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russian roulette

>> Thursday, September 30, 2010






















you own that corner in the cafe
beside the french window
a plastic flower, a chipped vase
no ashtray on the table for two

right after work you go, always
the man with the apron
knows...black no sugar, he does
not return your smile anymore

but your trouble is your trouble
your friends knew better
you sit and wait while the dark
brew courses through your heart

surely he'll come looking for you
they always do you say
if only you were born that way or
they don't fly off the handle easy

the tenth stick 'neath a heel goes
and at six o five a gush
for in comes the one. you think
of your bed (and was the cat fed?)

he's looking now, with eyes alit
just the perfect swagger
the right sneer you're looking for
(sigh) what are tables for two for?

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and you fall as all dead things fall
gathering dust as you go
tasting warm red black and blue            
and gone before you hit the floor


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[GUEST POETRY]

>> Monday, September 27, 2010

Ballistics 
 by Sheila Tombe




















Research on the web confirms my suspicion; the small hole
in the back window of my car (parked as always
under the cherry and pines) was made by a projectile
traveling at a speed upwards of 760 mph.

So.  Probably not a pine cone, then.

The cracks radiating across the glass from the entry wound
are myriad, ready like the trigger on a booby-
trapped bomb. I touch the surface; immediately,
it implodes with a sigh heaved downwards; surprising,
uneven chunks—compelled by gravity—fall into the car
(at about 10 mph, I suppose).  

Yet still attached in its corner isthmus, in case I might forget,
a bullet hole.  Angle of entry dictates that the shot
came from a height; one roughly equivalent, as I guess,
to a second-floor apartment. . . like the one across the street.
(Unless it was borne through the leaves from the branch
of an intervening tree? Unlikely perch for a Friday night sharpshooter!) 
But then, I imagine, this shooter was neither
sharp nor flat, whistling through air in tune like Elvis
Costello singing “my aim is true” (which was first recorded
for black vinyl rotating
at 45 rpm). 

No.  I conjecture this stray bullet, looking for Alison
yet not finding her, is the product of a late-night session
featuring shots of tequila, or worse, traveling at speeds
as comfortable
as a swallow.




"Born and raised in Belfast, Northern Ireland. Educated in Belfast and Glasgow.  Employed in Madrid; Hamamatsu, Japan; Columbia, SC; and Beaufort, SC. Retired by a river. Tolerated by cats and dogs.  Fed by literature, music, and light. Enchanted by ideas and engrossed in making words work. Now at law school--at 51--and fascinated." 
- fr her home page on HubPages where she writes as Teresa McGurk .


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i lay dreaming of birds

>> Saturday, September 25, 2010

 I wrote this poem on the aftermath of Typhoon Ondoy (Ketsana) which ravaged most of the island of Luzon (Philippines) on September 26, 2009. It's exactly been a year.



























mud encrusts my hands like
gloves, warm but impersonal
i persistently rummage for
things i am afraid i have lost
in the flood, in the dark water
      photographs
      letters
      pride


but i keel over, the stench
leaves no room for nostalgia
even in overcast moments
when memories weave a
a perfect release to go with
     stale cigarettes
     and a cup
     of tears


i lay down and stare at the
wounds on my feet, gaping,
like an open call for death
but even death is no more
a stranger than this quietly
      strange house
      that the birds
      deserted


birds...i see one...two...three
silvery ghosts silhouetted
against the untouchable sky
did Noah's ark really land on
Mt Ararat? a fortunate soul
      he had God
      on his side
      while i...


i lay and dream and dream of
birds and lay dreaming still...




I also wrote a blog called seven meters of misery - my personal accounts of that very unfortunate event in my life.  

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mater dolorosa

>> Friday, September 17, 2010

mater dolorosa (Latin); the sorrowful mother
Mater Dolorosa; the mother of Christ sorrowing for her son























this dark flower that i cling to on my
breast shall not fade. it will stay with
me, locked, in this tower that i built... 
an island in a sea of tears I have shed
for a thousand years only for you. the
stars may forget to lift their veils, and
the moon may forever slumber, but my
eyes will refuse to tire or dim.  they
shall seek and behold your beauty in
the gloaming and in every dawn. the sun
may forsake rising for all eternity but
i will endure longer and, ever faithfully,
speak your name in the darkest hours 
through the labyrinth of fog and sleep.

go now, my sweet. set sail to where i
cannot shadow. take this, the purest
love my heart can gift and embrace
it like you did my face when you first
breathed life from my life. go. fly now
to the distant shores of white where
pain is a stranger while i linger for a

moment longer in the mist, in the east
of your west, and dream of your smile
while i ponder upon the fragile veins  
of newborn leaves and recall your scent
in the passes you have walked with me.

ah my dearest one, you have broken my
soul and the pain shall not come to pass
like days melting into nights. the sweet
ache i will let dwell in my remembrances - 
within the walls of my longing, beyond
the sound of autumn, beyond the kiss of
the rain. beyond where words resound.

i am letting go but do not fret my love.
turn away without a care nor 
an afterthought, for my
sorrow is my light
my child. 

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eat fire raw

>> Wednesday, September 15, 2010























eat fire raw
man, woman, child
fleeting is the flame
red unlike any other
or fall away to black

the passing of wanting
is an unfortunate affair
the requiem is apathy
not a lilt in the march
to a chamber of cliches

while you have wings fly
burn the map and stray
scream, ask, lust, brave
life in mono is not a life
ellipses are for stones

for time loses faith
in shadows and fog
hunger for the pain
and layer by layer
eat fire raw


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antarctica

>> Friday, September 3, 2010





















you shun me and i die a thousand
deaths, breath by breath, petal by petal
but i endure like waves to the shore

your beauty is my melancholy a mirror
of a million stars, a smile and i fall
to despair in shades of midnight blue

for your youth, your fragile, delicate youth
is my greatest tragedy. somewhere, the sun
dreams of the waters of  the moon

i hear time stops in Antarctica, losing
itself in all the whiteness.time forgetting
time. i'll set sail before winter descends

but while this flower flies with the wind
will you defy the maps to your heart?
i promise to return eternal as stone

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