The Creative Page

 
 

Now I know

why they call it

a poet’s moon.


It perks your marionette shoulders

To a point of starched enlightenment;

When its soulful journey

traveling the clichéd course

amid upset sidewalks

comes to an end.

The breath is thrust

From your shoulders

Where trust is delayed yet another night.


I know why they call it

A poet’s moon

Because we’re the only ones

Awakened by the doleful tune

Of our dear Luna,

Risen to celebrate the muffled city

And its inherent beauty.


Oh, sleep is for the wicked...


Joelle Chille

 

Rachel Kelchlin

My Vision of the Future


The rail cars rust in the roots of

sycamores and rushes,

Tractor trailers overturned,

rotting in the marshes.

Aeroplanes don’t fly no more

their cargo is the flora,

Nature has reclaimed its throne

as the marvelous destroyer.

The boxes and the carriers

have lost their names in time,

They litter the cities and litter the fields,

so cryptic and divine.

Sometimes we seek their shelter,

we hide in their intestines;

Rain and clouds for days on end,

the sky has been infested.

The fire god, giver of heat,

he charms us with his warmth and meat,

The Earth awards and it engulfs and

we replace what we deplete.

The government is our will,

enforcement is our minds,

Time floats in front of me

On the calendar wall.

Clouds cool this air,

And me with it,

As a breeze floats in

My open window.

As these days

run me by,

This life of mine

Takes root.

Maybe as time floats by,

I’ll root down,

Keep put.

Minutes float by,

days with them.

I stand still at times,

As I live my life;

still, the breeze blows news

Into my room, of how

Life keeps moving.


S.G.

We’ve lost all sense of material,

we’ve lost all sense of time.

We’re pagans, anarchists,

and we’re mages and we’re shamans,

We feel the earth become us,

so we’ve everything in common.

She has born us, she sustains us,

in death, in life, in birth;

We are her keeper, she is ours,

the giving Mother Earth.

Each day we gather lunch,

we hunt breakfast and dinner,

Everyone is god now,

there are no saints or sinners.

So we get drunk and we fuck and

we kill and we get high,

The only one to pass the judgment is

me, myself, or I,

There is not any discipline,

there’s never a routine,

There is no right or wrong,

the only truth is existing.


Greg Hawk

< >