I put a flower in my pocket

I put a flower in my pocket
It may not have been the best
Place to keep it
Because it got crumpled and worn
And one time it went through
The washing machine

I put a flower in my pocket
I kept it there just for you
It was with me on the train
While I was waiting for you
At our meeting place
I think I lost some of the petals
But I’ll give it to you anyway

I put a flower in my pocket
So it was always close to me
It reminded me of you
Until one day you left me
And it was only after you left
That I found out that
You don’t even like flowers.

By: Juliana Chalifour


The Sound of Silence

The Greeks used to start
their poems with prayer
but I haven’t seen my muse
for longer than I care
to remember,
even though her hair
wraps my mind in confusion
every night
the moment my head hits the pillow.

So what will you do,
will you say a prayer too?

I could try,
if you insist on seeing through
that ought to be –
the catalysts and symbology –
the way we understand what we would see
even though gods don’t hang from trees


than we bother to light votive candles
amongst the stones of the ancient beliefs.

O, Muse!

These words are ordinary,
they seem so far
from the Bard’s eloquence
or the psalms of Man…

Sometimes I wonder if you understand who I really am…


You’re just some kind of I am Sam.
The simplest kind of Sam I Am,
who does not like green eggs and ham
more or less
than other things that are given to us
by other people who tell us to love
them even though the stars above,
on the topic of their content,

are silent –

All things are the same…

What, is that a question?

No, a statement.
Or perhaps a Schrodinger’s statement,
because it is both void and meaning,
it’s just another stupid maxim teaming
like fish that hold memories
some kind of Sam I Am –

But Sam,
I am,

and none of this makes any sense,
can’t you see the way I hope,

sort of,

for some kind of
Sometimes it feels like I am becoming

less because of other people;

and so,
I will eat green eggs and ham
if you’ll
just speak to me
Sam I Am.

The Death Of Music

Is all good music gone?
Was it killed by a man in the still of the night
Kicked in the darkness till it bled daylight
Before I was full grown?

Or did it just ffffade away?
Into the darkness an old friend of mine
And though I said I would be I wont be fine.
I guess I’ll go my own way.

Will it ever return? I don’t know, I cant say.
I don’t like it but I guess things happen that way.
At least that’s what Johnny told me before he too went away
On a jet plane.

Music used to speak to me.
It was true like ice, true like fire
But even walls fall down; down to the wire
Let it be, Let it be.

The day that music died,
I had someone tell me not to cry
The circle would be unbroken by and by,
Just let your backbone slide.

But when music is gone, where does it go?
Is there an Afterlife for the songs I miss?
Or is music just a Reflektor of a kiss
That hits me as the chariots swing low?

Maybe just when you feel it you don’t,
And just when you find it, it’s gone.
Taken away with miss atomic bomb
In some dustland fairy-tale.

Or what if music is still there?
Like that girl with diamonds on the soles of her shoe
Or the wolves with eyes all Sinatra blue
If you’re bold enough to stare.

Perhaps it’s just in hiding
Swallowing its dreams with cans of regret
Or laying in wait with Benny and the Jets
To come up for the rising.

Maybe good music never really died
And we don’t need sympathy for the devil
In his rotten lair of evil beyond evil
With no tunes to ease his worried mind.

Oh music! I’ll write you a letter tomorrow
But tonight I can’t hold a pen to ink your name
Even though Amy told me Love is a Losing game
I’ll find some damn paper to borrow.

And tomorrow. I’ll write you.

5-7-5 #1

By: Dominic Lindl

Drank that H20
What if water could drink us?
Grandfather did drown

City of grey lights
Aimless, the search for meaning
It is my bedroom

By: Nicholas Elbers

The phoenix rises –
only reborn, never new:
only rearranged.

Over sulphur’s state
Seraphim ner dare to tread
While I dash my feet  

Late I went walking
Over flag and cobblestone
Patterned on old thought

By: Renzo Carbonel

A slow soul dances
Stepping softly, turning
toward vibrant song

A table is set
Her voice calls, falling on
apathetic ears

The screen flickers low
A tired spirit rejoices:
Hungry ones will eat

A mountain below-
Friends lamenting joyfully:
Bidding him adieu

By: Alec Gloanec

Easy money is
My favorite thing ever.
Sincerely: This guy.

Go down, down, deep ,deep.
unto the vale of sleep, sleep.
So? Wasn’t I tired?


– Elizabeth Flitton

White specks fill the red pedals laying on the green bushes in the dark rustic forest. Lashes move slowly as her eyes open. She turns her dark hazel gaze towards the gloomy brown wood. Slowly, small drips of sweat begin scrolling down her cheeks. They make ruffles on the ground like small pebbles hitting the top of water.

She feels the pounding of her heart vibrating up and down in her throat. A deep, but slow breath. Spikes of pain running through her body as she touches her blood filled womb. She groans in pain as a branch brushes against her. Memories fill her mind as she trembles from the ice cold snow.

I Wonder

Sometimes I wonder
if Achilles stood on his heels
at the doorstep of divinity
and wished he had digressed
to spend the rest
of his life with a kid and a wife,
fading into the obscure
background of a retrospectively halcyon world
instead of being destiny’s child…

But Achilles isn’t real,
his choice is a myth –

the truth is the vale of tears
where they make you suspend those fears
that are erected by women with painted faces.

there are no Veronicas here.

But two becomes one
becomes something beautiful.
I donno, how’s that even possible?
It’s conjugal.
No. Comical!
Fill in the blanks….

But I can’t bring myself to finish
those lines that diminish myself.
Because aloneness
is hardly something to worry about.
Unfortunate for you
charity takes two,
or something else new.
A me and you too?

Or a you and you
without a me to be something in the way
of things that you can’t get for free.

But, can’t it just be the trinity?
That opposite of enmity,
tickled ivories and melodies
that aren’t from me,
but made by two,

maybe me and maybe you
to make a new end only through
merging melodies.

Sometime I wonder
if Achilles (who stood on his heels
at the doorstep of divinity)
had met the right one who’d have made him undone,
would he have stayed
till his very last day
in Grecian bliss
rather than sink into that immortal abyss?

Ask Paris.

Blind Spot

He was the blind spot,

To my sensibility.
Gathering joy, from
Fuelling my insecurity.
He was Lying on his back,
Lying to my face.
An absolute,
Absence of integrity.

He told me,
Stars shone as bright
As my eyes.
Which was as true,
As his lies.

But his grip was too tight.

My mum was right.

By: Rachel Dunn