Thin sheets,
like leather whips,
bring comfort to this
twisted skin.
by Claire D. Hawthorne
the twinkling stars amongst us,
parallel to those hanging by a string in the sky.
with the lights and the sounds
of the day
echoing further into the night.
the busy streets packed even further.
with the stragglers of the day
and the moon bearing down
upon them all.
each with a story to tell.
the late-shift office workers
just getting off from their daily hell;
some rushing home as soon as they can.
some sticking around the enjoy
the beauty of the night.
the eighteenth birthday clubbers
hitting the streets for the first time;
their walk, their talk, their actions
in lieu of the starlets they worship.
the lovers holding hands
to avoid getting lost in the crowd.
and the teenagers refusing
to say goodnight just yet.
the people who never sleep
in the city that’s alive all night long.
by Roger Mugs
oh i write brilliantly when the sun has been hiding behind the clouds for months at a time and i’m frozen. my down jackets and extra layers of all-humanity-is-suffering-alongside-of-me socks bring out the best in my desire for clouds and trees and something which will bring me joy. the hope on the horizon of the summer they claim will come.
but then i up and moved to where the sun will never fail to shine and i cannot pass the hour without both a hat and sunglasses (an accessory i’ve never used in my whole life and thus had to purchase the kind that fades in and out but embarrasses my wife when indoors and still slightly faded – but i love it because at the core of me i love when i’m judged a fool). now the mountains scream beauty to me every day and the last of our issues are being worked out in a city that actually serves donuts.
yes i’m afraid i’ve shot myself in the foot. or as a writer should perhaps better say – in the hand. i fear these bones will continue to type or write into oblivion or at least eternity and be wrought with not even the slightest of inspiration thus bringing you fear, trembling, joy, love, beauty, and everything you ever longed for
sans poetry.
