Friday, June 20, 2008

who needs a dog?

my carpets are stained with the muck
children bring into my life
sunshine and smudges upon my walls
painted with little finger marks trailing the banister

once golden, now brown the carpet gleams
colors of red, yellow and green grace my fridge
on a tattered piece of construction paper
stickmen tell the tale of my life

men I cannot understand steam the dirt away
while the children watch in childish fascination
plotting a new way to bring color to the world
the smallest stands on the table and pees on the cleaned floor

By Jennifer L. Stinson

Copyright 2008 by Jennifer L. Stinson.
All rights reserved.


Tuesday, June 10, 2008

The world is on fire, baby

It's time to come inside.
The smoke is thick as a deep Indian tea,
The southern sky aflame with orange and red
As you call up honey
A smattering, a glitter, in
The evening's candle light.

It's time to come inside; the
Hearth draws near and the
Air shimmers as if alive.
Too often, have I felt the love
Upon my neck, a shuttering,
Even in sooty air.

It's time. It's time for something
other than the melancholic moans of
Dissatisfaction lingering like
Smoke on a barbecue, the coals white
Hot and desirous of fat and meat
Drips into the smoldering ash.

It's time to come inside; the
World is on fire, baby.

By Peter A. Stinson

Copyright 2008 by Peter A. Stinson.
All rights reserved.
Published by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.


Monday, January 07, 2008

Not Today

5 am. Light breeds optimism. New day. Changes are eminent.

Alarm shrieks the reality of responsibility. Snooze always a possibility.

Purring friend delights in your presence. Warming acceptance.

So many possibilities to make the day great.

Noise fills the room. Unnotable occurrences broadcasted by smiling, lineless faces. Murder, robbery, celebrity this, celebrity that, flood, death, fire, car wreck, celebrity blah, celebrity blah.

530 am. The pure smell of coffee beans invaded by Glade. Starbucks always wins.

Smiling at strangers met with blank eyes and half nods. Misanthropy sets in.

Brake lights, my kid is smarter than yours, roadkill. Coffee – cold.

700 am. Cubicle window overlooking downtown. Phillip Morris, an eyesore in my view. Suits in big chairs, smoky windows killing my hope.

When will the day begin?

By Renee Newman

Copyright 2007 by Renee Newman.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.