the May has come
with it the green
and the birds
and I am sitting
in the midst of charming meadows
listening to sounds
as well as a nice twittering
I think –
about different May flowers
and about the sun
and about the rain
and abour the smile
and about the sadness
and I write
just write poetries
those which smell
and that shine
the words of the springtide
how can one understand you?
how can one recognize your thought? –
banned in the
in the green frog
in the red flower
in the middle – in You
oh my may
Once there was a man who had no joy. One day he said to himself, “I have no joy.” So he set out on a journey to find some. He traveled for a day and a night before he came to a small village. He stopped the first person he saw. It was an old woman. The man asked her, “where can I find joy?”
The old woman shook her head and sighed, “I have been looking for joy ever since I was a young girl but have never found any.”
The man continued on his way until he came upon an inn. He asked the innkeeper where he might find joy. “She’s upstairs,” said the innkeeper, “It will cost you a silver coin to see her.” So the man dug into his purse and gave the innkeeper a silver coin and the innkeeper showed him up the stairs to a door and left. The man knocked gently on the door. “Come in,” said a voice. The man was about to turn the door knob and enter when he thought, “what if I find joy and am disappointed?” And so he hesitated and then he thought, “what if joy doesn’t care for me?”
So he left the door unopened and went back downstairs. “Well,” said the innkeeper, “did you find joy?” The man had to confess that he didn’t and asked the innkeeper for his coin back. The innkeeper shook his head and pointed to a sign behind the bar. The sign said, “No refunds. Life is your responsibility.” The man had to agree that was so. He turned and continued on his way.
Crave the Star
There are those who say
that man is god with smaller hands
our cities but inept mountain ranges
and our dreams the shoddy sweepings from god’s floor
I am one of those
I crave the stars and the spaces between
I have never seen a plastic flower I liked
Sunset and television set are in no way the same
By Mitchell Grabois
Valencia puts on
her little black dress
She takes on its mythic power
as soon as she dons it
transforms from a pharmacy tech
to a Carlos Santana riff
on a hot night
Her little nothing
brings out her sublime sexiness
It’s not harsh black
or dead black
It is electrifying black
and I am transported
back in time to the back seat
of a Chevy low rider
where we ingested horse tranquilizers
Words Spill Out
words spill from the wound,
leaping off the paper,
cascading to the floor.
they tumble out the door.
Reaching out, they elude my grasp.
Following I become lost.
An empty ache torments my mind,
wondering where they vanished to.
but there is no cohesion.
Phrases running amok in my head,
drift slowly to my pen.
But alas, there is no tale to tell,
only words stacked up one
against the other.
They will not align themselves
to paint the image that I hold within.
No panacea for my plight.
and words spill out again.
Invisible whispers in the stadium
The rhythm of footsteps on the track
A bitter winter day
When the cold freezes your thoughts
But not your heart
Another step, don’t stop
Tomorrow will be a better day
We will celebrate our victories together
We will find other challenges
Tomorrow, we will cross a new finish line
Harris Tobias returns with a flash
When the angel of death knocked on Mrs Kaminsky’s door, her reaction was not at all what he was expecting. “Come in, sit down. Can I get you something to eat?”
“No,” said the specter.
“Are you sure? You’re looking gaunt.” She ushered the visitor to a chair saying, “You’re in luck. I just baked a babka. It’s still warm. People say I make a really good babka. What’s your hurry, it’s not like you’re going anywhere.”
“Well, okay,” said the angel pulling his seat closer to the round oak table. The table with the oil cloth cover. The very table where Ida Kaminsky had served thousands of meals to her children, her husband. Meals all served with such love and devotion it almost made the angel feel ashamed.
Death propped his scythe against the wall and waited as Ida cut a generous slice of the fresh pastry. And it was by far the best babka the angel had ever tasted. One slice led to another until the angel groaned with contentment.
“If you like, I can wrap up a piece for later,” Ida Kaminsky said.
“Sure,” said Death, “Later.” And he took the piece of cake wrapped in aluminum foil from the old woman’s hand and left.