Exiles and Enlightenments (a sonnet)-John W. Leys, Guest Barista

wrecked_fishing_boats_finnmark

A deserted beach, shipwreck on the shore,
Desolate remains of a life once shared,
Before it was clear what fate had in store
In Eden, with you, when our hearts were bared,

Forbidden fruit can ne’er be un-eaten
Once taught, good and evil can’t be un-learned
Battles can’t be won once you’ve been beaten,
Bridges can’t be crossed once they’ve all been burned.

Alone we walk the paths on which we’re hurled
Exiled to wilderness, where truth is found
To become ourselves, to create our world,
To accept the fate to which we are bound.

No way to be that you’re not meant to be
No way to accept this and not be free


Guest Barista John W. Leys blogs at the Darkness of His Dreams

Image: Wrecked fishing boats at Grasbakken in Nesseby, Finnmark, North Norway (6 December 2012, 17:53:17) by Hans Olav Lien.
Found on WikiMedia Commons

O captain! My captain!-A.G. Diedericks, Guest Barista

Please forgive us for not looking past the laughter, for how could we have known that underneath all that light was a Genie crying out for his own wish to come true. Your magic saved us when we no longer wanted to be saved, it was you, Patch Adams, that kept the doctor away. You were the reification of What Dreams May Come. The Boy Who Never Grew Up. You were the only one who could lift people out of bed during the madness of war-torn Vietnam, and made them believe that they could still somehow have a Good Morning. We took your Happy Days for granted and as a consequence, lost you to the Dead Poets Society. Rest in peace, assured with the knowledge that we will never again Doubt your Fire!

© A.G. Diedericks


A.G. Diedericks is an aspiring poet/artist. He’s an avid sports fan and a robust cinephile. He loves anything that’s well-written and resides in Cape Town, S.A

Nine Small Sighs

A. Marie/The Larkspur Horne

The Larkspur Horne

And I get torn
by he and she, tugged between
their diverging stars,
she tells me

that I have the makings of an owl,
the moles on my nose and right breast are just right,
how in the night she has thoughts of me
and breaks her wineglass against the table.

And so,
he tells me
that it is not cold beneath the window, because I am warmth,
a red celestial orbiting this fog ridden city, my hips, my shoulders
four fires on the water, balanced
upon lily pads, drifting out, away from him.

I get crunched
in the words they profess to me, frightened
at the prospect of never really loving anyone as they deserve to be.
Somewhat unaware
of how empty are the rooms
I wander through, carrying my hot confection of water, brown sugar, honey.

I do not get lonely. It is odd.
Regardless if it be…

View original post 158 more words

Summer Falls Into Winter

chill in the morning air

brings blessed relief

soothes my fevered thoughts

aromas become crisp

tart apple on my tongue

change is in the air

possibilities wind-blown leaves

swirling at my feet

edges newly turned

crimson, pumpkin, gold

some worship spring

verdant and fertile

but I am a woman of the North

explosion of my colors

rich in the fading light

 

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved

Image courtesy of Google, HekateDraculea/DeviantArt

All The Things I’ll Never Be- Nicholas Gagnier, Guest Barista

I’ll never have the perfect face, be taller than five-five or catch a single freaking break.

Won’t ever love mornings, follow crosswalk warnings or adore myself the way you do me.

I’ll never tolerate the boring things, know how to sing without butchering the lyrics,

write poems that don’t cuss because I don’t give a fuck about appearance, slash conformity.

Don’t give a damn if you mourn me or not, gloss over all the awkward to author fiction.

I’ll never oppose these antisocial quirks, even when diction fails them. I’ll never be the alpha male,

just as some never bear to
kiss
their opposites.

I’ll never be older than sixteen and self-loathing, chasing some girl I inappropriately fell in love with,

knowing I’m the
last thing
she actually covets, but she’ll always be a
character to me.

All these things I’ll never be, and
yet you don’t look
haunted
or
hopeless enough to flee.

It’s all the denouement I could ever want, but one does dream,
darling.


You can read more of Nicholas’ work at Free Verse Revolution

Spinning Naked Singing

Wrapped inside this lace prison, beauty
Tied to the post barks at the convention of standards
She turns to the mirror, gagged, looking for a safe word
Unable to spit it out.

Who is prisoner, who is warden?

Wrapped inside this lace prison strips beauty
Of depth. In the fathoms, sharks swim with barracudas
She turns to the mirror, looking for an oxygen tank,
A rifle to shoot at the gag.

Who is hunter, who is hunted?

Wrapped inside this lace prison, beauty asks, naked,
Why don’t you untie me, stare at gently falling flesh
In the mirror, laugh, then smile at the unravelling
Spit out unsafe words until the tank explodes

Who is safe? who is safe?

Lace lumped on the floor, the mirror looks back
At beauty dancing, spinning, whirly-dirvishing
Singing words that explode, spitting them out
Like poison sucked from a rattlesnake bite.