Thursday, April 10, 2014

He Said She Said


He wrote, she wrote
I wrote, they said:

I have been besieged for too long.

I said, she said
They wrote, he said:

Why am I no longer a victim?

They wrote, I said
She said, he wrote:

How is this not about me?

I said, I wrote,
I tried, I cried:

Why can't anyone see me?

I bleed my life
on paper with pen
to people with words.

It's only a certainty
my brand leaves me sober
knowing my story
is half of the battle.

I said, she said,
they said, he said:

I have taken my place
at the chair,
at the table.

I have to stop you
from taking me over.

He wrote, she wrote,
I wrote, they said,
They said, he said,
he wrote, she wrote:

My joy is a fable,
my friends are untruthful.
Can you please help me?
I need a moment.

He said, she said,
she wrote, he wrote,
they said, we said,
I wrote, I said:

Things might get crazy up ahead;
so I've taken my place at the chair,
at the table.

He said, she said,
He wrote, she wrote,
I tried, I cried:

I am a lie
and so are you.




by Owen Loscar

Thursday, April 3, 2014

Snow Passing


There's an entrance to these woods I call my own
that no passer-by has ever been shown
where leaves exceed and flow over the trail.

Under these white December skies
as shadows form above my eyes
I find myself wandering the dreamless snow
though I know my steps will lead me back
to where I was before.

I'd much rather be lost in snow
and never see another soul
where the lamp lights cross over pastured fields
and no sullen eye wakes from midnight drear.

Beyond the trees far off from here
an endless field of blanketed white
where I find no word but silence still

I find my clarity in the snow
where seldom travelers ever go.



by Joseph Ostapiuk
Something About You


Keeps me waking
from oblong nights to morn.

It's not those worshiped pleasantries
traversed between yours and mine,
or the halls of untouched volumes
that occupy your mind.

It's not the gowns
that you have worn,
or the countenances that have adorned
the mantel of your eyes.

It's something deep within those eyes
that lie upon your cheeks,
a false memory, perhaps
of what was there that lied,

a place not unfamiliar
to angels, when they sigh,
a home I know, but scarcely go,
and where would gladly die.

And if, perchance, I should fill
your heaven-sent eyes with mine,
I scarcely know if I should go
beyond those eyes again.


by John Montana

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

                                                                                                Byzantium


Why hide behind your philosophy

As if it were a knight's shield?

Hate is always a fallacy,

Especially behind your cold veil.



Love is all you need?

If that be true,

Then how come you smoke weed?

Why do you glue yourself

To computers, to phones, to TV?



Why don't you just go see her?



Look, look with your feeble eyes:

We sail to Byzantium

Only to grow bored.

We sail to Byzantium

Only to grow old.

Byzantium is a place

Where the young grow careless.

Byzantium is a place

Where the free become trapped.

Byzantium is a place where your emotions cease,

And Byzantium is not a place anymore.



by Owen Loscar