07/2009

Written by Millie Jenny C. Fragile flower Susceptible to so much . . . Effected by every breeze that blows Awkwardly balanced on top Of a less than pencil-thin stem Your multi-layered Splash . . .of color Jumping out at me. The rain pours . . . Down in torrents. You are bent down. . . Almost to the ground. Miraculously . . . The downpour halts . . . With barely a second to spare. You do not break . . . You inched . . .so very. . . slowly upward again As you dry. . . You drink-in luxuriously the essential Nutrients in the raindrops. . . The sun Burst back onto the scene. . . Now with the magical mixture of Heat and moisture. . . Your growth continues. _________________________________________ Copyright 2004 and 2008 Millie Jenny C all rights reserved Image courtesy of myopera.com

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Written by Ken Carman Unimaginative minds See only the world For what they think it must be Half empty glass heads That find it impossible To even ponder A “maybe” Or “instead.” To unimaginative minds Dreams are infestations Demanding extermination Needing fumigation Their favorite poison… …hopelessness Above the grave They’d willingly dig for you In a land of lost possibilities Here they plot Making sure hope Will be buried alive Over eager to throw the dirt Taking pleasure in the hurt Gravediggers For the mind ______________________________________________ Copyright 2009 Ken Carman all rights reserved

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Written by Sennebec I wasnt sure whether the message on my answering machine was more unexpected or unwelcome. Marcus Dinsmore was a name from my high school days and certainly not someone with a good reason to get in touch with me. The voice sounded more mature, but familiar, bringing back memories of spring, 1989 when we were about to graduate from high school. I beat out Marcus by asking Shannon Merck to the graduation prom, completely unaware that they had been dating. He had gone ballistic, threatening me in senior English and later spray painting all the windows on my beloved 57 Chevy. He missed getting expelled by a hair and wasnt allowed to graduate with the rest of us. Oddly enough, Shannon and I discovered we had nothing in common and never went out again. That was almost 20 years ago. I had gone to college, then graduate school and was a slightly balding software engineer in Emeryville, California, far removed from Simonton, Maine. Heck, I hadnt even been back to visit in ten years. Curiosity won and I listened to the message again. Hi James, bet you never expected to hear from me, did you. I saw…

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(Or: Final Judgment for a Womanizer) Written by Ye Olde Scribe Her husband just shot me with both barrels. Where am I? Hmmm… that feels good. Come on baby. Oh, yeah! Harder. Faster. You’re my bitch. Straddle me and ride me; your stallion. Oh, yeah, bring up the lights. I want to see my conquest. I’m in heaven! I’m in heaven! Wait, what’s that smell? Tusks? TUSKS??? Oh, God, get that filthy boar-woman-thing off me. OH GOD, NO. I need good bath after that. Now that feels good. Suck some of the slime off, please. Dare I look? It’s… It’s… Some kind of snake creature with a big mouth filled with sharp teeth. NO, DON’T BITE DOWN. Let go! Let go! Let go! When you get sent to Hell, be careful what you imagine, be careful what you desire. You may get just what you want for an eternity. __________________________________ Copyright 2009 Ye Olde Scribe all rights reserved

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Written by Millie Jenny C. There is just not enough time to do what needs to be done. Not enough hours in the days that seem to cascade by. . . Faster and faster Year after year. What was it, in childhood, that made the days. . . J U S T D R A G B Y. Perhaps it is just me, then again, I have heard this same sentiment Expressed by many of my colleagues and friends. Is it just that there are so many more options now? So many more paths to choose? Or is it, as I grow older . . . I become more scattered. . . Spread myself too thin. To accomplish all the tasks that I schedule. I know sometimes I place obstacles RIGHT THERE in front of me. Yet sometimes. . . they just APPEAR THERE. . . Blocking / / MY PATH ONWARD. Where they appear from I couldnt tell you. All I know is . . . one second there is a clear path. . . And the next thing I know. . . I almost fall FLAT on my face Because there is a BOULDER in my way. Other…

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Written by Ana Gararian Isn’t a war Just the big boys Fight in the locker room? What if no one watched, If the halls stayed empty And there were no Cheers or Jeers? What if the bar patrons simply Turned their backs And ordered up another round? Could the, would the dispute Be worked out With some posturing And a jab or two? Even in a knockout Wouldn’t there be less Damage and folderol? You say What about the bullies? Doesn’t it seem the bullies have The biggest crowd anyway? Let them/make them Work it out on their own Without witness Or posse. Would the bully not fear compromise As it would not compromise his reputation? Would the victim find voice When not having to Overcome the crowded chaos? ______________________________________________________ Copyright 2009 Ana Garaian all rights reserved

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The LT Saloon Lutin Muse Literary Journal July 2009

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