A Poem by Joanna M. Weston
if I had walked away
you with your back
turned to me
I would not have seen
your eyes
smiling into mine
I would not have heard
your chuckle
rippling with mine
but I stayed
for dinner
A Poem by Joanna M. Weston
if I had walked away
you with your back
turned to me
I would not have seen
your eyes
smiling into mine
I would not have heard
your chuckle
rippling with mine
but I stayed
for dinner
A Video by Pruskova
A Poem by linda m. crate
bluebirds sing in your eyes
sun stars in your locks
magnolia lips dance their kiss
the birds of you nest
their song in my ears
the eggs of psalms hatching
some song i can scarcely remember;
you awoke in me a need
to cleave the bitterness
hanging it into pomegranate
sunsets that know nothing more than melancholy —
you washed over me hymns of light,
rivers of bliss:
You broke me out of the stone.
Let me sing a song of thanksgiving
and let’s harmonize a better medley
for all the world to hear.
A Speech by John Birdno
It was a cold November morning in 1977. This man rushes into the emergency room carrying his 2-year-old son. From the look of fear in his eyes, the doctors knew that this time, something was seriously wrong. When they took him from the father, they could actually feel the heat coming from the child’s, now convulsing little body. His temperature was at a piping 106 degrees and the seizures were violent, twisting this child’s body up in ways that the good lord never intended. They gave the child an emergency ice bath, being careful not to send his defenseless fragile body into shock. The father was beside himself, probably more helpless than he had ever been. For those of us that are parents, we all know that there is not a more vulnerable moment in life than when your child is afflicted and you are powerless to help.
Sadly enough, the doctors were used to seeing this young man, along with the other five children he was raising at home. It seemed that every week or so, this man was in the hospital with two or more of his children. All of their illnesses were the same. Upper Repertory Disease. But this time was obviously different. He was used to the low-grade fevers, and the persistent coughs that were by now, simply a background noise throughout his house. He paced the waiting room, wondering if he was going to be able to take his son home again. Riddled with emotion and confusion, he did his best to be strong and fight back the tears. What were only minutes, stretched on like hours as the doctors furiously worked to bring the child’s temperature back to an acceptable level. When the doctors came back in the room, they had the results to the blood tests they were conducting. Now y’all must understand, this was in the late 70’s and medical technology was nowhere near where it is now. However, the tests were solid and they indicated, and I quote “A Virus of Unknown Origin”. Chemical Poisoning.
How could this be? the young man wondered. I mean sure, the kids were always sick but not to this degree. Not to the degree of high fever and seizures. He asked the doctors how this could happen, and to his surprise, they told him that unfortunately, they were seeing a lot of these cases, though not this severe, and have been treating an alarming amount of children in the months preceding. The doctors asked the father what part of the city of Cahokia Illinois did they reside. The Father said, over by the plant. This plant was a MONSANTO CHEMICAL PRODUCTION FACILITY.
As it turns out, the little city was actually quite healthy before this facility came to be but being as this facility offered jobs, benefits (other than chemically poisoning it’s surrounding residents) and a strong financial future for the locals, it was accepted with open arms.
The Father asked questions of his family, neighbors, and friends, he asked them if they had been suffering as well. The answer was a resounding yes. They all wanted to make moves to have the chemical factory shut down, but by then, Monsanto had rooted itself very well by offering incentives to the local authorities i.e. the politicians. It seemed as though as long as the money was rolling in, everything else would take care of itself. Well, according to this father, and his 6 seemingly always sick children, this was not the case.
Due to all of the time this father was missing from work, in efforts to take care of his ailing children, and I believe also due to him raising questions about the harmfulness of the chemicals being pumped into the oxygen supply, he was let go from his employer. This was actually a blessing in disguise because he decided to move his young family to Fulton, Missouri. Miraculously, within just a few weeks of the move, all of the children’s symptoms disappeared. The young child who had the seizures didn’t see another hospital until he was 6 years old. This time, he developed one of the worst cases of pneumonia. Three fourths of his lungs were filled with fluid; in essence, he was slowly drowning. After a month in the hospital, he was finally back to normal. It is believed that this pneumonia wouldn’t have been as severe if the prior poisoning hadn’t taken place.
You may be wondering just how it is that I know this story. The answer is simply this, I was that young child, and it was my father who carried me into that emergency room those many years ago.
Being a father myself now, I can understand how my Pops felt and I wish I could reverse time and make it to where he never had to feel that way. Well, last time I checked, we haven’t made a time machine so that dream is out of the question. But, what’s not out of the question is what we can do as citizens, to prevent other families from having to suffer these tragedies. Point blank folks, Monsanto has to go. This vile corrupt monster has been uncaged for far too long. They have grown to the point now of manufacturing our foods. But it goes further than that. They have enlisted the support of our Senator, Roy Blunt. Roy Blunt played a strong role in the drafting of the Monsanto Protection Act. And our fine president Obama, signed it to law. This law basically grants Monsanto and its affiliates, Judicial Asylum. Basically, they are now above the law. This was a necessary step in securing our nations food interest. Simply put, if you control the food supply, you control the folks that eat it.
Make no mistakes citizens and patriots, this is exactly what they are trying to do. This troubles me greatly because for one, Missouri is an agricultural state, hence the lady on top of our fine capitol here. In this Free country, this doesn’t sound very free to me. Quite frankly, it scares the hell out of me. We must put a stop to this, and this is how. We stand up, raise our questions, demand answers and most importantly, accountability. Their Greed has outweighed our Need for far too long. It’s time to take it back. It’s time to take it back and secure a safe future for our children, grandchildren, and for all generations to come. The Greed has outweighed the Need, and it’s time for it to Stop.
Thank you.
A Poem by Korey J. Brownstein
Aisle 1: music plays a pas de deux
I miss my lady
Aisle 2: a gentleman’s Spoken Résumé
the internet dies
Aisle 3: divorce your family
where do I sign?
Aisle 5: a beau monde for gentlewomen
the cheddars gasp
Aisle 7: maps of megalopolises
where is ChiPitts?
Aisle 11: fresh Bhut Jolokia
have it on the rocks
Aisle 13: meat and poetry
I taste The Peacock
Aisle 17: the eunuch searches for his missing piece
that damn Shaunnigan
Aisle 19: cars dressed in dew from the past
let the sun wash it away
Aisle 23: a cure for borborygmus
the cwm without a crwth
Aisle 29: the widowed man paints a new coat
she is in love with the stain
Aisle 31: the lover of politicians
a virgin cloth collects her tears
Aisle 37: materials for a bien-pesant
society will provide a discount
Aisle 41: the sex-crazed Sarvajna
why is the woman I love hiding?
Aisle 43: the six-mile man runs into the arms of rejection
his talking shoes return laughing
Aisle 47: the dancing queens sing
“I like you just the way you are!”
Aisle 53: the imprisoned nametag
what sort of crimes did it commit?
Aisle 59: the city drains
another train drinks and flies away
Aisle 60: the hermetic place
no one shops here
A Prose Poem by Anon ymous
I want you to forget you love me. Forget how trees scallop the sky, the way the horizon shuns the stars. I want you to bury the words you gave to me. The ones that belong to the soft rush of wind through pussy willows. Pack away the quiet adjectives you use to describe the sound of morning; forget it all. I’ll write you from another continent, bare and thirsty words; underfed and worthless words. I’ll write of broken promises; made up prayers from lost lovers. I’ll tell you about paper wings, ashes; a wet moon awash on the shore; the protest of those who will never reach out with arms, feel with fingers, know the flexibility of hands.
A Segment of a Novel in Progress by Deborah L. Wymbs
I hold my drink and relax under my grand willow tree. It was not a hard day at work, but it wasn’t easy either. All I wanted was privacy and a moment to myself.
“Excuse me,” someone says behind me.
I usually hear people when they approach. The gravel is an excellent and inexpensive alarm system. The man is on foot and this surprises me. No one in Tampy really likes to walk—except for me.
“Who are you?” I ask sharply.
“As I said, I’m sorry for invading your privacy.” He speaks in a very humble tone.
“I’m Ralph Bowman from Gaslight Realty. I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“You reached me. I deleted your messages.” I replace my flute in its case. “Mr. Bowman, I’m not interested in selling my home. My not returning your hundred some calls should have made that obvious to you.”
He glances at the wrought iron table and notices the bottle of wine and the glass sitting across from a forty ounce opened malt liquor can next to a beer mug. “I see I’ve disturbed you and your husband,” he apologizes. “If I could maybe speak to your husband?” He scans for a male figure.
“Look, the answer is no,” I say. “We’ve been here for four years and we’re quite comfortable. I am nice, but my husband is not. No amount of money will ever make us change our mind so please see yourself out.” I signal with my hand as I begin walking towards the blacktop leading him away from the house. “You have a great evening, Mr. Bowman, but remember, the answer is a firm no.”
I walk back to my place of comfort.
“Mrs. Cox,” he calls to me.
I turn to face him. He jogs to me with a card in his hand. “This is my card just in case—“ but he does not finish his words. His eyes focus on Husband barking in a gallop towards him. “Whose dog is that? Is it yours?” He is suddenly very nervous and he wipes his brow. I can tell Husband is not going to attack. His fur is not bristling. He is in his sheep herding mode and Mr. Bowman is a lost sheep.
“My neighbor’s dog,” I tell him, a fib, of course, but a small one. “He obeys me some of the time.”
Husband begins circling and continues barking as Mr. Bowman walks slowly and carefully to the road. “Shoo. Shoo. Go away,” he says in frantic tones.
Husband is having one of his finest moments. A terrified Mr. Bowman makes a gesture to strike Husband with his briefcase. This causes Husband to pause, the fur along the back of his neck begins standing up. Husband looks as though he has a wheat blond afro running down his back to his shoulders. Then he playfully barks and goes into a growl. He shows his teeth.
Squatting, I open my arms: “Husband, come here. Let mommy see you.”
Husband immediately turns his attention towards me and trots proudly to me with his golden tail with its cute white tip curled up like a scorpion’s stinger. He wants to make sure the realtor knows he is not wanted. Then he turns to charge Mr. Bowman.
“Husband,” I call out, “he’s leaving. We don’t want to see him. Give mommy a kiss.”
As Husband showers me with little hello licks, I watch Mr. Bowman run to the blacktop.
“Where have you been?” I ask as I embrace him. Where has my Husband been hiding?”
The Ravine Clean Team
We successfully cleaned the banks, the stream, and the wooded area around the stream in the Clyde Wilson Memorial Park on both sides of University Ave., Columbia, Missouri and now it looks as good as the postcard photo above.
The stream passes under University Ave. near Moss Creek Apartments, 1626 University Ave. and it needed a cleaning–over fifty volunteers and more than seventy-five garbage bags, parts of a couch, parts of a truck, picture frames, a large barbecue grill, a TV set, a number of cell phones, and too many beer bottles to count later, the stream is clean on both sides of University Ave. to where it flows into Hinkson Creek.
Thank you, everyone, for a job well done.
A Poem by Donal Mahoney
From the Dead Sea
of a bad marriage
a phoenix rises–
children who somehow
thrived and married
and now have children
as beautiful as they were
years ago when they
played in the park
on see-saws and swings
and made their parents
occasionally happy.
At summer reunions they try
to unspool the mystery
of why their parents
fought all day
yet stopped at night
and gave life to them.
They gather today
in the same park
and applaud their children
who smile and laugh
on see-saws and swings
once theirs alone.
A Poem by Korea Brownstein
I love your cold caress and our playful fights.
how you keep me bundled up and safe inside.
The taste of hot chocolate lingers on my lips—
your white beauty falls over me.
The sparks of your fire make me warm inside,
but darling, I miss the smell of roses and misty hot rain,
the warm embrace that chases my chill away,
the falling layers that leave me free.
No, lovely Winter, I’m not leaving you,
but Summer’s fantasies won’t stop invading my dreams,
so won’t you please, just for a day,
let him in so we can play.