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There are people in the world,
Who will test your most confident convictions,
And your deepest faith.

Their words and stories spark embers within you,
That illuminate the tangible darkness,
Of your close minded thoughts.

There are people in the world,
Who will shake your being,
People whose own love and hopes,
Cause you to question yours.

You will find that these people,
Are the most wonderful to know.
And maybe,
If we look close enough,
We can find a glimpse of them,
In a little of you
And a little of me.
 Dec 2012 Caitlin Drew
Brooklyn
Nobody else knows me like you do.
And I know nobody quite like you.
When I needed love, and you were afraid,
I swallowed my feelings, and stayed.

You decided to be the best friend
And I tried my hardest to make feelings end.
But sitting in your firebird, as the rain sprinkled down,
I talked about how love is fake, you didn't make a sound.

You let me pour out my soul, as I cried right beside you.
You looked me in my eyes and said, "That might be true.
But I'm sure it's not. Every time you look at me, I see,
What love is supposed to be."

We pull up in my drive way, at a quarter until four.
Just as you opened the door, the rain began to pour.
I remembered your gift and ran inside so I could give it to you.
You opened the wrapper and smiled at me and replied, "Of course you knew."

The rain began to simmer down, and you took off your sweater,
You hugged me, and I smelt your scent, I think I like this weather.
You never paint, but for me you did, and you take my breath away.
I don't know what I can possibly do to make you decide to say,

"Don't be afraid to love, because your heart is safe with me,
I'll be your knight, and you will be my lady of my dreams.
He didn't deserve you and he let you go, I can't believe he's so dumb,
But it's okay because we both have known all along that I am the one."

Maybe I'm just overreacting, and maybe that's okay.
But in the rain, on a friday,
**I   F
         E
           L
             L in love again.
 Dec 2012 Caitlin Drew
DM Pierce
He sees the world as her backdrop,
And loves her wholly.
She knows that and wants to love him back, but
All she can feel is lonely.

As he sleeps she cries in
Tight, silent heaves in rhythm
With his chest as he breathes.
His face is lit from neon light,
Slipping through a slit on the strung-up sheet--
An eye to the street,
And to everything that's beyond this life that she leads.
But she needs him and
Please, she begs, Have him
Hate me, at least.  I'm weak--
I'll linger until he throws me away,
Because at least then I can say
That it wasn't my choice, but
Everything must fade.


She goes on a walk every night now,
Riddled with complexes and smoking,
Eyes roving with 2AM mascara,
Wearing a spring dress in dead winter.
Head down in a crowd, aware
Of herself existing only when men stare.
They crave for her, she craves for him,
Her sadness, a narcotic magnetism.

She drowned off the coast
Of the island in her kitchen.
She weighed herself down with
Her faults like mountains and
Yellowed ambition.
the way my mind
interprets you makes
me want to, just for
the way you tell your
stories, or crack jokes.

you keep creeping into
the synapses firing like
an execution squadron
all around my brain, and
i can't shake these musings.

(a) maybe i want to prove
something to myself,
(if you find out what, let
me know)
or (b) myself
to something, or not.

or maybe (c)
i'm just sad and alone,
and maybe i wish you'(d)
read this, and mayb(e) i
know you will.

trick question, option (f),
maybe i just want to know
what it would be like to
wake you from existence
with the slap to the face
or bucket of glacial water
my lips have always
been.
another love poem to another stranger who will again, after reading it, fail to understand its significance.
The reason that mutes the murmur of my lips
for the silence no one near me forgets
is the ******* of my heart.
Without knowing,
of what would it speak?
Filled with words,
the hollow cap peeks
into the muscles and bone.
Flesh for a kingdom,
thought for a throne.
The heaving poet sleeps
not sound,
not silent,
but there at 3:15.
Spilling his spiraling
tic toc dreams
between the pallid sheets.
 Dec 2012 Caitlin Drew
JJ Hutton
Bradley, don't climb, the boy's mother says as she pries him off the bronze left shoulder of Sam Walton. She dusts the boy's coat. *Wait here a second. She begins digging in her purse. Her grey, sweatpants'd husband holds a point-n-shoot digital camera. The wind is inconveniencing him. The fog is inconveniencing him. Sorry, sweetie. I'm looking for a tissue. Every word his wife says shatters like glass.  He's been on the road too long. Of all the places, why make a pilgrim's stop at Kingfisher, Oklahoma?

It's the 7th of December. A day FDR said would live in infamy. It's also my birthday (thanks for setting the stage, Roosevelt). And here I am. Making my own pilgrim's stop at a subpar statue marking the birthplace of Mr. Sam Walton with no one for company but a green thermos and these tourists.

While his mother is distracted, the boy tears at yellowed grass. He pretends to feed the blades to Sam Walton's open-mouthed and unexplained canine. The husband sighs.

Ah! I found them, the mother reassures. Grimacing, as though shards of her words have lodged in the far corners of his brain, the husband asks,

Are we ready?

Not bad. The tiny bubbles from the champagne firecracker on my tongue as I lower the green thermos. Reminders of spilt coffee dot its sides like the little, overlooked  coastal islands of New England. Reaching? I know. But I'm learning to take notice of things, Sam. Patience.

I got into town before the liquor store opened. I vultured behind steering column. After a glance, a longhaired shopkeep with an oak cask belly shook his head in disdain for my entire generation. Turned the key. Flipped the sign from closed to open. Not to appear eager, I waited for a commercial break on the radio. I walked through. A bell chimed. Thirsty, son? the shopkeep asked.

I always am at the sound of a bell, I responded.

Let me get this off real quick, the mother says to Sam Walton as she wipes dry, white bird **** off a deep-cut wrinkle in his bronze forehead. Can't take a picture with you looking like that. The mother turns around. Offers an unsteady, white flag smile to her husband. Looks down at her boy. Bradley, stop playing with the grass. I mean it. Drop it. Stand by Mommy. We're going to take a picture.

Why?

Whiskey modge podged with ***** with wine with gin. Champagne. Champagne. Confused? lines joyously sparked from the edges of the shopkeep's eyes and lightning'd down his cheeks. Making him seem pleasant for the first time. Proud, even. I've organized the drinks by country of origin. Notice the flags?

What does France's flag look like?

France is over here. Looking for a wine? Perhaps a rich cognac? He led me down a densely packed aisle. Little ratings cards jutted out underneath each bottle.

Champagne, actually.

I see. I see. Is something ending or something beginning?

Both.

The boy places his hand on the dog's head. Pretends to ruffle its frozen fur.

Ready?

Ready.

Click. A flash goes off. Automatic.

Now can we leave? the boys pleads.

Why are you being so antsy?

It's just another stupid statue. I'm tired of this stupid trip. I just want to go home.

Today's my birthday. I lowered the champagne as I poured it into the green thermos. I kept watch for shoppers and cart crewmen in the parking lot. No one seemed to notice the transfer. The shopkeep ended up selling me an American bubbly. Silent Girl. I liked the artwork. A large-breasted woman with puckered lips stared down the sights of a .44 pointed directly at the drinker. Black and white. Refreshing to see someone so up-front.

The mother opened one of the rear doors on the family's Tahoe. No, you don't get a toy. Brats don't get toys. Brats get quiet time. She slammed the door.

Just you and me, Sam. A drink. Sorry, I didn't bring another cup. I lean in close. Trace the wrinkles of his forehead, where the sculptor stuck his knife deep. As I do, my own wrinkles become more apparent.

You know I heard a minister talking about you a week ago. I remove my hand from Sam's face. Take another drink. Apparently, your last words are his claim to fame. He said your nurse divulged them to him. You should see him. Each church he visits, he opens with, 'Anyone know what Sam Walton's last words were?' He doesn't ease into it or anything.

'Sam Walton's last words were actually, I blew it.' Can you believe that? 'I blew it.' Don't worry, Sam. I didn't buy it. That answer is for the customer. Not for truth. People love to think at the end of your successful trajectory, you'd just Solomon out. Fizzle. 'Vanity! Vanity!' I'd like to think there you lied in your hospital bed. In your private room. 7th Floor. Curtains open. Blue sky free of blackbirds. Your family around you. And your mouth tasting like metal. Like blood. The gears of your existence grinding to an end. And I bet you hated everyone in that room. Your wife wiping spittle off your mouth with a red handkerchief. You pushing her arthritic claws away. I bet one of your grandkids was at the end of the bed. His hair unwashed for two days. Uncombed for six months. A tall cow suckling your success. And I bet that clumsy hair was blocking the television. You told him to move.

When he moved, something horrendous was on. A soap opera. Something frustratingly ironic. General Hospital. Hit the red button. Called in the nurse. And your last words, 'Change the channel.' She put it on a Cowboys game. You watched Aikman throw an interception. Closed your eyelids. Changed the channel.

It's the 7th of December, Sam. It's my birthday. A milestone, Sam. So, there's cause for change. I told you the same ambition in you coursed through me. That I too, had sat in the back booth of diners alone -- conspiring. And while you're eternal bronze, while you're family photos, I'm mortal to a fault. But allowed to change my mind. I don't want to be ambitious, Sam. That's what I came to say. I'm not coming back to wail at this wall. Legacy, you taught me, is not in my hands. Even if I make a helluva go at it on this sphere, I run the risk of getting turned into half a statue with an idiot dog sidekick. You can dam a river, but ultimately rivers don't give a ****. They flow where they please.

That's the end. The beginning is that I can go anywhere from here. That's worth celebrating. I tilt the green thermos and let champagne run down Sam Walton's still face. This river runs onward. Without fear of legacy, of memory. I'm going to love, Sam. I'm going to love fully. Onward. While you stay put. A stupid statue.

Sam Walton is silent. Quiet time.
You see the struggles on their faces,
The love that got misplaced in
a place so deep and dark that not even a mole could find his way in.

The lives they used to live,
are in the devils sack
and there's no turning back from all the negatives that now stick they're face in

Into the deepest crack, of hearts dropped in cement
Stuck in the sidewalk
being walked on by the greedy and oh so ignorant

Sometimes you hear them wheeze
or maybe you just keep walking
or maybe you mistake the noise for a breeze, or just some dumb suit talking

Maybe you don't see the struggles on their faces
only the ones on t.v.
But one day that could be you, one day that could be me.
Curved by her body
two nearby whirlpools
tempts me ahead.
By next morning
all her waves in white
kneeling on the shores
The Walls of desires
dance and crashes
my black rocks
In and out of her
blue river’s mouth
emerge a tongue of an ocean
Red with foam
the sea swallow’s
the river’s mouth
Arching into the sky
the wave arms embrace
and leaves bluer
Her green valley
Letting the sun rays
Into her *******
By the touch of a dawn
Her bright moon’s melts down

-Williamsji Maveli

Email:williamsji@yahoo.com
The Kallettumakara Gblobal Association (KGA), UAE Chapter has announced their first literary award for excellence to Williamsj’s  third  poetry collection   titled as “Arramviralthumbath …”  (On the tip of the 6th finger…”),  published by H & C Books, Trichur.)
The award was announced by Mathew David, Chairman of KGA at their Executive Committee meeting held last Friday.  The award is also being considered for his poetic contributions from the author for his forthcoming collection of lyrics named as “Maa Salama., which means (With peace in Arabic). The poems are different desert sketches focusing on his real-time life experiences while he was working in UAE for more than 30 years.  
Williamsji, (Williams George),   former Ras Al Khaimah based Journalist and lyrist of yester-years has been nominated for a literary award for the first time for literature. The Award is being formulated by KGA  (Kallettumkara Global Association, UAE Chapter) for  outstanding contributions to literature  from the native writers  of Kallettumkara,  a village town in Trichur, Kerala in India.  The award will be presented by the KGA’s UAE Chapter on the grand occasion of their 10th anniversary, which will be held during September, this year, according to Mathew David, Chairman of Kallettumkara Global Association.
Williamsji was born on 23, April 1954  in Kalettumkara village, Thrissur District, Kerala State, in India.  Williams George, popularly known as Williamsji, Irinjalakuda during early 1970’s  wrote simple romantic, enchanting  lyrics in Malayalam  language , scribbling from four lines to fourteen lines ( called a sonnet ) wrote as many lyrics suitable to depict in love scenes of Malayalam movies  from  his school days onwards  at Don Bosco English Medium High School.  Later while he was a college student, released his first work of lyrics titled “Ragha Pooja” (Offerings to Love) in Malayalam during  1973.  He was attending Christ College in Irinjalakuda for his Bachelors degree in Commerce .  He was elected as the Magazine Editor of Christ College during 1976, while  Emergency declared in India.  Since then he was producing himself manuscript magazines, namely “Kalithoni’ for Shardaya Study Circle of Kallettumkara and “Shilpy”, another manuscript magazine for  Irinjalakuda Sakhti  Mathrubhumi study circles.
He was much fascinated with the poetry lessons  of his Master in English literature  K.Sachidananan, Professor in English at  Christ College during 1970s. Also popular Malayalam Literary Critic Mampuzha Kumaran inspired him in developing the poetic talents which was dormant in him.  He turned to writing lyrics and penned nearly 300 songs for popular Malayalam film journals, specially for “Cinerama” , a popular cine weekly during 1970’s  published  from Quilon in Kerala  under the guidance of prominent Malayalam writer *** editor late Kambiserry Karunakaran. The he became a regular contributor to many Malayalam monthly journals and weekly publications, writing poems, lyrics, short stories, novels, screen plays and film criticisms.
From among those published  lyrics, of Williamsji , Late T.V.Kochubhava, prominent story writer and a close associate of Williamsji, selected nearly 100 lyrics from his collection of literary works  and published  with a title “Ragha Pooja” (Offerings to Love) during 1973 which is the first published literary work of Williamsji. Though he was successful as a lyricist, his wish was to become a script writer. To fulfil that, he became the Assistant Script Writer of Late A.C. Sabu, the only Cine Journalist of that time and  a close associate of  Kanmani Films director Late Ramu Kariyat (Chemmeen fame) who brought the first Silver Award to Malayalam Film for the best feature film during  the year 1970. Williamsji  was  also associated with the screen play works of many black and white films during 1970s .
Williamsji  left Christ College after completing his Post Graduation in Commerce (M.com). He, then worked in UAE for over thirty years with Emirates Telecommunication Corporation (ETISALAT) Ras AL Khiamah  and  Thurayya Satelite communications (Abu Dhabi). The award is for his current poetry collections named as “MAA SALAMA ”  (With Peace..) and for “POLIVACHANAPORULUGHAL”  (Revelations of Bluffed words) , both  will be released by H & C Books, Trichur, shortly.
Williamsji (Williams George) was a Freelance writer for    “ Gulf News”, “Khaleej Times” and “The Gulf Today”, three popular  English Daily News papers, published from UAE and Columnist for Malayalam News , the first Malayalam daily paper published from Saudi Arabia. Log in to his personal web domains:

www.williamsji.com
www.williamsgeorge.com
I stood there, upon
An aggregate of needles
Harbor behind me
Tired fluorescent sign in front
Then got on my bike and rode
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