During a walk through the hallway
of the primary school
I find hallways
filled with turkeys and leafs and stiff scrawled characters.
What is Mr. Smith's class thankful for?
Flowers and toys and cars and dresses and pink and purple and soccer and skirts and barbies and family.

How could you sum up all of the things you are thankful for in one word?
At the end of the hallway I am faced with a choice:
What are you thankful for?
-----------------------------------------------------------­------------------------------------------------------------
What­ am I thankful for?
Happiness, and family and security and nature and
friends.
I am thankful for friends.
I am thankful for laughs and chatts and cries and sobs and games and smiles.

I am thanful for ****** contortions and 80s dance sessions,
for inabilty to speak.
I am thankful for hobos, eating on the side of the road,
and for devious scheymes of intoxicatation.

Hep beni anlayan bir arkadaşım var müteşekkirim
and who listens to my sob stories.
I am thankful for singing in the rain.
And styling hair in the sink
for screeching and howling
and hissing.

I am thankful for obkirchergasses,
for Ströcks and for ice cream plarlours.
I am thankful for mentos,
and walnuts.

I am thankful for bad lip readings and hilarious youtube vidoes.
I am thankful for unknown languages and nymphs
and for eloquence.
I am thankful for good taste in music
and for strong opinions.

I am thankful for dancing indian pirates with demon chicks and fireballs.
I am thankful for two-headed teenagers and barbeques.
I am thankful for God and healthy choice prayers,
and Hawaii get aways.

I am thankful for huge, hanging sweaters and crazy, funky leggings.
I am thankful for deep talks about the world's lack of beauty
and for poetry buddies.

I am thankful for dodgeball playing mice,
and poor old wenches.
I am thankful for pirate and mermaid adventures.

I am thankful for the looks we get:
looks of loud disapproval,
and whispers of quiet exasperation.

I am thankful for golden men and loud singing,
for crazy dances with crazy cousins and cute brothers.
I am thankful for Aunt Jemima.

I am thankful for banging on metal bars with rocks and shouting at the top of our lungs.
I am thankful for climbing over gates in order to not step on cracks.
I am thankful for amazing humanities teachers.
I am thankful for a laugh when the day is over.
-----------------------------------------------------------­---------------------------------------------------
How those kids manage to fit all of their thankfulness into one word  is beyond me.
Even the one-word things we are thankful for, must be described with a million words.

through the spaces
between
curling flowers
and a lattice framed
yellowing
fence

i could see them

i could watch them

every
day

the barbeques
slamming of doors
pool parties
birthdays
late nights
x rated

the loudness of it all
left me panting
for more
&
living vicariously
through their lives

Winter and Spring have long since passed,
cold wind, rain and frost belong in the past,
darkness thankfully no longer descends as fast,
long hot summer days arrive at long last!
Colourful flowers and plants, trees and shrubs
burst forth from hanging baskets, gardens and tubs
outside homes and shops, hotels and pubs;
brightening roadsides, roundabouts, parks and golf clubs.
Exams are over and school is finally done,
children everywhere mad to get out in the sun,
playing outside all day, having such great fun,
warm summer days being enjoyed by almost everyone.
People everywhere outside busy doing something;
weeding, mowing, watering, general gardening;
cleaning cars, washing windows, mending or painting,
or simply sitting out with the neighbours, gossiping!
Time for sunglasses, sun cream, getting a tan,
Wimbeldon, music festivals, holidays to plan,
ice lollies, ninety nines from the ice cream van,
water shortages of course and the annual hose pipe ban!
Time for day trips, sports, to picnic or sunbathe,
for the park or the beach, to swim or just wade,
to get burnt to a crisp or just relax in the shade,
for beer gardens, barbeques as the sun starts to fade!
People making the most of each sunny summer day,
determined to enjoy the sun, lap up every last ray,
each enjoying the summer in their own particular way,
“Long may it last”, people around the country pray!
For not getting a summer seems to be our worst fear,
but thankfully the summer seems to be finally here.
All around the country there is a party atmosphere
such a shame it cannot be like this all through the year!

Blue sky, yellow sun
Makes me feel a sense of fun
Happy faces, laughter too
Accompained by a splendid view
Children paddling, deep blue sea
Contentment now surrounding me
Sea **** drying on the sand
Lover's walking hand in hand
Dolphin's jumping in the air
Playing, basking without a care
Picnic's and barbeques on the beach
Boat's on the horizon, just out of reach
Cliff path, coastal walks, splendid views
Old fisher wives gossiping spreading news
Fishermen setting sail, off out to sea,
Going to catch some fresh fish for our tea
Myth's, legends, local history
About this place full of mystery
Everything fits, just like a glove
In Cornwall, the land I love.

In my New Day I arose from my
screen-tent-mole-hole-flimsy-bomb-shelter-for-my-soul
and walked down to the banks of the Missinabi River
at the Mattice Landing
with dog’s leash in one hand and my right hand
leading lady’s in the other hearing and feeling tall grasses
swishing against my pant legs
and the crunch of course sand under my feet that once trod fields of green tall grasses swishing against my pant legs in the meadows and rocky woods of
my childhood and youth where I spent summers working

at my Aunt and Uncle's farm in
Canada's Northern Ontario region, and in the woods and along the banks
of the Lackawanna River just over the **** behind
the house of my childhood and youth in the Anthracite coal
country of the American Northeast which is light years away from the land of my birth where I now live in this Northern Ontario port in the middle of a deep
                                     cold sea of countless
                                     converging
                                     never-ending
rivers
lakes
trees
swamps
bogs
muskeg
and mountains of snow
where snow white and black flies freely fly.

I am always trying to go deeper into the trees and bush
burning deep inside my heart of hearts to follow the Moses
that is in all of us.

This eternal Voice in pebbles crunching
under foot and tall grasses swishing and canoe parting
waters that flow deep in my mind and spirit--once only
winding past burning villages where humans **** and pillage
--but now also following a more
pastoral             idyllic             and super-natural course.

A vagabond never quite understands the working-class
woman and man living their small dream with their offspring and slice of land.

I thought they were all ostrich with head in sand.

But I now see that we can't all afford to brood as I often do over the daily news.

They must rise early the next morning alarm clocks not set on snooze.                                            

work ethic
family hearth and home
days of scent
of freshly mown grass  
barbeques                                          
campf­ires  
coffee brewing  
children playing  
TV and music blaring
dishes rattling
in sink or
swim in the lake

Loosen the watertight mind drum and just dive into the
crunch of pebbles under foot treading fields of green tall
grasses swishing against pant legs...

Not only wishing
but going deeper into the trees and bush burning
speaking to our primeval consciousness.

This eternal Voice in pebbles crunching and tall grasses
swishing.
The whooshing sound of wading in a stream streams
through my soul as I savour the body taste of wet gritty sand
between my fingers and toes crouched down wet-crotch deep waiting long enough for minnows to tickle fingers and toes as mosquito’s pin-prickle skin.

Watching creatures much smaller than I gliding
even walking on calm still water which we humans can only dream of doing in our motorized sleep.

I think I now understand:

To not be constantly mourning the plight of man isn't being ostrich with head in sand.
I must keep gunning-off the haunted deeps alluring stare.

I must taste life
    Smell and feel life
        Enjoy life outside of my troubled mind

against the backdrop of the latest holy war
and the imploding creations of our kind.

Take a step into the Firestorm.
Lyrics/Vocals Skitz AKA Mr.Sandman
Track,recording,production-Jay/Eclectic.Collective.
Lyrics.(Copyright Skitz AKA Mr Sandman)

Spittin' fire-desolation of the Sandman,
blink you'll miss the decimation of your clan man,
musical massacre with an Irish style,
time to stop driveling,your old cold style-

cause I'm riled up,fed up sick of your ****,
sit down or be knocked down,listen to the skitz spit,
flammable fumes,verbs turn to flame,
grammar fallin like a grand piano from a crane,
straight to your brain a flash of white light,
wear a fireproof suit you might catch light,
pay stage crews danger cash cause I'm scorchin',
E.C.-Schizophrenic-Sandman torchin,
a four alarm fire,I cause high premiums,
show respect or you'll be rappin through a medium,
mic's a flamethrower leave you screamin,
think you'll burn the Sandman?,wake up,you're dreamin.

Venue's on my menu,get it insured,
I walk through the flames,immune and immured,
immersed in hip hop, a sun gone nova,
drop the mic kid, just run,it's over.
my tank's full,petrol for adrenaline,
flame and blood like my name's Targaryen
you don't want to see my dragon's fly loose,
spit heat like a turnspit-cook your goose,

Stage is flaming,boy you best ghost,
hit the fire bell,you get burnt to toast,
white phosphorus combined in my mind,
get your goggles if you're goggling,you'll wind up blind,
Armageddon approaches,best make your way,
last stage I blazed you may have heard of-Pompeii,
you're gettin calcinated muy calor!,
a Supervolcano eruptin' on a dancefloor.

(chorus)
Magma,Plasma,they're not even warm,
Air Ripped from Lungs becomes fuel for the Storm,
Melt Icecaps,Globe start to warm,
****** Aircon-I spark a Firestorm.

Time to raise the heat,time to raise the stakes,
you're a lost smokejumper,praying for a firebreak,
trees turn to shrapnel,you're out of breath,
"I am fire,I am Death"

Reverse Mic Fiend rhymes steal the oxygen,
lungs collapse as I spin the storm again,
a terrible beauty,and an awesome blessing,
3rd degree burns,apply cool dressings
thats if you're lucky when I spit the gift,
last MC challenged me burnt to a crisp,
by words,deeds,heat bleeds stage smokin-I'm just gettin warm
thoughts spark the flames in a forest I'm a firestorm
fuel air bomb combined with Tsar Bomba,
Mount Doom blowing about to get Sundered,
hate is stokin' me,fuel to the forge,
16kept the heat banked long enough it's time to gorge,
Smaug heats up-flames spew forth,
you're guy fawkes on a pyre of fireworks.

Wondering,and blundering it's time to burn,
time to get roasted,you fool's won't learn,
that I'm hotter than a sunflare,beyond compare,
you're richard pryor tryin to smoke michael jacksons hair
don't dare me to flare into action,
don't care Keisha fusion core reaction,
fukushima and cherbobyl are my barbeques,
couldn't help yourself, you had to light my fuse,
I refuse to cool down-I'm scorchin',
Firestormtrooper lit,time for torchin'
Firewalk-comparison? Huh,a cool breeze,
flatten the building like Tunguska's tree's,
eyes hotter than Cyclops,you're weak at the knees.
supernova 200 billion degree's

(chorus)
Magma,Plasma,they're not even warm,
Air Ripped from Lungs becomes fuel for the Storm,
Melt Icecaps,Globe start to warm,
****** Aircon-I spark a Firestorm.

This train home is twice delayed,
it's ******* up the plans I've made
and in the pub I wish I'd stayed.
It's still not here yet.  

I have no doubt when it comes soon,
I'll have to endure a banging tune -
from the Ipod of some drunken buffoon,
It's still not here yet.

I sometimes wish that I'd take wing -
Like Icarus or a feathered thing,
That builds its nest from twigs and string.
It's still not here yet.

I suppose in time we'll own a car
and avoid all those bizarre -
excuses from the conductor.
It's still not here yet.

In time we'll take drives to the beach
and let a wild dog off the leash,
while the sea wind steals our speech.
It's still not here yet.

We'll have a garden for barbeques,
with potted plants and stunning views
and comfy chairs in which to snooze,
but we're not there yet.

Mandolin plinking from a tiny speaker,
McKnight doing his damndest to make my knee bounce,
Bringing tunes that remind me of Appalachian summers,
Transporting me to those mountains and hills.

Summer barbeques with Carolina gold slopped into mashed taters,
Sweet corn smothered in butter,
Gentle breezes and acoustic guitars,
Grilling meat and beer in ice-filled coolers,
Giggling young'uns and laughter of their parents,
Such vivid memories of the oldest generations,
Telling of the time their homesteads received electricity.

These wise elders regaled us with oddities and anecdotes,
Nuggets of delivered knowledge wrapped in allegory and stories,
Their amusement evident in their not-as-bright eyes,
As they watch us trying to suss out true blue kernels of wisdom from the tall tales.

Family friends that are loved just as strongly as my own parents,
Friends they grew up with,
From WAY back in the day,
Telling each other the same tale for the millionth time,
And yet laughing uproariously like it was the first time.

These are days that have been in the past,
And snapshots of days in the future,
When supper in summer Appalachia happens once again,
Great nostalgia and anticipation wrapped up in a great ball of joy,
South of the Ohio Border.

Regatta days sees many boats arrive
some on the ferry and some sailed
Races round the bay and ice-cream
Barbeques hot dogs and burgers
much boat talk with winners and losers
All takes place just over the hill
through yonder meadow -
the barrier between high activity
and here enveloping silence and solitude

Relics (House of Stolen Light)
by Ryan P. Kinney

When I pull up in my battle-scarred truck
That old song is playing on the radio
Whose lyrics I have misheard and, hell…
“Who did that **** song, anyways?”
Nonetheless, of what I do hear through the cracks and pops,
It definitely suits this house

It’s an old run down bi-level, with a winding porch
And more windows than walls
But the windows are heavily tinted and shades are all half drawn
The windows do not let the light into the home,
But rather steal it, consume it into the darkness, never to be seen again

How many neighborhood rumors revolved around this home?
For how long has it been whispered that THIS is THAT haunted house?
Or this is where that one creepy guy did that one horrific thing?
Or even that series of horrific things?

Did the boogie man originate here?
Inside the darkness of that house, stealing the sunshine from precocious little boys and girls
Finally freed from the confines of scholastic imprisonment
Until eventually their days of play started getting shorter
And they return to their nine months of confinement
With no one to blame but the invisible tenant of that ever decaying, but seemingly indestructible and insurmountable home

I imagine a stone in my hand
To be thrown into this house of glass
I picture it not breaking the glass so much as piercing a pool of darkness, that ripples across the entire house, melting each window and finally freeing everyone’s abducted childhoods
I see the sunlight exploding from the foundation
The cracked, brown leaves in every dead, broken tree suddenly springing to life and filling with green
Years of devoured Frisbees, kites, and baseballs launching into the air from every crevice

And then, I think, maybe appearances can be deceiving
Maybe, this house is not so much the spooky old ruin
But rather a cracked and worn old photo album
Housing years of relics of lives spent well and with love
Love that our generation could not possibly fathom
Devoid of the electronic means of expressing and spreading it

How many boys turned men turned soldiers here?
How many mothers turned grandmothers, turned cherished memories?
How many years were cried over scrapped knees and first loves?
Or spent on lover’s lanes, backyard barbeques, and drunken sibling brawls?
Is that old tire finally getting its deserved rest from someone’s swing, or off the wheels of a well-loved ancestor to my vehicle?
Who’s lives and legends were parked in this dusty driveway?
Who’s footprints am I standing in right now?

Maybe those dark windows never really robbed the light
But, rather were meant to hold it in for the love growing inside
So that anyone within would always feel its warmth and brightness
And anytime someone left that house, they returned that light to the world in kind
Richer and brighter than it ever would have been had it not spent its time within those walls

Who are you, oh house of stolen light?
What secrets do you hold?
How many childhoods were used up here, either stolen or spent fully?
What lives have you had?
What adventures can you tell me?

I smile.
“This is gonna be fun.”
As I kick in the front door

Candles keep on burning and smoking
Birds keep flying and singing
And the silver of the black of yesterday’s night
Comes out only on pinned on the times
I seem to miss carnival rides of ecstasy
And stuffed bears with little orange bows
And ring tosses that lack aim and ring and tosses;
Just throws
While the rooftop I now sit on
In the final times of empty streets
That smell like stale popcorn
And paint from fresh vandalism
Will not take me back
Refuse to take me back
To school-less days
And fresh air that hinted purple dreams
Open oceans echoing full laughter
Wild hair, barbeques
Raw stories
Energy / Love / Energy
Even the floral print on my leggings
Is turning white
In fear of loose memories not sewed on yet
And a silver-less night of tomorrow
Maybe red will be the next best thing

You are my sisters child not mine.
I think you were almost four back then.
it was so very long ago.
Your beauty astounded me.
You had me smitten then
and if truth be known
As you do now.

We were having a shore lunch by the lake.
The lake trout sizzled
in its butter on the barbeques.
When naked as a jaybird
You jumped from the dock.
Disappearing into the lakes deep waters
Into the world of minnows and trout

I jumped in to save you
but you were already at the surface
swimming in doggie paddle fashion.
Refusing my grip
in fierce independence.
A trait you still possess.
I saw the big sign
Danger No swimming
but I let you go staying close to you.
You were kept buoyant
by the fruits of the young
by life’s power that flowed from you

And for an hour
you stayed in that water.
You won’t remember I am sure
But I saw you forming
the great woman
that you became
As you scorned my help.
And swam to the dock
lifting yourself
onto its platform.
That’s the moment we clicked
Man and woman child
friends forever
an eternal unbreakable bond.

The smell of sun-warmed skin mixing with salt air gives us sleepy eyes and soft smiles.

The dew gathering on cider bottles
Rolls,
Drips,
Settles on the porous slats of the table.

Waves crash lightly, distant and invisible
Claws scratch along the deck
After tennis ***** and plum stones
Stopping at the rails.

There is a quiet murmur of life in the neighbourhood.
The hum of barbeques.
Parties.
Bike-riding families laughing up the streets
And people like us,
Sitting outside, food and company
Soaking up the last of the afternoon sun.

Crumbs fall onto my skirt,
Black and stiff with dried salt,
Unwashed and unironed.
I brush off morsels of Galaxy Blue Cheese
Wellaby's Crackers -
Sun-dried tomato flavour.
Gluten-free.

Claws scramble towards my feet
Where three dogs vacuum my castoffs
As if they haven't been eating all day.

The Pogues declare that "the bells were ringing out for Christmas Day"
As my aunt laughs
Warm, harsh, and unashamed.

And it feels like Summer.

blue water
palm trees dipping
as a river otter
breezes teasing
my hair
string bikini
is all I wear
frozen drink melting
in my hand
toes dancing pirouettes
in the sand
not a cloud
to block the view
skin bronzed
as a statue
smells of coconut
and pineapples
standing under
a straw hut
sunlight dabbles
I hear the waves crashing
men and women splashing
Calypso music
permeates the air
laying on a lounge chair
men with braided tresses
woman wearing
flowered sundresses
volleyball and barbeques
think I might take a snooze

a hurricane is a natural disaster
full of destruction and terror and fear
but bringing people closer together
the lucky ones who survive
in new orleans, they rejoice in the streets
celebrating their survival
they have hurricane picnics and hurricane barbeques
because they have hope things will get better
some days, i wonder if i’m on the verge of a hurricane
if, perhaps, i break these walls down for one more person
the walls will break completely
and the floodgates will open, sending in their tempest
because the last person they lowered for
caused me to dare to hope to someday knock them down
but then i ended up having to rebuild them after all
and build them up so much stronger
i’m scared, so scared to knock them down again
because i’m afraid of what will come rushing out
but maybe
just maybe
i’ll hope for a hurricane picnic.

I wish you could stay just awhile longer
4 months is such a short period of time for glossed lips and sun kissed skin
Fun in the sun and splish splash in the pool
All night barbeques under twinkling lights, good music and the company of fire flies
I am no fan of getting the perfect tan but the sun on my face is always pleasant
I am not ready to trade in my flowing skirts for woolly pants
Tie up my wavy locks and shove them under the mass of cotton and wool
Being under dressed works but all those layers are ******
Don’t wanna say good bye to flip flops, dainty slippers and flats, showcasing off the perfect pedicure and slender ankles
Box off anklets and belly chains
Move away from last minute plans, and dates just because the weather is fantastic and he couldn’t really come up with a better reason to want to spend time with you
No longer finding the time to link arms with an old time lover and walk down a path that hasn’t been traveled for quite some time now
Dismiss the temptation of indulging in frozen treats to please the tongue and childish spirits
Its no fun to fish in the cold
No one will be looking for berries in the snow
Sunblock will be taking a rest while lip balm steals the show
It will be the season for vicks vaporub and  Vaseline soon
Summer romance will be dead and we will all have to settle for runny noses and frost bites next
Colourful leaves stuck to sneakers
Worms just starting to wake up
Rain for days
Who can forget the slushy snow!

theory plays itself out
from a distance
a tree walks
towards me
brim flicked
exhausted
          grinning
                  smoking
within inch of meeting
he has been flying and

my pink skirt skips
a beat to meet him
flame-like
swirl-like
matches
ti leaf twists

I drink sap
acrid and sweet
take small bites
leave marks
to match scars
carved into bark
and shining shoulder

where his fragility shelters
in my airborne hemline
anchors fabric down
to fragrant ground of

wirey connections
bearded chin grooves
soulpatch blonde tinged
in glowing moonlight
i press my cheek to his
welcome him home



what the fish thinks...

she hasnt swum so deep in centuries
philosophies of gills glittering
wander starlike flowerlike
through autumn

spring has come
rejuvenates dead
coral gardens

"it's real..." she quivers
gills gasp and expand
oxygen through
her silver body
dapple-lit
she wonders
calmly

and, if a fish could breathe
in Essex salts and Polish skin
she would breathe him in
absorb him in ways
she never thought
she needed



Continuing...

i haven't had a visit from someone
quite like this

sure i've had family and friends
kid sleepovers and barbeques
potlucks and gatherings
bearing gifts and pupus

but this
this is different
this is a visit from a friend
with intention

no  "how are you(s)"
we past that long ago
no  “Are you hungry”
we already know we are
starving

just silent query of
edge smiling study
accompanied by a shake of head
equivalent to tail wagging
and, ohhh, how i like that

i liken it to a yellow vase
watching seven rocks
eclipsed by a morning

seven sunsets
digit multiples

© on Nov 16 2023 09:42 PM PST, Epsileta Wolonskaya

p.s. if it were truly copyrighted...
"©"... you wouldn't or shouldn't be able
to simply ctrl+c and then ctrl+p
from page to page...
html code would require you to retype it...
you couldn't control and paste it...
if it were truly copyrighted...
that's how the meaning of html and law
should be understood...

    yours sincerely, a Kierkegaard Bachelor.

clings to August not wanting
to move forward to October and shorter
afternoons with cooler breezes. Not having
long stays at beaches. Giving up

green for color, pumpkins, apples
and cider. The end of vacation brings forth
much frustration and discord. Everything
back to its original form of schools in. Buses

lining the streets. Where’s the hot dogs
and ice-cream? The back -yards barbeques? Bikinis
turn into jackets and sweaters. Lazy days of
flip-flops and long walks are almost over. Where’s the

bullfrog and the clover? It’s not easy being
sentimental, yearning for the unconventional. The
tomatoes have died from of early frost. The grass
looks like moss. The thought of winter makes one want
to cling to an early spring.