Tiffany Norman Oct 2014

It wasn’t my intention
to collect your love
and place it on a shelf.

The dust makes you sneeze,
and I’m sorry, I’ve just
been busy.

It takes a lot
for me to climb my step stool
to break up

the cobwebs that
have settled on you
and Paul and Chris and Jake.

Poem published in Glass Mountain's Spring 2015 issue. www.glassmountainmag.com
Elaenor Aisling May 2013

It’s the small things.
The little ones almost missed,
But some strand of  soul
Catches them,
Reels them in,
Adds them to the heap
Of silver and bronze plated memories
Stashed in the heart of hearts.
Tiny things.
So unimportant.
Locked away by ingratitude,
Who bars the door with steeled force.
But even a slip of thanks,
Could push him aside.
And flood the world with light.

David Hewitt Mar 29

Her glazed eyes looked doll like
Brown and large, they held back the balancing water
Like overflowing gutters on a
Derelict hone,
Her body was that home
Bruised and battered by illness storms
She lay defeated
Foundations crumbling
Her sallow skin, once the freshest paint
Now clung to the plasterboard of her bones
Her limbs, so thin, lay beside her
Stockpiled timbers, weathered and tired.
The kiss upon her brow
Rewarded with a fragrance so distinct
One of love from defeat
Of hope from despair

The bulldozers were moving closer
Time to save a trinket.....

They’re almost gone now a vanishing tribe
Peddlers of fresh sweets honeys from hive
Sellers of fish heads such sundries on head
Toys and bangles and blankets for bed.

Don’t see them around those struggling men
Making the choice of voice trudging the lane
Hoping to sell one piece in dream of gain
Faceless wind ringer in sun’s bite and rain.

Gone are those plaintive cries on summer noon
Raising road’s dust on trail singing the tune
Traders of trinkets girls’ ribbon hairpin
Yoyo and plastic top with endless spin.

Why the times ruined them made them a flop
Sellers travelers with head-full of shop
Sending their song of hope past locked in door
None could now fill that space nothing anymore.

mark john junor Aug 2013

darkness at the very edge
its bold
and far from silent
it has a vast sound at the verge of hearing
soft and insistent
clinging to you like a frightened child
you chase the source of light
seeking comfort in its warm familiarity
through the supermarket
where housewives steal trinkets of food
where men loose spare change
through the well traveled rail station
where men in long coats await the rain
where women of dire straights await rescue

clean the razors determinations
and know that the fine line reached
is the one between her mocking you
and the reality of your cold naked bleeding in the rain
no sweeping music can change the mistakes
no well placed words can undo the changes
and everyone may pretend not to see
but they all know
and they all lied

she awakens before dawn
standing at the kitchen table
holding a paper doll
inside she screams and screams
inside the tears are an ocean of death
but to the mute world
her stone gaze fixed out the window
that in her mind is forever as shattered as her
to a world that to her is forever winterbound as her cold heart
she walks into the depths of her home
neatly pressed in her grey dress
line perfect down to makeup
but there is a steady whisper of terror leaking out of her lips

darkness has many faces
hides in plain sight
in full on sunlight
has too many names to be recalled
its lusted for and held up in praise
but it is no hero to me

she is just one average face
just one average set of fingers
looking for a trigger
looking for a thing to bury herself and blade in
and regardless of what they say
she is my only hope
i cannot be the one to bear this burden anymore
i cannot carry this awful memory any further
i want to be rid of her and her kind once and for all

she stands in her silent dark bedroom
razor in her cold fingers
thin smile on her thin lips
waiting
shes waiting
but im never coming back
i will never open that door
never free her of this hell she created
if it was anybody else i might feel
anyone else it might matter
let her rot

ERR Mar 2011

I missed you before we ever met
And dread the parting words
You were the pawn shop for my trinkets and baggage
Assigning palpable worth to the unimportant history
One man’s trash and tragedy
Is another man’s happiness attained
I traded my pain for gold
You’re the best story I ever told

Diane Puckett Jul 2016

Blossoms of orange, or ferns of green- They have made the most wonderful sights anyone on this Earth have ever seen.
Trinkets of pink, and memorbillias of blue- they'll be making history a-new!
Take a few minutes here to just unwind.
You'll know you've come to precious Heaven, when you can understand the workings of your mind.
Pictures overlapping, and falling all around-This is a special gift-Full of memories abound.
The memories, now, we can see, are blossoms of love when we let them all be!  Let them be.

Elaenor Aisling Feb 2014
Let’s pour a little salt,
flavor the Earth,
so She’s the only one to remember
that we were ever here.

2. I painted Care and Sympathy’s portraits,
and (falsely) titled it Love.
And you hung it on your wall to remind yourself
you weren’t entirely alone.
But I’m sure you’ve taken it down by now
and it’s sitting in a corner, under the white sheet of time.

3. And if I faced death today,
I would like to think
I could face him without flinching.
As long as he would strike quickly, in the head or the heart.
I shouldn’t mind at all.

4. He called me tiny dancer
even though I couldn’t dance.
At least not very well.
He still insisted on waltzing
in my parent’s kitchen
despite my stepping on his toes.
Elaenor Aisling Apr 2014

1) October is a month for leaving
even the copper leaves
leave the embrace of the trees

2)Your ghost still haunts my bed.
If I made love to a priest
would that exorcise you
from my sheets?

3)Because I think we all have thought
about stepping on the gas
when we should have hit the brake.

Randomnessssss
furies Dec 2014

I fall beneath the wings
I hang above the chasm
I let my resolve crumble

Breathless whispers bring forth
enticing thoughts of snow globe worlds
As useful as paper weights

I fear the collision of worlds
I wait for the ringing to stop
I allow the peace of destruction to befall

Covering the world
in satin trimmed words
Pretending the tides would shift for the better

Satsih Verma Dec 2016

A spotless white moon
was hiding the―
ink spilled on the apron.

*

The pretty nouns
scramble for hope―
if there was any.

*

You could not undo―
what a rose―
did, in broad daylight.

*

A town lives
under a tree, in shade.
The ants come and go.

Al Thomas Jun 5

A worn out record, still spinning tunes inside.  The yellowing poster peeling off the wall.  An old sketch book, echoes of the artist's hand.

The ancient Nokia cell-phone... still waiting for that text.

A single jigsaw piece in a collection of foreign coins.  

A mystery novel titled: 'I'm lost for words'

The holy stone, discovered on the beachfront - An Ace of Hearts produced by the magician's hand.  The St. Christopher still blessing you on your travels.

The drawer with various odds and ends, including the lucky spoon of Leuven, and a half filled recipe book.

The tattered T-shirt I just can't throw away.

The memories.

Kaylee Lemire Apr 2015

cold metal collides
the clouds play with man's trinkets
singing for no one

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