03/2011

Written by Millie Jenny C. That little green urchin Is rapping at the door once more. Green beer in one hand Teasing . . . ‘Pot o’ gold’ in the other. Winking in and out of vision, Never quite materializing. Stands just out of sight. Glimpses. . Darting here and there . . . every now and then Just outside my periphery. Shiny gold gleaming bright Brilliant green of all greens. Urchin of small stature Scooting away lickety-split. Attempting to be miserly, Hold tight to that booty. . . . that wealth Keeping it all. Attempting once again To sneak up with stealth Steal away that Leprechaun’s “lucky charms” Perhaps real treasure If the “Luck o’ the Irish” Follows this ‘lass.’ Now where did I put “me” shamrock? -Millie Jenny C 3/17/2011 _______________________________ ©Copyright 2011 Millie Jenny C. all rights reserved Leprechaun picture courtesy celebs.icanhascheezburger.com Shamrock tattoo picture courtesy myta2s.com

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Written by Lilith Raymour I remember the night, and the fight. You had every right to be mad at me after what had happened just before that, though I tried to tell you it wasn’t working out several times. Tell me, how was I to be kind to you? Is there any way to end a relationship that’s “kind?” I was young. You were young. We were young and clumsy together. When I told you, you simply said, “No,” opened your door of your car and got out. You stood; your back to me, and stared into the woods on the other side of the road and said nothing, though I kept saying your name. So I went inside. You were never the same after that. The friendship we spoke of never was to happen, could never be. I knew that, though I couldn’t admit it. I had decided to go on with my life and, if you wanted to be part of it then you could be part of that life too. But you were gone. Lost in those woods. So, so, ever so long ago. We no longer know each other. But every once in a while, maybe…

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Picture courtesy coolfacts.in Written by Ye Olde Scribe Stupid movies. Stupid TV shows. Who was the idiot who thought the whole zombie thing up? Use YOUR brain for once. Why would anyone, even the walking dead, want to eat brains? They’re bland, mushy and the texture is, well, almost as bad as that of the walking dead. Of course there is no such thing as the walking dead. But the dead do live. We discovered that the day the corpse arrived at the morgue. We thought him a simple Hindu bee keeper, not much more. If you passed by his hives when he was tending them you could hear him going, “OM.” Let me explain. As coroner I’m glad the county decided to place the city morgue next to the hospital, but I sure wish they had chose a different part of the hospital. We live in a very Conservative state and recently they instituted enforced castration for rapists. The morgue is right next to the dumpster where they dispose those remains. So when we opened up the bag that they brought him in we found out that his bees loved him so much they committed suicide: flew right down…

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Written by William E. Carman Cabin fever Wishing for some lever Melt the snow Clear the path To rid myself of… Cabin fever Effects even a beaver In his wooden lodge Looking to escape To dodge Perhaps a memory A loved one passed on Does Mrs. Beaver miss Mrs. Beaver As much as I miss you? ______________________________ ©Copyright 2011 William E. Carman all rights reserved Mr. and Mrs. Beaver, both still alive and at home watching Direct TV, in better, warmer, times.

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The Lutin Muse Literary Magazine: March 2011 March out on the lamb. (Picture courtesy bbc.co.uk)

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Awaiting March Winds atop Tug Hill (Courtesy science.howstuffworks.com)

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