is more.”  

Like all true statements about art,

it speaks of life.  If I have learned

anything, it is to discern what matters

to me.  Not as a selfish pursuit but

more like a prophecy.  A prophecy 

of love for this world, my life, those

I love.  The urge to be who I am

before I am a memory.  To leave that

legacy behind is to know “the kingdom

is among you.”  I’m in no hurry.   

I don’t mind my coffee

getting lukewarm as I watch a robin

walk across my yard.   Another prophecy,

it seems to me.

-Byron Hoot

https://www.facebook.com/hootnhowlpoetry/

Art by Zach Baker

 

From Artist Zach Baker @https://www.instagram.com/studio.zachlectic/

Art by Zach Baker

Pride #1 2024

Untitled 2024

Some Music

Moon happened to listen
as I tried to organize my consciousness
while the wind danced
like a whirling dervish
beneath the aleppo pine

Yesterday was like a movie
without end
bits of information
scattering across space-time

then there was love
like a gathering,
making shape out of chaos
into something like a moonstone,
secret and delicate
peach and blue-grey

-Nancy Pontius

https://soundcloud.com/ketogah

ON HEARTSONGS

Remembering Philip Church & Mattie Stepanek

Thank you Jeni Smith Stepanek for reposting this poem

ON HEARTSONGS

Dedicated to Poet Mattie J. T. Stepanek

PHILIP KENT CHURCH

~

There’s a wondrous place, when seen in context,

Which exists and then passes, before the speaking of a word,

It lies just beyond what’s occurred, and what happens next,

And if one listens carefully – it’s where ‘heartsongs’ are heard.

The notions of past and future are merely what we insist,

Both the last moment and the next are beyond our affect,

The truth is, this moment is the only time we actually exist.

And only have the here and now where we can have effect.

Vain-glorious pursuits can become so self-defeating.

When a heart’s songs are recorded, be wise as sages,

Bearing in mind - both riches and fame are fleeting.

Heartsongs must be inscribed to stand the test of ages.

Be still and listen in your heart for the echo from above,

Listening close in a peaceful moment of no fear or panic,

You can hear the heartsongs - recognized for their love,

And join the ranks of ‘peace-makers’ –

Like MATTIE STEPANEK!

https://www.facebook.com/Philip-Kent-Church-1409887615889348/

On a Curve

Once and only once, on a road I

drive with a certain frequency,

and I am surprised that the coincidence

has not repeated but what do I know,

a beautiful woman sat on the steps 

of a porch in need of paint, her long 

legs almost reaching the sidewalk,

a rendition of Rodin’s The Thinker,

relaxed, the house on a curve close 

to the road beside a bar where it’s said 

David Allen Coe once played.  Her beauty

in sharp contrast to everything around.

Her presence, her beauty, 

ordered that place and time,

embedded the moment in me

like a glimpse into eternity.

Maybe I didn’t know how great the contrast

was, her dreams of leaving or staying 

in a different way, the grace that emanated 

from the moment I passed by and she

caught my eye, she neither young nor

old the way beauty sometimes teeters 

in time.  Yesterday, I passed that curve,

that house, that bar, that porch empty. 

-Byron Hoot

https://www.facebook.com/hootnhowlpoetry/

Black mouth Prophet

Black mouth prophet growls vaguely

in the languishing silence,

destroying the peace

of a sleeping homeless person.

 

He conceiving a grudge against sparrows,

an old assessor of a million city,

shoots a passer – by’s dog by eye.

***

A prickly scout

in search of forest truth

glistened with little eyes,

He raises a sharp nose.

 

Having limped on the dorsal spears

of red – cheeked apple prey,

the prickly animal disappeared from the horizon.

-Vyacheslav (Slava) Konoval