As waning ice of winter drips into our spring, my fingertips, tempestuous, cling. Catharsis now brings tearful scene; quiv`ring lips. As all our season’s trials end, your icy words my soul defends. Our love not lanquid nor is it torpid; not morbid or pretends. Oh, let our winter’s stone-cold hearth alight once more with fiery…
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Chimera 66, #14 Kickoff
“The Crank” “Slide the handle here; turn the crank there! The flea-market guy said it would work or I may take it back for full refund.” “Why buy an antique coffee grinder when there’s no coffee in the house?” “I like the ambiance it gives my banal, boring, stuffy kitchen…?” “Why don’t you amble out…
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Cold shudders, early angst this warm, June day. For many, it will be our hero’s last. The heart that wildly beats foresees the fray; a holding of each breath before the roar of bullets sting the air. Among the still-born, glassy eyes of men who now lie limp upon this beach’s shore, I see the…
Read MoreKaleidoscope
With innocence and child-like eyes, she peers into the murky tube. A twist; a gasp of joy, her mouth now oohs! An aha moment of splendor as shadow turns to light as she, alone, creates amazing colored webs expressing mad excitement with each spin. Now she feels what the spider feels as he builds his…
Read More“Holy Hands!”
(John Casey) Photo by Jacqueline Casey I dreamt last night I attend the Church of the Holy Hands! Firm fanatics, believers brew; a congregation of Fifty-Two. “Have pocket aces in your stew before you receive your due; before glory rains upon you, too!” I genuflect, bow and find a pew as the devil shoves his…
Read More“Atonement”
“Atonement” She pushes, coaxes, presses needle through. With labored love, the handsome fabric glows; the heart, remorseful, with it thus imbued. Her stitches mixed with tears, the fabric knows she makes her mourning coat from their love nest. Resounding chimes the tolling bell that beckon all to see his final best: that coat of many…
Read More“Emeryville”
John remembers the ways of the Ohlone as he digs for oyster along the shore at Emeryville. Near his dead father’s old fishing shack stood Shellmound Park; a midden of many lifetimes. A mountain of crusty mollusk fused together rose 60 feet above San Francisco Bay with a dance pavilion atop its summit. The dance…
Read MoreThe Guardians
The Guardians The first fly catches her scent in the hot, summer wind. Buzzing his arrival, he scrapes his feet and glories in the Guava juice erupting from her mouth. Death is a strong, sweet thing for those with voracious appetite. Guardians of the Dead leave sticky, spiny footprints tracking her body, their microscopic ears…
Read MoreThe Music Maker
“The Music Maker” He played her like an old, worn tambourine; a frightful, dull man’s musicale. The thunder from her drum a shallow scene; a misty, seismic moment from his gal. The music not enhanced by their dog, Sal who also entered her embittered howl. The house reverberates; the neighbors pale as door and…
Read MoreThe Messenger
I doubt not God’s my messenger and oft I see him in the whirling colors there. His message is a gentle love, aloft and all his voice remembered everywhere. He is the author of the spider’s way whose mystic journey often spins astray unless that force and guide is heard. He is our stamen stretching…
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