Melanie Wotherspoon: Favorites

Jul 2014 Melanie Wotherspoon

r

Her eyes speak
the truest words
never uttered
They tell of the ocean
on a lonely shore
Of salt marsh days
and windswept dunes
And love among the ruins
Her habit worn
vow unbroken to the night
She smiles a wanton wish
of summer days
and a fair young boy
among the glades
She sighs
her dreams away
and polishes again
the bare stone floor.

r ~ 7/28/14

\¥/\
| suspiros de monja
/ \

Jul 2014 Melanie Wotherspoon

Johnny Cash Radio

Jul 2014 Melanie Wotherspoon

r

Johnny Cash Radio

free internet 24-hour
Johnny Cash radio station
-all day long
the general listens-
plasma tv on the wall
silent bombs in Gaza
orange blossom specials
-they need plasma, don't they-
burn, burn, burn
-Cry, Cry, Cry-

r ~ 7/29/14

\¥/\
| Gaza
/ \

#gaza

Jul 2014 Melanie Wotherspoon

Cherries in the Snow

Jul 2014 Melanie Wotherspoon

Richard Jones

Cherries in the Snow

My mother never appeared in public
without lipstick. If we were going out,
I’d have to wait by the door until
she painted her lips and turned
from the hallway mirror,
put on her gloves and picked up her purse,
opening the purse to see
if she’d remembered tissues.

After lunch in a restaurant
she might ask,
"Do I need lipstick?"
If I said yes,
she would discretely turn
and refresh her faded lips.
Opening the black and gold canister,
she’d peer in a round compact
as if she were looking into another world.
Then she’d touch her lips to a tissue.

Whenever I went searching
in her coat pocket or purse
for coins or candy
I’d find, crumpled,
those small white tissues
covered with bloodred kisses.
I’d slip them into to my pocket,
along with the stones and feathers
I thought, back then, I’d keep.

Jul 2014 Melanie Wotherspoon

0.47

Jul 2014 Melanie Wotherspoon

Tom McCone

0.47

i was never the origin of
your misery. too busy with
my own; but i'll hold you
when days find their way
down to cold. i'll issue soft
brushes against your skin
if you want reassurance, or
warmth, or just to not feel
so alone nights like tonight. at least, you
ain't alone in that. and i
could keep spilling the same
sentences for fifty long years
now, but i'm not entirely sure
i can make it. without you,
at least.
so, here is where i'd
typically say "but, of course, you'd
never care. never come round.", but
i'm clasping small hope. rings
around the moon. i'm dizzy,
just thinking.

unedited as of yet. also, sigh.

Jul 2014 Melanie Wotherspoon

Carousel Horse

Jul 2014 Melanie Wotherspoon

Chloe

Carousel Horse

Run, carousel horse, run.
Try to understand the circles you’ve spun.

Staked and anchored to docile motion.
Acting out this ordered commotion.

The wooden platform on which you stand.
Turns to the song of repetition and demand.

Bright flashing lights and epileptic episodes.
Rusted machinery breathing out chemical corrode.

Dressed in painted costumes of false grandeur.
A perverse imitation of true splendor.

Children come to watch you prance.
They scream and order that you dance.

They yank on the reigns with savage cheer.
They poke and **** and hiss in your ear.

You’re nailed upon this dizzy ride.
Built from material and empty pride.

You live in a swirl of regret.
Time comes, it goes, then, you forget.

You’re an instrument of attraction.
Something you don’t feel even a fraction.

But, like clockwork you whistle a tune.
Of smiles and laughter and undercurrents of doom.

Run, carousel horse, run.
Try to undo the damage you’ve done.

An old piece I found in an old notebook.

Jul 2014 Melanie Wotherspoon

INK SPOTS AND RAINDROPS

Jul 2014 Melanie Wotherspoon

Olivia Kent

INK SPOTS AND RAINDROPS

The poetic heart got broken.
A million shards of glass were ground.
Words of all profound.
Written with an ink pen,
of purely mice and men.
Her pen once was a feather,
stolen from a mother swan,
Tip honed to an arrow head,
Thrown from a bow,

The writers notes are passing by.
With courtesy and a bow.
They're showering ink in passing,
as the clouds are painted black,
rimmed with fading memories.
Can be no turning back.
Clouds are burst by writer's pen,
Thunderous hail of broken glass,
of fierce wind and rain.
Writing tales of past loves,
On pavements once again.
(C) Livvi

Jul 2014 Melanie Wotherspoon

The Fool On the Hill.

Jul 2014 Melanie Wotherspoon

Page Seventy Three

The Fool On the Hill.

A big, dark creature is the velvet landscape,
Perforated, so that tiny origins of luminescence
Freckle the breathing mountain’s gently sloped nape
And validates the distant city’s inner flamboyance.

The spine of wet tar, peppered with lustre,
Arcs the creature’s hunch of a back -
It summons me to the city’s sordid muster
To wean me of myself and to render its flak.

Instead, I think I’ll stay on the footed side of the nameless beast
Where I can soak in my tatters and be but my own, homeless priest.

Alluded to the Beatles and inspired by the most elegant hobo I have ever met.