At The Circle's End  by Clark Heinrich (Santa Cruz, California)

 

A noble arts circle in Cork

had its energy popped by a fork

It was all about money,

not much, and not funny,

and the person who did it's a dork

 

So let's raise a flagon to Tim

and all the rest working with him

and hope that somehow

he'll find a cash cow

even if chances are slim

 

Editor's Comments:  I have no words to say about this gift of concern & fellowship other than "Thanks Friend."

 

                                                                                                             Tim

            

 

At the circle’s end  by Elros Tuominen

 

Changing frames

an eternal coming and going

feeling close and far

losing honour and being a knight from ancient times

this life, this whole life

in itself a cage

too little to move

too large to find the door

as time goes by

divergent and convergent points dance in front of us

the beginning and the end

light and dark

but there's no reason to name them the way we think we should

there's no wrong way, no wrong decision, we make our choice

all we can do is face it

we cannot guide and control all those different factors

so don't fall down

don't let the dark side eat you up

only time will tell

time and strength to carry on

that's how we are taught

only time will talk to us

only time will be our master

our teacher, our eraser, our pencil, we choose

according to our perception of each moment we choose

time is the cure even if we can't see it yet

we count time in seconds

maybe our soul does it in hours

the cure will come

so small a cage

such wonderful moments

all lost or not

as we take the chance to try a different path.

 

Editor's Comments:  Another beautiful & thoughtful stream of Basque consciousness from our friend Elros which was very much appreciated bu the group.  Keep it up please amigo.

 

                                                                                          Tim

 

 

 

 

 

The Lunaticking Clock  by Tomas Brawley

 

I have often thought it part of a grand scheme;

As the lunatic clock keeps ticking

The Sun dogs bark at the edge of dawn

As the heat of despair dries an ocean of hope.

 

What can the reapers glean from a wasteland?

But for the dust swirling in a demons’ dance

Across a mirage of a garden oasis that once was.

So the land dreams of its past, or what is to be?

As the lunatic clock keeps ticking.

 

Who cares to tend this ominous shadow?

To repair the needs of such hopeless tact?

If there is no one to count the passing of

Shadows as the Sun rises and sets,

Why then does the lunatic clock keep ticking?

 

Time then has no reason or plan ever falling forward

And the past is only as it is remembered

Truth after all is only a portion of the story

A failing of time is the ability of acknowledging the now.

Now, nervously, the lunatic clock keeps ticking.

 

A sudden rumbling as clouds begin to form and

A cool breeze stirs. Clouds now become heavy

And hope begins to fall, first scattered drops.

With anticipation, seeds begin to stir in the parched

Landscape, until a deluge of the waters of life fall

To cover all the seedlings of tomorrow’s bloom.

 

The lunatic clock sleeps in the Now;

Still in the moment - forever!

 

 

Editor's Comments:  This delightful and thoughtful poem marks the most welcome return of Tomas.  Profound stuff from a poet close to nature; the simply told drama of the seasons on one level, but it also (I suspect) pays more than a passing reference to one of the most profound (and scary) questions of them all.  Is it all arbitrary, chaotic and random?  Or are there patterns or even a plan?   The group liked this a lot.

 

                                                                                                                  Tim

 

 

The Lunaticking Clock  by Clark Heinrich

 

We have heard it before

About those ready to explode:

"He's a ticking time bomb!"

And, yes, most of us have met a few.

And sometimes they do

Explode.

In the USA we have a president

Who some think is such a person,

A ticking time bomb ready to detonate

But this is not the case.

George W Bush is deranged by power

And deluded by religion,

A certifiable lunatic,

Driven mad by bloodlust and greed.

It's an old story being told again,

But he himself is not the bomb--

No, he is the ticking clock,

Ever aware of his diminishing

Time in office, eager to exploit

Every last stolen minute.

But his time is running out,

The clock is ticking away his chances

To unleash more horror on the world.

What will he do as the seconds tick away?

So little time, so many bombs to drop.

And what will we do

To see that this never happens again?

Time is running out for us all.

The clock is ticking.

 

 

Editor's Comments:  Another welcome return of the popular Clark, and a second clever poem from America.  This one paints a picture of the tertiary stages of the current presidential incumbent's term of doody against a monochrome Dr. Strangelove-like backdrop that is, of course, both funny and slightly scary.  Thanks Clark!

 

 

 

The Lunaticking Clock  by Victoria Q.

 

I am a woman;

See that look in my eye,

The one that makes you wonder

“What is in the rest of this picture?”

 

The rest is me, naked

With my baby beside me,

And eight months gone again.

This

       Luna ticking look

                                 in my eye.

 

 

Editor's Comments:  Bringing up the triumvirate rear of welcome returns is Victoria who has attached a jpeg illustration that I will include once Dec the Techie has reminded me how - which is a delightful idea.  This is a pleasantly gravid and pulchritudinous piece - lucid and pure.

 

                                                                                                                Tim

 

 

 

Beckett's Eye  by Johnny ‘Fingers’ Archdeacon

 

They stood under the tree in the moonlight, motionless and mesmerized. The moon was still low, just above the horizon, glowing orange and sending ripples of colour through the thin evening mist.

 

The tree leaned at an odd angle, had few leaves and was apparently of a great age. They always stood next to it, through the many years they had been watching the moon together. They rarely spoke; when they did, it was often in a private shorthand or with oblique references to shared knowledge and experiences. Sometimes one would forget what the other would remember and at other times neither would remember; it had been a long time.

 

They became aware of being watched, that uneasy feeling that unfolds from the back of the neck to the base of the spine and maybe all the way up again. They both had the tingling, dancing nerve triggers at about the same time which compelled them to turn away from the moon and glance at each other.

 

“Did you get that? Someone's behind us, been staring at us.”

 

“Yes, I got it too. How long has he been there?”

 

“I don't know, maybe hours, maybe days, it's hard to tell.”

 

“What's he doing?”

 

“No idea – do you think we should look?”

 

“Alright, but I've not looked in that direction much before so I don't know what's there anyway.”

 

They slowly turned toward that unfamiliar direction.

 

There he was, staring at them, not always focused, with a blank but thoughtful face. Occasionally, he would write in a notebook then gaze into nowhere before returning to look at them. A puzzled or perhaps quizzical look and even a wry smile would briefly cross his features. He would also, from time to time, look to left and right, even behind him, slowly rotating back to them.

 

“What's he doing?”

 

“I've never seen anything like it before. He seems to spend most of the time doing nothing, just standing there, looking in our direction.”

 

“Maybe he can't see us in this light, it is pretty dark after all. And he does look around too, as though  trying to find something or someone. He looks rather pale, like a ghost”.

 

“Ha ha – if he is, let's hope he's Caspar, the friendly ghost!”

 

“Could be! Seriously, do you think he's lost? He could be trying to figure out where he is and needs directions.”

 

“We've been here how long – well over a hundred years, probably a hundred and thirty – and no one has ever asked us the way or even stopped that long before. They usually just pause briefly and walk past.”

 

“I think that intense stare is what gave us the shivers. I mean, people look at us but I've never had that feeling from just being looked at.”

 

They fell silent and turned their eyes back to the moon.

 

“Strange guy.”

 

 

Editor's Comments:  John's piece has certainly captured the Godot mood of SB, but he also brings that lightness of touch one might expect from a guitarist of his legendary caliber, and with the driest humour imaginable.  Thanks for this Mr Archdeacon - here's hoping you grace our webpages a little more often!  Metta indeed.

 

                                                                                                                                                      

                                                     Tim

 

 

                               

  

 

 

The Dreamsmith  by Victoria Q.

On sleepless nights,
I amuse myself
bouncing from star to star
exciting the inhabitants,
with tales of earth
and all it's insane pleasures.

On restless days
for credibility purposes only,
I pretend to be human
adoring the solidity of this creation.
Never mentioning the chill
I feel here.

In early morning I swoop to secure this reality,
a cup of coffee doesn't hurt either
having passed through the whiplash of dimensions.
The sun streams into the kitchen
the tilt and slant of here and now reassuring in its predictability.
Neglected planets beam on, abandoned for the moments rush.

The first time never lasts,
and once is never enough
The spirit made flesh serves it's own purpose
Like the consent of lovers....
I carry on explorations on unwary feet
waiting for night, and my freedom loving wings.

 

 

Editor's Comments:  Your humble editor has almost, in his recent travels & hardware & software changes - let this pure gift of a poem by Victoria slip through the cracks.  This is poetry at its ballsiest, full of verve, energy and purpose.  I love it!  Thankyou so much for sending this in Victoria.  Please contribute again, and soon.

 

                                                                                                                   Tim

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Dreamsmith  by Weston Everett Clements' proud Grandpa Clark Heinrich

 

Vishnu, god of preservation,

lies asleep upon the cosmic sea,

holding all of creation within himself

with no effort whatsoever.

'He's just a dreamer,'

says Brahma, the actual creator,

'and lazy beyond belief--

he sleeps while I do all the work.

Yes, I was born of a lotus

that grew from Vishnu's belly,

but he had nothing to do with that--

except for falling asleep--

see, he sleeps while I create.

That's just the way it is.

But he gets all the praise,

all the offerings, all the prayers.

And what do I get? Burma,

where they can't even spell my name.'

Poor Brahma, never satisfied.

 

Shiva, god of destruction,

always nearby, is stoned, as always--

eyes bright red, hair a fright,

naked body white with ash and ithyphallic.

As always.

He juggles firebrands,

waiting his turn with feverish impatience,

waiting to begin his dance of annihilation,

his tandava dance,

when he will stomp the life

out of everything that exists.

 

Everything except Vishnu,

who will not awaken before his time

no matter how much Brahma complains,

no matter how stoned Shiva becomes,

for he is dreaming them as well.

 

But Vishnu will open his eyes one day

and that will be the end of that.

His dream will end--

Brahma will once again become a seed,

and Shiva will shake out of his stupor

with a frenzy the likes of which

the present universe has never seen

or ever will again--

whirling and stomping and playing his drum

he will not stop until he nearly destroys even himself

and nothing remains of all that was but ash.

 

And Vishnu will watch it all,

impassively aware of what is happening,

not paying too much attention, really.

'This makes me so sleepy,'

he will finally say to Shiva and Brahma,

and he will close his eyes again and dream,

a new dream from all the old ingredients,

for that is what he does.

 

Editor's Comments:  This is Clark playing to his strengths - a fascinating piece!  If you are reading these words then please wish a happy thought for little Weston Everett - born only three days ago to Clark's daughter - a beautiful baby boy who has defied the tradition that says all babies have to look like Winston Churchill.

 

                                                                                                                      Tim

 

 

 

 

 

Dancing Like Hitler  by Clark Heinrich

 

 

"Hey Joe, you gonna go to Halloween party tonight?"

 

"God no. I hate Halloween. I don't go."

 

"What'sa big deal? They gonna serve hot cider--"

 

"They always serve hot cider; and always too damn hot to drink. I don't go."

 

"C'mon, Joe, you don't have to be so down alla time. You never have a good word for anybody or anything."

 

"Screw you, Ben. When is last time I hear you laugh? When is last time you tell joke or say anything even little bit funny?"

 

"That's right, paisan, just turn everything around like always. Look, everybody gonna be there tonight, lotsa folks. I hear you used to like crowds."

 

"Only when they came see me. I hate common peoples. And hate costume."

"But you used to wear one--"

 

"That was not costume, idiot, that was uniform. Jesus! You wore one too, remember? No, of course don't remember, stupid dago."

 

"Whatever you say, Joe. It never pay to argues with you."

 

"Look who talk. Whatever happen your enemies, eh? They just 'disappear,' eh?"

 

"You should know, Mister "purging is not eating disorder." But I trying to talk about the Halloween party tonight, not my old enemies list. Or yours."

 

"I told you I don't go! Everybody will be wear same stupid costume they wear to last one, emcee will tell same insipid joke, plate will be too hot to touch, food will be over-spice and overcook, like always, and taste like crap, like always. Women will all be too tired for sex or have headache, like always. It happen every time. I stay here and stew in own juice."

 

"Man, you are one stubborn sonnabitch. How long since you went to a Halloween party?"

 

"I went one last night, if must know. Just to see if it change. And, to use popular saying, it suck big time. That why I don't go tonight or any night, world without end."

 

"Don' be so dramatic--"

 

"Look who talk, you cocky pipsqueak! You pompous midget! You little--"

 

"Calm down Joe--what you gonna do, kill me? Ha! But back to the party--"

 

"I DO NOT GO!"

 

"Yeah, yeah, I heard you first time, you don' gotta yell. But did you know there's gonna be a dance contest?"

 

"Jesus Christ, Ben, there always a dance contest. And who, pray tell, do you think will be only one who enter it?"

 

"Uh...lemme see...maybe Adolph?"

 

"That is right, Adolph, who will flap arms and strut around like demented chicken and try to force somebody be partner until somebody turn off music--music so loud it always give me splitting headache. Not to mention music always death metal. Drive me crazy."

 

"Okay, Joe, the music is too loud, sure, and what you say about the women, it's true. And the food really taste very bad, even the antipasti. And Adolph--mama mia!--he can no dance to save his soul! But for chrissake, Joe, it's Halloween!"

 

"Benito, you never very bright, granted, but your memory stink to high heaven. You don't remember nothing no more--your mind like sieve. I say this one last time and hope it sink in...ready?"

 

"Yeah, Joe, take it easy. I ready. What?"

 

"Every night Halloween here, Benito! EVERY...GOD...DAMNED...NIGHT!"

 

"Oh, you right! Mi scusi, Joe, I forget. Mea culpa. So--you gonna go to party? It's Halloween!"

 

 

Editor's Comments:  Another offering by the young poet from Santa Cruz, Clark Heinrich in the form of a dialogue between Benito Mussolini and a terminally bored Joseph Stalin in hell.  Of course we all loved it and, although this is a humorous piece and very effectively so, we thought it also showed a very closely observed sense of character conveyed by dialogue alone.  Well done that man! - btw mine's a Guinness.

 

                                                                                                                       Tim  

 

 

 

 

Either Mad Or Both  by Clark Heinrich

A Mid-Eastern man took an oath
and swore; "to do bad I am loath"
Some said, "He's a fake -
a hypocritical rake!"
Others, "He's either mad, or both"

Could this be a poem about Jesus?
The one who supposedly frees us?
Well, think what you want
or go read your Kant--
there's no one in heaven that sees us.

 

Editor's Comments:  "Lovely!"  "Very clever"  "He's a dote"  (That's a good thing for those of you unfamiliar with Irish vernacular!) & "He's a devil!"  These were all comments from members of the group who thoroughly enjoyed Clark's latest offering.  Personally, I think he shows great pluck, or a least something that rhymes with that, for being the only Blow In to brave this week's title.  We've made next week's theme an easy one by way of compensation.

 

                                                                                                                                           Tim

 

 

 

 

 

Finnegan's Folly  by Clark Heinrich

 

Seamus Finnegan was fed up. "How many damn Seamus Finnegans do you think there are in Ireland?" he asked one night at the pub, to no one in particular. "Too damn many, that's how many. Thousands and thousands, and they all seem to have friends and relatives callin' me on the phone lookin' for them!"

 

"Aye, Seamus," said a drunk man at the bar, "I agree. There are far too many Seamus Finnegans. In fact one is one too feckin' many." This brought gales of laughter from the rowdy patrons. "How do ya even manage to find yer own version in a crowd, Seamus?" Even louder laughter now.

 

"Sure, then, go on and have fun at my expense, ya bunch o' drunken louts!" Still more laughter. This was not going as Seamus had planned.

 

"Well, my dear morons, laugh all you want--get it out o' yer systems now, because that was your last laugh at my expense!"

 

A hush fell over the pub. 

 

"Oh, and why is that, Mister--what'd ya say yer name was?" The same man again, and louder laughter than before.

 

"Well, I'll tell you why, you old sot--because I've changed me name! From now on there'll be no more confusion as to who is who, because I've gone and done it, all legal-like and everything--that's right, you crowin' bunch o' slobberin' losers, I've changed me name, and no one will ever again mix me up with some Seamus Finnegan in Ulster or Belfast or any other feckin' place! Even here in our pitifully tiny town we have Seamus Finnegan, Seamus Finnegan, Seamus Finnegan and me, Seamus Finnegan--" 

 

"Don't forget me, Seamus," said a man in the back of the crowd.

 

"Oh, sorry, Seamus," Seamus said. "We mustn't forget Seamus Finnegan there in back. So, you can see the problem and why I had to get rid of Seamus Finnegan for good. I even did a Google search of me new name and I'm the only one with that particular name on the whole feckin' planet! I'll never again have to tell people on the phone that they've got the wrong goddamn Seamus Finnegan!"

 

"Ah, well then, that changes everything, don' it?" said the drunk man. "And just what did you change yer name to, pray tell?"

 

"Christ Jesus. I ask you, when's the last time anyone tried to reach him on the phone?"

 

 

Editor's Comments:  This piece is another lovely example of Clark playing at the top of his game, with an ample supply of both wit and bite.  The group LOVED the Seamus Finnegan at the back of the crowd.  All in all, we felt this piece was immaculately conceived!

 

                                                                                                                  Tim   

Editor’s Comments:  “Which comes first, the colour or the emotion?”  Some very nice touches in this new contribution from Clark, especially in the way he lists and characterises the different colours.  The group felt this worked very well.  Thank you for this, Clark.

 

                                                                                                                 Tim 

ON THE LEFT HAND OF LUCY  by Cymon

Mapping  the labyrinth
Deaf lead the blind
The more truth you look for
The less love you find

Stoned with the sinners
Who wait here to die
Choking on diamonds
Let loose in the sky

Dropped on a sugar cube
Trapped in a pill
Refusing to choose
Between fate and free will

Wrestling with seraphim
Warring with peace
Lucifer's crucified
Hell is for lease

Silvery mushrooms
Seeding the clouds
Whose tarnished linings
Serve as our shrouds

Towering gravestones
Collapse in free fall
From here to forever
In no time at all

So bet three on the even
And ten on the odd
On the left hand of Lucy
Rests the right hand of God

Editor's Comments:  Wow!  A cracking poem from Cymon our newest Blow In, full of mystery, magic and humour this!  To my mind as a reader, I think her poem centres around the act of 'letting go' - making the leap from the known to the unknown - from the fixed to the wonderfully uncertain.  Full of life with tiny echoes of a more adventurous age.  I hope this is the first of many Cymon!

 

                                                                                                                  Tim

The Left Hand of Lucy  by Clark Heinrich

"Jesus Christ!" Lucy said, looking at the blood dripping from the
turn-signal lever onto her new white slacks.

 

"Damn stigmata!"

 

 

Editor's Comments:  Clark returns to full form with this cracking two-liner, which the group loved – thinking it a surprising combination of condensed yet self-contained.  Pithy to perfection, Clark!

 

                                                                                                                  Tim

On the left hand of Lucy  by Dr Concrescence

The greatest prophet
I ever met was born
humbly in decadence

The Father a genius
working for the Man
focused on bettering

the human condition
among Switzerland's
peaks and valleys

My first encounter
converted me for life

HERE was GOD who CONTROLS the SPINNING
of TIME the WEB of SPACE and FIRMAMENT

in our HEART EVERLASTING

I was reborn in a hagiography too big to encompass:
Herr Hoffman and his brethren, and like Peter before
them many denied the Prophet, hunted by Romans

...running scared from the truth, embracing ancient
power traditions, hiding their message in enigmatic
texts, pushing hermeneutic circles as liberation

"Lucy In the Sky with Diamonds," will still set them free
forgiving them all, as we sit on her left hand
accepting a slim hope
for evolution’s
salvation.

 

 

Editor's Comments:  Lovely!  I’m normally and generally a believer in the idea that poetry should reach out for the greatest audience possible – choosing simple elegance over mere verbal cleverness every time.  Here we have all of the above but I must wonder how many would recognize the references to (or would know the identity of) Albert Hoffman - the Swiss scientist who brought LSD into the world?  A beautiful and thoughtful poem, Doc.

 

                                                                                                                 Tim

An Amnesiac's Memoir  by Dr Concrescence