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Poet's Corner

Drop off Your Poetry and We’ll put it in.

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ie man loved to sleep buthe didn'tgotoit
There will never be any problems to rival this.
his iii ak pi as

September 11

Change has dressed herself
now draped in camouflage,
green foliage of hope
stained blood-red
fallen dreams weave tighter
and burrow inside
the fabric of the heart.

Leslie Allen
sept. 17/01

WORD OF THE WEEK!

Hey kiddies, all you loney bozos out there, sitting
alone... silently. It’s time for the word of the week!
This weeks word is:

Jongleur (which means)

1) A wandering medieval minstrel.

2) A large vein in your neck.

3) To be like Carl Jung.

4) Letting your junk fly open to the wind, free and
unfettered, to be jongleur.

‘MMO""UN"“paseyejun
pue eeJ) ‘jousuilu BuuepueM ke 9g O} ‘UY UeaMsUYy

The Hallway of my Mother’s House
by Jeremy Stewart

It begins and ends with a door,
The threshold of which is covered with blood.
Like some of the chosen ones,
We pay our price for protection.
The walls are lined with windows
And paintings by lost masters.
The floor is carpeted green
And the ceiling is perfect blue.
The doors are carved to show
The ways that each conceal.
The similarities seem to suggest
That it’s the same door at either end.
Is the hallway circular? | can’t recall

| suppose I'llsee atthe end
When | open the far door and reveal
Perhaps the same hall again.

Wind Swept Feather

One night a feather landed on my heart,
While | slept so very calmly.
Its weight upon my chest caused my ribs to snap,
Like a twig under my Caterpillar steel-toed boots.
The feather was red, and soft as silk,
Its gentle fingers tickled me with intent,
And caressed me with utter practiced perfection.
But its weight was nearly intolerable.
Like a wet canon ball sitting on my breast.
Yet so much did | enjoy the sensation,
That | asked for the feather to supply more pressure,
To which the feather replied by retracting entirely,
And blowing away in the wind.
| lay dazed, and confused,
With a shattered rib cage,
Trying to recall the pleasure of the weight of a feather,
That had left emotional scars afresh,
And had played like heaven upon my flesh.
Sweet feather of mine, | miss you dear.
Please know | still desire your caress,
And | will always welcome you back to my chest.

Michael J. Cruickshank