08/2009

Written by Millie Jenny C. So many different kinds of love. It seeks us out from the smiles of our parents and relatives. Even before we really remember there are hints of love. The soft murmurings as we grow from an embryo… Then the voices of encouragement as we reach out and try to understand those surrounding our crib, then our bed as we emerge and grow with increasing awareness. Friendships that we cultivate carefully, taking chances and then shrinking back as love hurts. Sometimes we can become so wary that we fail to understand the true nature of love… It means risking being hurt. Family ties that should be there infused with love, hurt so much when they fall short. Or even worse… And yet love cannot happen… will not shine bright without holding our heart in suspense, giving love that chance to bloom. And romantic love can be the most rewarding of all. It can reach out and touch us in the most funny and poignant ways. This kind of love can start slowly and build to a crescendo. Or can start intensely and continue to bloom, seem to fade and bloom again… this time even stronger or…

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Written by R.S. Janes The pearl-gray luxury car circled the block a few times. The girls on the street had already concluded it wasn’t a cop, as the driver had refused a couple of invitations if it had been a cop, he wouldn’t have been so choosy, any quick bust would have been fine. But who was this guy? Middle-aged, thinning hair on top with a little gray on the sides, and a pair of brown square-frame glasses, just circling the block looking at the girls. One girl whispered to another that perhaps he was some weirdo street radars went up: keep an eye on the pearl-gray luxury car. The block was actually several blocks, and the girls hid in the doorways when the police cruisers occasionally plowed by. It was a game: the cops knew very well that this was hooker turf after eleven at night and they could pull them all in, but why bother with the paperwork, unless some citizen complained? They’d all be out here the next night anyway. As long as the cops didn’t catch them actively soliciting, or any sexual acts conducted in public, they usually left the girls alone some even indulged on…

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Written by Joyce Lovelace The birds are busy this morning. Wrens and sparrows fill the feeder’s tray. The cardinal has been relegated to the ground below. The nuthatch vies for room, while the woodpecker Clings to the suet cake. Tweets, twirps and chirps from all directions. Mother dove sits on the feeder roof keeping watch on Two young ones on the ground. Sunlight filtered through pine boughs Illuminates the seedlings sprung up from dropped seeds. Morning makes them so happy. They sing for the new day A warm sun and a place to fill their tummies. They sing when the rain slows. Robins delight in new mown lawns and freshly dug earth. Hummingbirds buzz amongst each newly blossomed plant, Squabbing like children on a playground. One minute pecking at each other the next sitting side by side. And over the meadow the hawk flies. _________________________________ Copyright 2009 Joyce Lovelace all rights reserved

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Written by Ken Carman Once trips around the moon started up again; long after the last trips in the 60s and 70s, an astronaut was snapping pictures of the surface when the lens caught a glint; a reflection, in a crater. Although they thought it might just be a solar flare playing tricks with the surface, or a camera problem, the astronaut said, “Hey! That looks like it should be called ‘The Glint in God’s Eye.’” The name stuck. Years past and every once in a while that same glint would be captured either by an astronaut seeing it, or a camera. Eventually they decided to find out what it was. By then trips to the surface had become common place. There were even finalizing plans to build a base. When a mission went to take better pictures, what they found made the news everywhere on Earh. In fact it shot around the world so fast the various digital broadcast waves got transmission burn. This “glint” was not natural. Alien? Well, that’s why they had sent a mission to check. It took a while to find it and it appeared to be very old, but very advanced: yet human made:…

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Written by Ken Carman Pain Twist it Turn it Spin it around Play catch Eat it Expel Consume again I examine pain Like a collector Looks at a butterfly All the tormented colors Stark But beautiful You never understood You never really knew Those who do the hurting Rarely do All the pain What could have been What was What will never be All that pain Has made me Me More real Than your every fake smile The… “Let’s be friends” “See you in a while” All those lies That I don’t miss Hesistant hug Phoney kiss Missing them has made me More real Than even I knew Back when meaningless sex Made you You Pain feeds the poet The humble And starves what’s lame Pain well placed Keeps the creative sane There’s a time for pain And for pity too This poem’s my time for pity Pity… you ____________________________ Copyright 2009 Ken Carman all rights reserved

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Written by Ken Carman The time traveler sat on his bed in his cell when they came to get him. Maflo, the head of the guard, had grown to like the time traveler and decided to try one more time… “Look, I think I can still get them to stop the execution if you tell us why you did it..” “I have nothing to say.” They walked to the demolecularization chamber, he talked and the traveler mostly listened. “If we hadn’t developed the ability to track those who interfere with the natural course of events by traveling through time we wouldn’t have caught you. In a way, I wish we hadn’t. I am going to miss our four dimensional chess games. Maybe some day the knight I could have used to get you into checkmate will show up. I’m sure you shifted it into the future, I just can’t figure out when.” The traveler just smiled. “I don’t understand. Why did you leave us that book so many years ago that claimed to tell the future, but was all wrong? Will you ever tell us? How many people died because of that prank? Most crimes no longer get the death…

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The LT Saloon Lutin Muse Literary Journal: August 2009

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