gud day mates

[paul kren]

this is the jungle of tigers
the bane of man
the unknown
we are but children at this gate
sly sniveling
we fly by grace and circumstance
the hour is getting late

chopping mushrooms in the garden
the spring speaks out of turn
is it I or those who came before
that have nothing left to burn
I yearn for lust
and love
the bittersweet taste of death

we gather at sunset to mourn
the coming of the morn
lest we forget
there is the karmic debt
that must be paid

gold

no

blood

I dont think so

eyes with words

worlds with eyes

peace is a noisy business

touch the hem of it

go ahead touch it

you are the whatever
dont foget it

[Doreen Peri]

these are the days
of nuances and unparticular
animals, straight with a pounce,
scavenger-squalls, calls of
patrons choosing mushroom
matter over the speaking
out of turn of a season
whch it will often do
because it must.

dust cannot
turn to gold or bloodthrust
lust in turmoiled eyes with
vacant noisy stairs

nothing but the sunset
can frame us between
dawn and
dusk

sillouettes
must ride in between
noisy business

the hem is only the
ending of a skirt

[Lewis Goldfarb]

in the space
we find the truth

well said
well spoken
well written

earns us rest

[i.koro]

one of many
but this one belongs
in staff picks