Words and Images, Part 1

Souls Joining by Kali Deno

Joseph Shore, Age 57

June in Portland Oregon

I feel way too much!
I wanted to shout to the gathered scene
I felt insulted by the distraction of you!
After all is was a beautiful June day in Downtown Portland   
Hippie kids played Frisbee and bummed smokes
a ray of sun shown through the leaves

The brick buildings edge divided the catastrophe like a knife
“I’m gonna play golf” I heard him say
Through a toothy dental manufactured smile
his thin brown skin stretched to the limits of his frame
Not more than a few steps around the corner
Unaware to the endings of life

There were children kept in strollers
Tall humans stood like Red Woods
To shield the innocent from the misunderstandings of life

He looked like some kind of monk
Pale, Bald one leg resembled a broken Number 4
it would have seemed out of place his whiteness
against the black tarmac of the street
If it wasn’t for the lemon-lime bed cloth
He wore like a crucified Jesus
that seemed to tie it all together

It seemed natural in some way?
Almost peaceful

One man’s journey of torment deceased

 

Untitled by Anthony Hayes

Craig Randall, Age 32

Imagine

Imagine –
Imagine catching a tornado
pin balling
back and forth
off
the inside of your skull, 

with only a butterfly net…

Now –
Now imagine all you need, truly, is
to reach out into the stillness, grasp, and hold
  tight, hold tight to Peace, The Confidence of True: 

To know –
To know that if you leave the net behind,
reach out with your hand,
and are still,
the butterfly will come to you.

One aspect of memory by Bruce Marler

David Kailin, Age 69

Woe II

When nothing can be done
don’t do it
World fate is world fate
Our life and sanity
reside with the small
the immediate:
this conversation
this care
this touch
bridging otherness
with warmth and trueness

And with laughter
join the ultimate fabricator and
destroyer of illusions

Floating in Space by Kate Stevens

Frank Babcock, Age 64

The Final Journey

Packing for camping trips as a young household,
Kids and gear, dog and food, like sardines. Aha! green gold.
She had hidden a trio of watermelons way in the back
Despite my constant objections to the fact.

I argued and whined from many different angles:
The weight, the space, consider all the tangle –
One look at the kids, you can see they are cramped
But nothing I said was heeded.  Off to camp.

Don’t let her hide a watermelon in my coffin.
Sweep the dark corners with your hand every so often.
You better check before you close the lid.
And look underneath me, God forbid.

If I’m placed traditionally, you may not notice,
While the band strums up a magnum opus,
A little extra bulge looking like a pillow.
So be alert, keep an eye on the widow.

Don’t let her hide a melon in my coffin.

For many years she hid them in our car
On cross country trips.  How bizarre.
Once, six 40 pound bags of oranges
Rode in the back on a return from college.
That’s not counting the bowl in the front
For her to eat, being rather blunt.

So, let me just say this one time, only,
“I will not take watermelons on this journey. 
I will decide what to take and it will be little.
We’re going to keep this last trip simple.”

Don’t let her hide a watermelon in my coffin.

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