By Bambie Starr
Poets who write . . .
worship the verse
living line by line.
They care not for genres, form, or restrictions.
Poets who write . . .
have something to say
and are going to say it
whether or not anybody will listen.
Poets who write . . .
write of such mundane things
as sunsets, butterflies and kittens.
But we see their startling beauty in a clearer light.
Poets who write . . .
are a melting pot of creativity,
as diverse as their words.
United by one common bond:
Their love of the language.
Illogical Muse is entering its third year and still going strong. As we say goodbye to 2006 I would
like to thank everyone who has made it all possible, contributors and readers alike. Already this year, we�ve seen new growth with the inclusion in the Poet�s Market and I know it is only a taste of things to come. I hope that each and every one of you find much success with your writing. I know I say this all the time and that is because it�s true. If you�re honest with your words then they deserve to
be heard.
�The Image Of A Ghost�
By Calista Cahill
In the shadow of twilight, he haunts me.
In the blinding light of day, he calls my name.
In the darkness of my mind, he hides his face.
A mask of shadows is all I have ever seen of him.
He knows me for what I am a pretender, a fraud,
The shadow of my parent�s dreams.
He strips away my masks revealing
That nothing lies behind them.
I am a ghost of dreams and wishes unfulfilled.
Friends think I am a wonderfully kind person.
I am their fool and jester.
Simple and afraid of everything and nothing
A broken heart that belongs to everyone
And to no one at the same time
A mind clogged with fear and self-loathing
I am a poet, the dream of other people�s dreams
The weaver of magical webs of fantasies
Yet, I am alone in this world.
***
�Caution: The Track You Wear In Your Hair May Be Closer Than It Appears�
By H. E. Wright
For your new white career life,
you�re teaching
black Baltimore
sixth graders
the four kinds of sentences
in the entirety of the language �
as if there are really
only four types of sentences.
(But it says so on the test
You�re supposed to teach to.)
And then you hear them speak
of �paramours�
in the back rows,
in whispers of crack
and threats.
And you are so west,
so white.
It takes you merely a second thought
to think: �dialect.�
Translate. That is, �power mower.�
The stash lives there�
disrespecting grass,
cuttings,
and the black sixth grade.
***
"Book Mark"
By Jacob Erin-Cilberto
we write,
we read, we love
words sprung from the loins of hope
contentment, the child who drips words
from an infant's chin,
rattles his pen, wanting more
attention like a babysitter coddles the pages
voyeur of addiction,
we write,
we read, we love
we sow the seed of fate
in budding lyrics grounded in infinity's inquisition
who are we when we conceive?
whose clothes are we shedding
to get naked with the muse?
and how will we raise what we have birthed
with our creative semen?
how can we let them grow and then go
say goodbye, hope we gave them enough sense
to survive the cruel world that would sooner toss
them into a flaming fire of disregard
and forget them like a bad hangover or a dime novel
that soiled their sheets of expertise
but we have been to the party too,
we have drunk in the world and all of its connotations
and thus
we write,
we read, we love
we breathe
and
so do they.
***
"Ice Cream Escapades"
By Natalia Doan
goop of raspberry trickles
down my hand.
tickles, then freezes
as a breeze
of ease melts
all prior plans.
our hands,
cupped around cheap plastic containers,
turn frigid and dry.
The forecaster warned
that we should stay warm
(minus ten degrees was the high),
yet we stay in our seat,
with the frostbite of feet
and the flakes of snow hailing down from the sky.
the shops closed
and the people returned home,
as we sat
together alone.
Smiles reveal chattering white,
matching the snow of this frigid night.
More snow falls, making us wetter.
Ice cream and snow:
what could be better?
***
"A Hundred Years From Now"
By John Grey
Will bodies still be dragged from rivers?
Will people stand nervously on banks,
some pale-faced, silent,
others whispering, "Who can it be?"
Will a few just burst out into loud sobbing
that feels like it will never stop?
Will there be cop cars
with their red lights spinning?
And divers up to their knees in mud?
What about the bridge
that so many have jumped from?
Will it still stand, just as gray,
just as lit up like a birthday cake?
Will there still be birthdays?
And what about the river itself?
Will it still mimic moods?
Wild and passionate in spring?
Slow, mechanical, in summer?
Freeze up like a nun's glare
come winter-time?
A hundred years from now,
we'll all be dead.
Will that help?
***
"Music Appreciation"
By Michael Keshigian
He asked them
to take the music outside,
listen as they held it toward the sky,
let the wind rattle its stems,
or place the sheet against an ear
to hear a tune
through the hollow of its shell.
He told them to jog
the parameters of the staves,
walk the winding road of its clef
and imagine living there.
Perhaps they could drop a feather
upon the music's resonance,
follow its float among the timbres,
or ski the slopes of musical peaks,
gliding unencumbered into its valleys,
then thank the composer
for varying the landscape
when they left the lodge.
But the class was determined
to stalk each phrase,
analyze chords for manipulation, cunning
and seek the hidden form.
They handcuffed the notes
to the music stand,
even flogged the melody
with a drum mallet,
until it whistled a meaning never intended.
***
"Small Time Thief"
By Allen Mavis
She was an ugly ghetto woman;
looked like a guy.
She had her shirt tuged off
for the sweet sting of a few free menthols.
The cops came and tripped her up, face first.
They caught, tackled her on the asphalt.
Her road rashed rumbly jumblies
took her poor mind off the nicotine fit,
and her skull off the hard rap of the trunk lid.
***
"The American Century "
By Michael O'Hollern
America my beloved!
America my mistress!
America my soul . . .
Have we nothing to teach the future
But that you could be both poor and fat?
My shining city on a hill
Is no longer visible from a distance.
My father's wisdom, entombed in liberty's hall,
Has become the foundation of a shopping mall.
Our cities drown.
And the gurgling cries of my America
Are interrupted for commercials.
Market share is down.
Once we spoke a language,
But language dies.
Once we breathed new air,
But now all air is gone.
And now my America is nothing but a colorful dungeon,
Where three hundred million souls,
Perishing amid plenty,
Salute a meaningless flag.
The American Century has spoken.
***
"Imagination"
By Robin Pommier
In a world only the mind can see
Many strange and wondrous beings live
Amongst purple mountains dragons dwell
Guarding their hordes of stolen riches
In the forest elves dance and sing
Nymphs join in on their merrymaking
Amongst the flowers fairies play and hide
Trees even have a voice of their own
In a world where magic makes the rules
Only creativity can unlock the door
No boundaries and endless possibilities
***
"Perfect"
By Crystal Smith
With your hair so straight,
And your shoes so fine,
With your pants so alick,
You're perfect all the time,
When it comes to school, you don't know a thing,
But you still star with that Diamond Ring,
You stand to ask a question and you sit and stall,
Looks like your not perfect after all
***
"A Dream"
By Crystal Smith
Working in a field full of cotton
Hot as the world could get
Being born wasn't an option
For a slave I will regret
Having not a drink of water
My throat began to fade,
I saw the man in the chair
With his gun in the shade,
A small shadow behind me
Yelled and there goes the man,
I was no longer thirsty,
And was about to take a stand
When the man with his gun
Was about to raise his hand,
Blur flew throught the view
And the light was starting to fade,
No child or man was in my public parade.
***
"Thinking of Them
By Shawn Price
The knife on the table
Looks very inviting.
It speaks to me,
It tells me it is okay to dig in.
I am reluctant though,
I feel the stains
May be too hard to clean.
It haunts me at night,
It follows me in the day,
I would not want them
To be left with the mess.
***
"Bittersweet Tears"
By Jim Greenwald
In dreams not realized.
And promises never made.
I am drowning in a sea of
un-tasted desire.
My love lost to a silent liar's eye,
tasting only my own tears.
Your heart already shared with
someone else.
Lost wings end my flight with
your simple good-bye.
In time I may learn to deal with
the pain.
And you should know no other
can take your place.
In my sadness I can only shed
bittersweet tears.
***
"Do You Know Me?"
By Jim Greenwald
I am he who roams the earth unnoticed.
I search for the good, for that worth saving.
I move among you amidst your busy lives.
Always listening in case you speak!
I speak to you as I have always done.
Few seem to hear, less even care.
When I was a wolf.....I tried to teach.
When I was a turtle.....I taught healing.
When I was a spider.....I taught about the web of life.
When I was a salmon.....I instilled strength.
When I was a dolphin.....I taught harmony.
When I was an alligator.....I taught survival.
When I was a butterfly.....I taught balance.
When I was a crow.....I imparted wisdom.
When I was an eagle.....I imparted illumination.
All this and more have I given you.
I remember when you could all understand.
Why have you shut me out? So much lost!
***
"My Mother"
By Rachelle Arlin Credo
Who is she who risked her life
in order that I can see the world of strife?
Who is she who battled against the storm
that I may be protected from the culture's norm?
Who is she who spent sleepless nights
for me to guard and secure?
Who is she who watched me overnight
to care for me and give me pleasure?
Who is she who would weep with me
for every pain I bear?
Who is she who would ever save me
from the depths of dark despair?
Who is she who would accept me wholeheartedly
when all my friends turn their backs away?
Who is she who would love me through
Even though it means that she'll be through?
***
"Invasion of Space"
By Gary Peters
As I glimpsed at my past, for just a moment in time.
Seeing that my future was in desperation, that being my destination.
Validating the voices and sounds that I heard in the rawness.
Beating with my fists at the lack of salvation.
The price was too high for the games I was to play.
I was not to know what love would mean to me.
Seeing myself running across the cobble stoned market square.
Crying so much that I would drown in my own emotional pool.
Phone calls and texts, then seeing you standing at the diner.
Crystal glass surroundings separates me from the fakes in my life. Ignoring the false smiles, the waves and that entire high five shit.
How can a life so coloured, in an instant change to black and white.
The future little princess has a natural obsession to lie and deceive.
Some good may come from it, though I doubt it very much.
So a glimpse at what is to come will never bring one joy.
If you ever find your pot of gold or your shooting star.
Best of luck, you are going to need it, take it from one who knows.
***
"Phone Rage"
By Raud Kennedy
All these jackasses
who walk around
talking
into their cell phones
like the person
on the other end
is hard of hearing,
like everyone else
in line,
wants to hear them
go on and on
about their troubles
picking out a color
for the living room.
Paint it with feces,
I say, just hang up
the damn phone
and shut the f*ck up!
***
"Holidays"
By Raud Kennedy
Today
is one of those days
where,
no matter how nice or kind,
everyone
will make me sick.
Grandmothers
coddling their grand kids,
dog walkers and Samaritans,
whistling,
people who press the walk button,
and don�t wait
should be put in stocks.
Same goes for people
who fidget, stuff their faces,
and read newspapers loudly.
I�m exhausted,
wiped out from yesterday.
Who knew
forcing conversation with people
I see twice a year
could sap
so much life.
***
"Sublunary Nature"
By Benjamin Harrison
Yes, it is a strange desire,
But really aren't they all?
The surest measure of a height
Is how long it takes to fall
Passing moments fall into minutes
Counting backwards so it seems
The hours of light birth the night,
The years cut short the dream
For in a tale that's twice as bold
The recluse lies in wait
And when the dreamer grows too cold
Death will surely wake.
***
"The Artist "
� Lyric Rose ~ 2/15/2006
Caged,
held captive
from life,
by forces
beyond defense.
Her talents,
written
on walls
for no one to see.
Circumcised
by her innocence
in love.
Powerless
to defend
against the weapons
of men
who despise themselves
but scorn others
in shame.
She retreats
into strain
and her tenderness
turns to stone.
She chisels his image
to abhor and shutter
at his shadow
cast in it's wake.
Her art
grows depth
with each new
poisonous cause
upon the days
of her life.
Adding
brilliant color
to a canvas
stretched by hands
that have kept
her restraint.
Ignorant
of the treasure
to be found.
But covetous
rage
buries deeper
her soul.
Will her music
ever be heard?
She cannot
walk alone,
for she is
crippled and lame.
A victim
of their demise.
Covered
in their
putrid vomit,
left to die.
What injustice
shall be undone?
Can no one see
through the lies?
Where the artists sleeps
is obscure
but not in darkness!
There is no care
for these things.
Beauty
too shall pass.
And this art
in silence
shall die,
never knowing
that she lived.
***
"Shallow People "
� Lyric Rose ~ 1/29/2006
Shallow!
Drops of water
in steele buckets.
The sound
of your empty heart.
Numb,
like Novocain.
Should I have envy?
Do you feel pain?
Trophies
lined on shelves.
Collections
proud to view.
Anything more
than skin under you?
Dimes like dozens,
not hard to find.
What your thinking,
your something,
one of a kind.
Headline flash,
jolt,
ego splash!
You got nothing
remotely interesting
under that hat.
Your gray
don�t matter,
just empty space.
Not a very
meaningful contribution
to the human race.
***
"Mother's Wisdom"
By Georgeanne Smith
Did your mother`s wisdom
serve you well?
It was offered as help
though you rebeled.
Remember her tidbits
advice galore...
They`ll help you today,
then many more.
Given with love
never meant to alarm
They fashioned your way
and kept you from harm.
Give many thanks
if your mother`s near.
Never pass a chance
to lend her your ear.
***
"Little Bird On The Wing"
By Georgeanne Smith
To fly away on wings of silver,
my heart rest from the storm,
a million dreams I`d gladly trade
to know you`re safe and warm.
To sail blue seas, contently,
my mind to cease this pain,
Would be worth a million treasures
to know you`re veiled from rain.
To reap the harvest of life,
calm fears at my breast,
I`d lay my soul bare willingly
to prove that you are blessed.
To soar high on wings of gold,
my thoughts no longer to roam,
I`d ever sing praises on high,
as I gladly welcome you home.
***
"Pursue the Passion "
By Michelle True
(I was commissioned to write this for www.pursuethepassion.com)
Why are passions not pursued?
Because we just aren't in the mood,
or do not think we have the time,
or find the ladder too steep to climb.
There's always something, someone else
to blame for passions on the shelf.
Covered with dust, we watch them die;
there's always a perfect alibi.
A demanding job, long hours, the kids,
the success a part of us forbids.
Just living day to day must do;
to lofty dreams we bid adieu.
We don't think we deserve to dream
yet deep inside our passions scream,
desperate to be set free.
Ideas born in reverie
languish, cob-webbed in our mind.
To failure we've become resigned.
We conform to the status quo,
with no opportunity to grow.
We quietly follow the herd,
our passion and our vision blurred.
Are we simply too damned tired
or are we no longer inspired?
We never broke free from the mold,
no longer reaching for the gold.
Our hopes to one day be fulfilled
have somehow, silently, been killed.
We find success others defined,
our dreams falling further behind.
We're lacking proper motivation
or simply lost the inclination;
postponed dreams to a later date
while silently, we moan, berate
our lack of progress, sitting still.
We feel no joy; there is no thrill.
Our dreams slip slowly from our grasp
not uttering a single gasp.
Taking such a loss for granted,
we forget the seeds once planted.
We have the power to evolve
but lack the strength and the resolve.
There is no adequate excuse.
It is a form of self-abuse
to deny ourselves what we deserve.
Have we only lost our nerve
or has it fallen out of fashion
to actively pursue our passion?
***
"A Day to Write"
By Michelle True
It's finally here, an entire day
where words will finally have their say.
All my errands will have to wait
while my love of words can celebrate.
The tv's off, the radio too;
the cd I played is finally through.
My son's away until Sunday night;
this Saturday just feels so right.
I'll let the voicemail get all calls
while my sloppy handwriting scrawls
a dozen poems and an essay as well.
The words will flow out of my brain's inkwell.
The cat will curl up by my side,
my heart will pound, my eyes open wide.
Adrenaline will course through my veins
while I saddle my words and pull the reins.
I'll take them out for a long, hard ride
until there's nothing left inside.
I'll start at dawn and finish at dusk;
though after so long I may get brusque.
My muse is ready to come out and play,
here in my writer's hideaway.
The words dare not put up a fight
on this, my day to sit and write.
***
"Twilight"
Copyright � 2006 Eden Celeste
*All Rights Reserved, used with permission
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