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Well you know at 6'4 I dont think that would be neccessary but thanks for the
heads up




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The Sick, The Child, And An Open Bottle Of Wine
 
 
As the bottle hits
the hard surface of the floor,
an echo yields the glass
to a hollow of a bottom chime,
against the hand that holds it.
 
Sickly,
we shield the child of dread,
there by forcing shots of H1N1,
and swearing truth to no harm be,
until the child coughs up blood,
and mercifully we lay them to rest.
 
What gift?
That a bottle of wine would not cure
in this moment of time,
a swearing of grief
could open his mind in sorrow,
and shed the tears
of the many departed.
Sweet tears to be shed
over a child lying on the floor,
sickly to smile beloved,
as to hold a cold clammy hand,
and swear truth to fault.
 
The wine,
not flat with ages worth,
to spill upon the floor
as stained dripped blood,
and oozing about the room
with the stench of death.
Sickly,
the shadows show remorse
at the blame and cursing
within the darkness,
as the swelling of the eyes,
bloodshot and speak
a deafening cry of tongue,
at what the HI NI crap has done,
and spilled upon my fingers
this great bottle of wine.
 
 




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I've been faithfully posting on this list for some time now. Seemingly I am the
only member here?
Would anyone consider this group an active one? I feel as if I am wasting my
time sending work through this list. If no replies ensue from this message, I'll
join the silent ones and unsub from this list



**********************************
Chris G. Vaillancourt+

"Invest in our Communities, Not in War"
"Canadians say Get out of Afghanistan Now!"
"Occupation is Not Liberation!"

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Notice regarding P&W magazine....


Starting in Jan. 2010, we will be producing a montly issue.

Submissions are still welcomed for upcoming issues.

Send a maximum of three poems or one short story, with a brief bio to

triangularduck@...

Chris G. Vaillancourt
Editor

http://triangularduck.bravehost.com/


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A Fresh Thursday Morning Of Grey

A fresh Thursday morning of grey
clouds and numb somnalescense.
Somehow a capitulation of sorts,
a dying. A glancing behind
to see what remains to bury.
Streaking fall winds demanding
coats be buttoned and hair
must be blown.

Hurried teenagers meeting
behind the school for
their morning high. Faces fresh
from morning showers. Thoughts
decayed by morning
computer connections.

Above and below the stream of
thinking a bell rings in ugly
tones of alarm. Everything that
lives radiates light. I see the shining
jumping out from every
eye that connects with mine.

Still it feels cold in the walking.
Feet carrying body to the same
boring destination. Leaning against
the grain and finding that
I am expected to fulfill
the illusion that has been
swept upon me.

Have any of us really been
brave enough to scream out
our resistance? Have any of us
ever really opened our hearts
enough to touch the fabric
of creation?

A fresh Thursday morning of grey
clouds and numb somnalescense.
Somehow a capitulation of sorts,
a dying. A glancing behind
to see what remains to bury.
Streaking fall winds demanding
coats be buttoned and hair
must be blown.

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Living

The streets are so full of liars
one dare not risk truth as often as
when alone.

Instead, in muted silence,
one evaporates oneself
into hollow metaphors. The seeping
words are a mockery of
praise and resentment.

One speaks them, but
one does not let their vowels
translate into emotional
declarations.

Yesterday a single thread
was strung from one deception
to another.

Uncrowned heads mumbling
their prayers into
faithless gestures that pleased
but did not appease
their individual perceptions
of God.

I was a glance that was not
thought of in advance. A second
that was swallowed and than
spit out; a forgotten shape
that had outlived its welcome.

Friends' salutations are guarded.
They do not know when to wave and
cheer in unbridled passion. They do
not know when to hold back
their warmth and replace it with
silent indifference.

We are all living
and
dying in the same
mindless manner.

We are all liars.
This sustains us and
comforts us in our
collective coffin.

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These Nails Cause Me To Hesitate

I feel the pain of these nails
in my tongue whenever the sleepers

invade my moments.. soft honeydipped
words that reach out to melt across

the heat of your waiting world as warm
rain on a hot summer day are held back

as I speak with the distance that we
all place between each other..I look

over your body and even as you wonder
whether or not your makeup is done right

or your dress is on straight I can almost
feel a warm hand gliding up your body with

the skill of a painter.. surveying the beauty
that hides in each curve of you as he tries

to map it with his own hands..the pain of them
melts away as I listen to your words.. focusing

on each one. .. using it to see the sights of
the world through your minds eye..I sense your

pleasure speaking to me from whispers deep
within you and these nails cause me to hesitate

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haha! I i found a very interesting Flash Game today, so I wanna share it with
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Greetings!

The work is done on the first issue. The poems selected are included. We think
it is a good beginning! We hope you will agree!

There have been a few modifications since we asked for submissions! We are that
crazy as to change things even after we announced them as being one way!

First off, we were bold enough to change the name of the online magazine! Can
you imagine how audacious that is! Well, we did it anyway.  It's official title
is now P&W (Poetry and Writing).

Email address is still the same though. We are far too lazy to change everything
all at once.

We also, and you may all begin to grit your teeth, decided to refrain from
including the "Bio's" we ourselves asked for. This was because, in editing and
formatting we couldn't figure out out to squeeze them in at this time. We'll do
so, oh yes we will, but not this time.

To the contributors, don't yell at us! You'll no doubt wonder at what happened
to your other poems! Well, we are probably saving them for future issues... So
there:-)

This is not only a new venture, but hopefully a venture that will continue to be
reshaped and perfected. So expect changes to the format and style as each issue
pops itself out onto the worldwide web.

We wish we could send everybody 10,000 dollars for their contributions, but at
present we only offer payment in recognition and in a publishing credit.

P&W is, even as I type this to you, being included on major search engines and
poetry market lists.

So good people, enjoy the very first issue of P&W (Poetry and Writing)!

"Yes, but where is it?",  you might very well be asking!  Well it is here, at
this link:
http://triangularduck.bravehost.com

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Painter's Voice
 
 
 
Rolling to the clouds,
the vision of his voice
murmurs seldom words
sweet of color.
 
Distant to the clouds,
his thunder roars
like the wind of the gods.
Gabriel sounding his horn,
and Micheal shielding armor,
to sweep a brush with tongue
that St Peter unlocks his vision,
and Heaven is laid,
bonding the painter's eyes.
 
Voice commands,
virgin white,
soiled at moments touch,
blistered into the heat of breath,
Hail,
he who hath spoken,
these words
of a painter's eyes.
 
Hail,
to thee,
who sheds the blood of the sea
and mortal men battle and drown
over the tears of such beauty.
 
The oath of alabaster
shinning in the sparkling sunlight,
floating hue's and ardent mists
to become as fragrant vowels
in the voice of a painter.
 
Hail to thee
whom luster glistens
in the shine of the sun,
and sways the eternal rainbow's revenge.
 
Gladly,
to listen upon the morrow,
of what make and color his eyes
as the sea turns green.
To gladly honor
the blood spilled
for his great sacrifice,
and whisper faint
of God's impressions.
 
Vision the open sky
a pale blue aura.
Naked seedlings of earth
turning green at birth,
popping headstrong from the ground.
Becoming the grandest rise of redwood
reaching for the eternal eye.
 
The mountains rise
so far away,
to gather rainstorm clouds
about the butted floor
of the valley crest,
nesting
in a deep red of powdered sun
that crawls upon the floor.
 
Ash, and blackened earth
to fill the cracks of the deep woods,
as the oaken owl wakes upon a yellow branch,
to a Wintry, wandering swan swimming
upon the golden lakes
of foreground.
 
Hail to thee,
who speaks the mighty brush,
and lashes upon the earth
boundaries that no man
could ever touch.
The silver clouds of silk
that spray upon the winds,
and float washes of butterflies
into the sky,
and rooted ruby flowers
to coil away of thorny bush,
lay orange poppies into a sea
of boiling green soup of swamp grass.
 
The master's voice
to touch the visions of the soul,
and blend God and Man
into his great splendor.
The painter's voice
to whisper soft,
faint of heart,
tears of oil
into crying eyes
of joy,
that becomes alive
with surreal beauty.
 
 
By Edward Wolverton 11-18-09

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Parading

Sunlight is killing me.

Pushed open tangled mind;
the lashes of life
has ripped
right through it.

Reflection was as
cheap and empty
as a
cave-dwellers breath.

Tender eyes parading
the dishonesty of
their owner across
the ceiling
of discontent.

Ripped open troubled heart;
examined the
terror of
being alone.

Nobody likes to stray
from the herd for too long.

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The Chill
 
 
 
Grasping upon my finger's fate
what faith I could ever beleive,
in sore gum tongue I preach
what words will never hear,
as my ears are deaf
and I speak with silent words.
 
 Chill out, man.
 
Seek the slender fortunes of life,
or find a wife that keeps you cozy.
Find the golden treasures waiting
in an island sea of birth,
or capture the rain of innocence
as it pounds droplets from the sky.
 
 Chill out, man.
 
The golden rain that turns
to white frost snow,
and gather it upon your tongue
before it melts away.
A frozen wind from the North
that sends your soul,
into a hidden mind perplexed
for heat of a dry country air.
 
 Chill out, man.
 
Feel the warmth
and the comfort of your heat
as it gives out the blood of sacrifice.
The gift of begging morcels
to a blind man,
or the rapture of love
to a friend.
 
Chill out, this thing
that freezes the footsteps into denial,
or sweats upon the brow
in heated anger,
the trails laid in foundation
for a life of worthy efforts.
 
Hold the chill upon the hands,
and blow with a heated voice
into the wind,
and communicate
the love of free will,
and the glow of design
that we hold so dear
in our hearts.
 
Chill out the many depleated efforts
that our souls shall shurely win,
to love one another
in just cause as mutual friends.
Take the burdens from my soul
and have mercy upon me
as I give you gift and wonder
of a silent heart,
that speaks so many words.
 
The chill of life,
or the chill of death.
Isn't it an ever wonder
of why we do the things we do,
or say the things we say,
without thinking,
or feeling,
what heat of rage
this life brings upon us.
 
Chill out, man.
 
 
 
Edward Wolverton 11/ 14/ 2009




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