A poem by Frederick Schardt

VANISH VANITY!

Go on weird feeling
of the mind and get
on with pealing
away the layers of
desired regret.

I waited long for you,
and I no longer want
to wait and instead
want to leap.

You are the lazy susan
who never entered my mind
           before.

Well you need not
tempt me
           with
           a good time
because
            there are no
            more good times
here.

           VANISH AWAY VANITY!
                      and leap into
                      the blue and green
                      sea for

                                  one more
                                             dance.

Poems by Rich Murphy

ANONYMOUS CAMEOS

Each person wants to be seen
for whom the mind insists
stands before an audience
who also demand spotlights.

From great grandad small towns
cameo anomie arrives, homesteads.

With only fifteen minutes
on Earth eyes don’t pause
upon any face a famous moment
to acknowledge authenticity:
tears fall from cheekbones.

With mirror practice sessions
down the drain selfie cheeses
eat up smartphone memory
without satisfaction confirmed.

Spectator, actor, and words
together at the same time
on a planet in a solar system,
galaxy, etc., don’t celebrate
in wonder before disappearing.


MOON PERSPECTIVE

Little more than lichen on a rock
in a solar system, the creeper
in sneakers learns to adapt
to hard surfaces and a difficult
environment quick enough
to wear ledges and mountains
into a billiard ball rolling in the night.

Marathon soft shoe competitions
show off the creepiness
to all the other species such as
the cheetah or the gazelle
or the weeds in the backyard,
all slipping into extinction.

Each Earth hugging Rhizome
and Algae family growth
thrives in the naive green shades
generation after generation
while owning and managing
more and more square acres.

From a distance, the easy living
on top looks tough.

Poems by Richard Dulgheriu

RESENTMENT

I don't remember
when I became angry.
That's the problem.
There was no morning
when I woke up
and decided
to hate the world a little.
It happened quietly.
A little from my father.
A little from being poor.
A little from watching people
have things
I was taught not to ask for.
A little from every time
I swallowed something
because men like us
were supposed to handle it.
Years passed.
I called it ambition.
I called it strength.
I called it not giving a fuck.
Anything
but resentment.
Now I'm thirty-two,
and sometimes
someone who has done nothing wrong
says the wrong thing,
and I can feel twenty years
answering them.
That's when I understand—resentment doesn't always remember
who hurt you.
It just remembers
that somebody did.


BECOME A POET

I would never tell anyone
to become a poet.
There are easier ways
to hurt yourself.
I know.
I spend my days carrying bricks,
grinding old walls,
pushing my hands into wet cement
until the skin around my fingers
splits open.
By evening,
my shoulders ache.
My palms sting under hot water.
There is dust in places
dust has no business being.
But at least the body
knows what to do with pain.
It heals.
A cut closes.
A bruise changes colour.
The back forgives you eventually.
Then I come home
and open a notebook.
And suddenly I am twenty again.
Or eight.
Or standing in some kitchen
with someone who no longer loves me.
That's the cruelty of writing.
You spend all day
repairing broken things,
then come home,
sit beneath a quiet lamp,
and carefully
break yourself open
to see what can still be used.


BIRTHDAY

Today is my birthday.
No party.
No gatherings
No cake.
No candles.
And my phone has been quiet.
Two phone calls.
Five messages.
That’s it.
Fifteen years ago,
there would’ve been hundreds.
People I barely spoke to
would write on my wall,
send stupid messages,
call me,
remember me for one day.
Now I look at my phone
and nothing lights up.
Maybe that’s what getting older is.
Not wrinkles.
Not grey hair.
Just watching the list
of people who remember you
get shorter every year.
Or maybe I’m not being forgotten.
Maybe everyone is just
getting busy
being forgotten too.