Arlene Corwin writes

The Day I Passed Garbo

Blasé New Yorkers are blasé goal walkers,

Harboring no other thoughts than achieving.

Seeing not, hearing not, smelling not, yet,

On a wet, windy day,

Making way upwards West 57^th,

Shoes coming toward me,

Brown, flat, longish coat, aging face, hat or kerchief,

(Or am I imagining) rather dark glasses.

As New Yorkers do,

Fobbing off glance or gawk,

I walked. 

It was Garbo, of course.

Our paths never crossed.

Never turning my neck,

Never swerving the gait,

Lacking nerve to slow down,

I continued my goal-walking moment to class

Cool, detached, saying nothing to anyone.

I, Arlene Corwin had passed Great Garbo

That sixty some years ago,

Only to mention it now.

 

Arlene Corwin writes

The Clocks Have Gone Ahead In Sweden 

The clocks have gone ahead in Sweden. 

We are already near the pole  - the North, 

Rotating round and near the sun. 

Can you imagine! 

Going daily toward a day 

That’s almost twenty-four light hours long. 

I sit here seven forty-five (that’s almost eight). 

It’s light!  

Exquisite clouds shine red, 

Reflecting sun through underside. 

One comprehends, yet doesn’t, since 

Just yesterday was darkening. We’d eaten dinner. 

Now I’m hungry and I’ve raided the refrigerator. 

One small hour means a lot. 

For those of you who’ve never been 

To Sweden in 

The spring when 

Clocks go daylight savings time – 

For those who only think of polar bears 

And Volvo cars, 

And Greta Garbo, 

Let me tell you, no, inform you, 

When the clock goes marching into March 

It doesn’t march, 

It springs 

To breathless beauty.

 

 

Robert Lee Haycock writes

Window Dressing

Flat on my back in the display case – 

Elbow-deep in petticoats

Flying blind for all that 

Her partner has my ear

Pinned with her high heel

I've got all her weight now 

O, Criminy! Don't tear her pantyhose!

Took her fluffers half a day 

To get her in this state

They'll kill me if they 

Have to start from scratch

Director nods and lights are thrown 

Where is that hole?

It's in... you twist... she stands! 

Her torso bayonetted

She turns as if to flee 

I slither out feet first and

Make room for the money shot

 

Kyp Harness cartoons

Gopal Lahiri writes

I am not

I am not the moonlight

that has not turned into words

on the blank page,

black ink beneath

sucking the tiny letters.

I am not like the slowly cooked fish

marinated with vinegar

while assembling the jigsaws

and inking in silence

the burrows of the crustaceans.

I am not the scattered ashes

of your memories wrapped

under the

leafy banyan tree protecting

the hidden treasures.

I am not your cleverest friend

erasing your sadness and goodbyes,

taking the world,

step by step

with wit and confidence.

 

 
 Bridge Road Banyan Tree Jupiter Island Hobe Sound Florida -- Kim Seng

John Sweet writes

with broken wings, with bruised hearts

  

& the future is prisons, you see, 

and the future is loss

let go of yr house, of yr 

children, but hang onto the hatred

that defines you

give up christ

give up all those pretty songs 

your mother used to sing

close in on holiness 

like a soldier taking aim 

Satya Pattnaik writes

Soul in pains

Soft tears roll down
Breaking the mind of today 
Art the pages in new colours
Drift the tides of thoughts

Hours of agony respond to the soul

It starts streaming
A dance choreographed
Azure descends
Wilderness gets passionately tender
Wraps the soul with the green of holiness

Flute of modern mind resonates
Half wish half desire die
Scrolls down for a new footage of life
Now bones start speaking
Mind flies to the impeccable height
Free of pains full of shines 
Chanticleer Garden, Wayne, Pennsylvania