poem, writing, poetry, drabble
Freud may have been a fraud
But his theory of penis envy
Makes sense
Now we WASPI women
View older friends
With pension envy
How come they have whoppers
And we do not?
Carolyn writes “because it allows me to let off steam, politely.”
By Ry Yelcho
Things that used to stimulate and inspire
now just buoy me above
the dread sinking of spirit
that comes with knowing that
your accomplishments are all behind you
Ry Yelcho writes “to fend off the fog of lassitude.”
By Juanita Rey
I have a dog.
He whines for walks,
for me to toss a ball
so he can fetch.
He doesn’t beg for sex
or sympathy
like the guy he replaced.
Being needed has taken
a turn for the better.
“I write because it helps me to understand my life in this new country.” – the poet
A little kid climbs into an oven.
It is dark and sooty as a cave.
The kid turns on his torch.
The door shuts behind him.
Someone turns up the heat.
Whew!
His brow perspires, his eyes begin to bulge,
His heart to race.
The kid scrambles to find an opening, bangs on the glass.
The door slowly opens.
The kid staggers out.
There, says a stern, kindly voice. How was it?
Life isn’t plain sailing. Just so you know.
Huh, who was that? The kid asks.
No one answers.
Bio: John Malone is still into it, fascinated as a kid before a cave where his writing might lead.
He told me of how coal can be split
To reveal hoof prints of long buried deer
If you get the angle and grain right
Of how, in the deepest mines
Darwin was proved each day
By the strike of a miner’s hammer
And how opening the coal opened him,
Drove him to library and Miners Institute
To learn, wonder, argue
His gentle voice, with its natural grace
Led me into his world
To the child opening trap doors in constant dark
To the young man, passionate for justice
Filled up with the joy of learning
All forged in coal.
“I write poetry because I have to, they come to me. I blog for the company.” – the poet
By Teresa M. Stouffer
On my side,
on my back,
on my side.
I count my breaths.
Some numbers exhale ghosts.
Three … Olivia drowns,
Thirty three … my niece’s age now,
Fifty nine … Dad’s when he died.
I exhale my number.
Exhale my number.
My number.
Number …
“I write because I fill up inside and need to have a way to spill the overflow and free up space for more.” – the writer
By Neal Crook
even the sturdiest rock
is swept into the whirlpool
when debris floods
its solitude
Neal Crook is a retired high school teacher starting a “new” chapter of his life as an emerging writer.
