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 Apr 2018 B L Costello
haley
it's snowing in april and
the bluejays have abandoned their nest to
welcome the newcoming of spring;
we have no furniture, sweetheart,
but we do have time. last night i
held your cheek in my tiny palm and
asked if you wanted me to rest
in your arms forever -
"of course", you soothed,
and i brewed cherry coffee in the morningtime
to remind myself
that this life is good.
we have no money, sweetheart,
but we do have time. we do have time.
just a short one.
“You’re a relic,” said the video game,
“no one reads you now.”
“Not true” said the novel. “And anyhow,
at least I have characters
who speak and think and feel.
No one could believe that your
“characters” are real.”
“I offer blood and action; an opportunity
to ****. We know that’s what the people want.
It’s a pressing need I fill,”
the video game replied.
“What makes you think your wars and crimes
played out in pixelation
will satisfy the players’ lust
for quick assassination? They will tire
of virtual gore and want to test their skills
in a real arena that offers far more thrills.”
The novel’s pages fluttered; she indignantly continued:
“In my world there’s ambiguity; it forces them to think
about how there’s no black and white,
except for pages and for ink.
My stories stir compassion,
reflection, empathy. Your crooks and soldiers all act the same;
where’s their personality?
You know you’re just a pinball game
dressed up as a cartoon.”
The video game tried to think
of how to answer back... But soon
it realized that she was right. And sadly thought about the terror
that it had wreaked from coast to coast
and how it was a grievous error.
It filled the bathtub up with water
and dropped itself straight in. And that, my friends, is where
this little story should begin.
Re-reading this I am struck by how it is more relevant than ever. There is real evidence linking violent video games to aggression.
where do you hide
when sunshine days smile
sweet

perfumed blooms sing life
without tyrant's
scowl

let me find cloaked lair
destroy ensconced
seed

lest blossoms sigh sullied
as dirge of darkness
stirs
some of you may know depression
 Apr 2018 B L Costello
CA Smith
To you, the ground beneath my feet
Every step I take,
you support me.

You stand with me,
in my times of trouble

I am warmed by your embrace,
as I become entranced in your outfit of lace.

Nothing could be more finely crafted,
than my connection with you.

The ages may wear on you,
yet you remain the only one
my sole longs for.

For you truly are...
My favorite pair of shoes.
 Apr 2018 B L Costello
Eman
Home
 Apr 2018 B L Costello
Eman
Home is not the doorstep, not the porch, not the swing, it is not the ceiling and it is not a thing

Home is seeing your sisters empowered,
your parents at ease, your brothers relieved, your demons decieved

Home is a genuine smile, it is the authentic tears

Home is the magical word that can **** your fears

Home is a feeling embedded with layers of love, acceptance and peace
Home is a feeling.
Tears are the toils
I've taken
The splinter in your eye
The rock
That your foot
Stumbles upon

I was the
Albatross around
the neck
Of your dreams
The curse
Of oblibvion

Was I the
Ravager
Of the pure
The innocent
The apple
Of desire

Was I
Of lace and lice and straw for bed
You . . . a haunting spirit inside my head
If April is your cruelest month
Then December is surely mine
If only I were just a ghost
Unattached to a spiritual host
Where the air flows through me and though I be . . .

Unclear , unclean and disconnected . . .

I will pass through your life
as if in the subjective
Two hands, one heart
a band of gold.
It was my mother's ring.
Redolent of emotion,
the last of all her things.

Two hands, one love
a heart of Gold.
A Mother's tender care.
Though parted in the present tense
in Memory, ever there.
This place is a museum now; this great hall where my father stood.
Here he waited on line with all the rest. He waited for admission.
He was dressed in his best with a few dollars in his pocket,
and the address of his sister and her husband in New York.

There’s a lady in the harbor here who holds her torch aloft for all.

My mother, Helen, was native, first generation born upon these shores.
My father was a laborer; the quarries and mines had made him strong.
His years in Scotland plus his native Irish brogue
was baffling at first to those Ellis Island clerks.

There’s a lady in the harbor here who holds her torch aloft for all.

My Dad found work building a bridge high above the waters reach.
He started out a near illiterate but slowly learned to read
From discarded copies of the New York Daily News.
He met my mom at an Irish dance.

There’s a lady in the harbor here who holds her torch aloft for all.

My mother’s voice was all New York; a dialect of English speech.
She loved her numbers, and clerked for Met Life, but she may have longed to teach.
Instead she sat with me in our small kitchen
Teaching me my numbers as our dinner was prepared.

There’s a lady in the harbor here who holds her torch aloft for all.

For those of you who have heard me speak
And found my own accent hard to place.
I am a little of old New York and a little of a fair green place.
My American voice is but the echoed music of my race.
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