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 Mar 2016 Nora
Sub Rosa
Death is a filthy temptress,
but a beautiful one.
Anyone who disagrees
is either dying,
or in denial.
 Mar 2016 Nora
Brent Kincaid
Soccer moms and sander scars
Suburban life is strange.
Play dates and in-line skates
Schedules to re-arrange.
Yoga teachers and lay preachers
And those are not a metaphor.
Costco trips and air-kiss lips
Nobody trusts a bachelor.

Coupon savers in SUVs
Never use turn signals.
Driving while chatting hands-free
Wearing golden **** whistles.
Appointments to make daily
With exercise gurus.
Cocktail luncheons for charity
Toddlers wearing tutus.

Traffic jams of cars and vans
Honking at each other.
Double parking on narrow streets
Calling each other mothers.
Starting out fifteen minutes late
As is the usual way.
Somehow never figuring out how
To have an on-time day.

Screeching home a night in time
To throw together a meal.
Watch television with family
And pretend that is all real.
Put the kids to bed right on time
Try to have quality time.
While the other half is half-asleep
From that second glass of wine.
 Mar 2016 Nora
Brent Kincaid
I poeticize, proselytize
Punctuate and pontificate.
I write couplets and rhymes
And I really do it all the time.
I exacerbate and exaggerate
With no desire to intimidate.
I make similes and metaphors
Indoors and even out of doors.

There’s cussing and discussion
And sharp literary impressions
Through diversions, conversions
Allusions as well as conclusions.
And with luck, no delusions.
Just syllabically deft fusions
Of some deferential references
With a deft touch of reverence.

I rhyme thyme with fresh lime
And cardamom with cinnamon.
Sweetbreads and shortbreads.
Chicken bones and licking scones.
Rhyming pumpkins with dumplings
And matching up filets with filberts
Just as cocoa goes well with Kona.
Marmalade can be a good marinade.

I rhyme chrome wheels and automobiles,
Freeway off-ramps and Tiffany lamps.
Cellophane and vintage airplanes.
Flapper vamps and streetwalking tramps.
Also Cinderella coaches and cockroaches,
Nothing is unfair game to a busy poet.
As well as RCA Victors and boa constrictors.
Since I’m a poet, everyone should know it.
 Mar 2016 Nora
Brent Kincaid
We are the Republicans!
Kneel and bow!
We are superior!
All kowtow!
We deal in campaign funds
Hand and fist.
We believe in oligarchy
With a twist!

We hate democracy
We spit in our hats.
We hate all poor people
Especially Democrats.
We think equality
Is a crime.
Back to the nineteenth century
Doubletime.

There is no place here
In our fine land
Where we give the votes
To our field hands
And women who should all
Be in the kitchen
Instead of out carrying signs
And publically *******.

We are the Republicans!
Kneel and bow!
We are superior!
All kowtow!
We deal in campaign funds
Hand and fist.
We believe in oligarchy
With a twist!

We believe in the Bible which
We mostly never read.
We think all non-Christians
Should be dead.
At least they should not be
Allowed to vote.
That kind of godlessness
Gets our goat.

The only kind of righteous men
Are our own kind.
Not gays, blacks and Mexicans!
What are you, blind?
We ran the show right all along
*******!
The day the other kinds acted up
Was an evil hour.

We are the Republicans!
Kneel and bow!
We are superior!
All kowtow!
We deal in campaign funds
Hand and fist.
We believe in oligarchy
With a twist!
 Mar 2016 Nora
Vamika Sinha
let me tell you
the sky was a piece of cardboard.
i was 16, painting
it black.
something precocious.
a beginner at beautiful.

i sat under this night i created,
waiting for someone like you
to nod and hold my my head and
tell me, tell me, tell me
you're it, you're all the ocean rushed into one
you're it.

oh i never believed in you.
nor the black night which was just black
cardboard but you
came along anyway -
ambling in and i didn't understand
if you were carrying light bulbs or not
whether they were burnt out or not,
whether this was still darkness.

but we talked.
and spoke and thought and
talked. we talked.
our words became
pinholes
pricked into the cardboard.

and i saw it then
for what it was
but i tried to hold the darkness, tried
to pull the blindfold tighter.
i saw it

a blackboard
dotted with white chalk.
the sequins on my birthday frock.
handfuls of glitter
spilling through a net.
i saw.

how we filled the night with stars.
how we didn't know what it was.

yet we wrote
we would remember.
how strange, how rare, how true.
our hands enfolded
we punched the roof.

look,
a hole.
some light.

a moon.

let me tell you
the sky in fact is
blue.
 Mar 2016 Nora
Maple Mathers
Reads:

Hello, I'm
******


(And you are my path)
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
 Mar 2016 Nora
Sub Rosa
...
 Mar 2016 Nora
Sub Rosa
...
You can leave the past
behind.
But even when the sun
is on your back,
You can still feel
its heat.
 Mar 2016 Nora
Sub Rosa
low
 Mar 2016 Nora
Sub Rosa
low
i made love once
once while I slept,
while i slept off the whiskey
slipped off my clothing and
stepped off the curb.
and awoke to the smell of
something musky
dank - rusty?
i made love once
over the course of a week
i made love to four bottles
and me.
no romance here - memory - now it's gone
 Mar 2016 Nora
Sub Rosa
Father fixed the problem
with the bruises on his fists
mother fixed the problem
when she fixed herself a drink.

we made it out alive.
we left ourselves behind.
 Mar 2016 Nora
Sub Rosa
you stole a photo
warm skin against the window
clothed by the sunrise
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