Lovelorn Poet in Salt Lake City, UT: Like A Messenger Bird

A Small Gathering by Phillip Kirk

A Small Gathering by Phillip Kirk

It’s that time of year when if you stop talking and start listening, you can hear the birds sing.
Even with the traffic, you can still hear the birds.
What is it that they want to tell you?
They are so frantically trying to communicate their message.
But you just won’t listen.
You just look at them and say, “Dumb birds. They should learn English.”

But if you stop talking for like, five minutes, you’ll start to hear the message.
And therein lies the rub.
Who has five minutes to devote to listening to birds?
Not you. Not me. Not anybody.
So we are where we are…
in a world where our useless babble drowns out the voices of the birds and their real message of the importance of loving and being loved.

I love you.
But you already knew that.

Her Two Cents

Lovelorn Poets Her Two Cents IconOnce upon a time, in a far-away, distant land, I lived next-door to an elderly woman who was a avid gardener. From my kitchen window, I could see her every morning, walking and working amongst the blooms and greenery. Occasionally, small birds would alight on her arms and shoulders and chatter would ensue – communication no different than if a neighbor had stuck their head over the hedge or the letter carrier came around with a package to sign for.  Simply, friendly conversation. “Nice to see you. How do you do? What about this weather…” Lovely, yes. Yes, love.

Lovelorn Poet in Philadelphia, PA: There’s A Crack In The Sidewalk

Goodbye 2008 by Art Siegel

Goodbye 2008 by Art Siegel

There’s a crack in the sidewalk.

No one who walks over it remembers where it started, but there it is, between their soles. Everyday it leans on itself a little more. It grates on itself until bit by bit it chips away at its own crooks and reaches out new dents into the concrete. It’s as much a part of the sidewalk as the footfalls, and one day someone will walk over the cracks and wonder if there was once sidewalk in the pebbles and sherd.

When the sun is hovering about ten feet above it with unbearable, wavering arms, then the downcast eyes of passersby are upon it. Then, it’s a splitting, fracturing trail. It’s a sweatless enervation and anyone who sees it is really only thinking about the shade and the coolness and the relief at its end.

There’s a little yellowing leaflet, there in that crack. Right there in the elbow of the third weariness from the center – it’s lying flat, and it looks downtrodden. It isn’t clear whether every footfall smashes it down, whether drought grinds its edges, whether solstice squeezes its life out of it. But it won’t give up.

The city may walk upon concrete paths, but all things crumble. This here is a little crack in perfection, and here the leaflets may grow.

Her Two Cents

Lovelorn Poets Her Two Cents IconTo you, Missed Connections. Keep sprouting.

Lovelorn Poet in New Orleans, LA: Keywords

Magnetic Fridge Poetry by Steve A Johnson

Magnetic Fridge Poetry by Steve A Johnson

the funny thing about the “o” ‘s (though it’s a formality)
control in all of its formats
former northern explorers
Amazonians
ugly garments
drive thrus
numerous holes in the head
black dogs
Northern pacific
the hippies
planting portably
my favorite place to retreat
Seattle
global politics
kamakaze fish
Twix v. Reeces v. Whatthefà ‚ £{=à ‚ ¡!ever that was
things that float
the “Robin” issue
determining distance
superhumanism
street signs
DYNOHUGS!

if you thought I loved you then,
I wouldn’t even know what to call it now.

Her Two Cents

Lovelorn Poets Her Two Cents IconKeywords are used to reveal the structure and focus of a writer’s reasoning – a shortcut of sorts that provides a reader with a glimpse or “sneak preview” of what can be found within the body of work. Quite a story, many stories actually, could be generated from our poet’s list. If we write the keywords before we write the story, how might the outcome be different? Hmmm …

Lovelorn Poet in Savannah, GA: Lay A King

Pawns by His Noodly Appendage

Pawns by His Noodly Appendage

His eye began to swell shut. A rivulet of blood traced
the contour of his face and formed a tear on his chin.
He could hear his heartbeat and smelled the burning
dust of the central heating. A bird crashed into the dining
room window. He heard the thud of the newspaper
landing on the front porch–but he couldn’t open his
mouth to ask for help. He wondered if this was the end;
undone at 71 years old by the chord of a vacuum cleaner.
The phone rang briefly; then hung up. An ice cream
truck turned into his street, and distanced itself. Beneath
the sofa he saw a few pine needles gathered in the curl
of an old post-it note. Nestled against the back leg was
a forgotten pawn and inches away–waist deep in the
blue polyester carpet–lay a king. He thought about
the bird that crashed into the window. He thought
about the symmetry. He wondered if the bird was
dead, or laying on the ground undecided like him.
He thought about what he might have done differently.

–Bison Jack

 

Her Two Cents

Lovelorn Poets Her Two Cents Icon“I can remember how when I was young I believed death to be a phenomenon of the body; now I know it to be merely a function of the mind-and that of the minds of the ones who suffer the bereavement. The nihilists say it is the end; the fundamentalists, the beginning; when in reality it is no more than a single tenant or family moving out of a tenement or a town.” ― William Faulkner, As I Lay Dying

Lovelorn Poet in Washington, DC: Our Shadows

shadow by smallest forest

Shadow by smallest forest

You will sooth my burning pains.
I will smother your blistering frights.
We will dance as one with the darkness.
Together we’ll snuff out all of their lights.

We’ll escape their searing hot glow,
And run recklessly towards a shade.
Our shadows will no longer follow,
Our spirits, no longer evade.

We’ll accept our cooling darkness.
No longer needing to wait for the night.
Racing to catch our grounded souls,
Together, let’s outrun the light.

 

Her Two Cents

Lovelorn Poets Her Two Cents IconI love the idea of shadow selves escaping the scrutiny of our introspective critiques and running off to have a life of their own. What would we be like if we gave the darker parts of our nature a bit more freedom of expression? When we remove the light of judgement, contrast disappears and so does our shadow.