Trio Poems 2



A young woman treads in circles

caught at a crossroad of decision.

Her eyes bleed confusion, knowing

she lost herself in their image.


Dreary and afraid, her lotus

fades, peeling open her rawness,

exposing a weeping child

grown, pleading for direction.


She leans against the body of her

grandmother, listening to her stories,

trying to find meanings behind

images sketched in her branches.


Her grandmother’s wise words

echo the shadows of answers.

Teaching the young woman

to dive into fresh waters and

flow with her intended path.

©River Urke 5/2011


The Machinist


thoughts form like stitches



The machinist of the mind

connects truth with lies.

Annie  Perconti



Summer Rain

 Watching the world diffuse

words on paper-yellowed
by time, nicotine and impatience,
wiped clean with stains of
chromatography’s demise.

Blasphemy’s a sin;
so is breathing when you’re beneath
the boss man’s big fat thumb,
but those words,
they kept me sane until they disappeared.

When the rain came, wanted to dance.
Grab the first wide boy that came
my way and kiss him sensless,
or at least until he saved me from
spending the last few pounds in my pocket.

Instead those words were formed,
commited to memory
washed away with the first
obese raindrop to fall from the mottled horizon
in over ten years.

So be it,
I remember.

Shan Elis


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