poetry

The Eyes Have It by Dale Williams Barrigar

This here shaggy dog is headed to Jensens Island in the middle of Big Bearskin Lake in far northern Wisconsin.

I am not aware of whether he knows the details of all that, but he isn’t used to being on boats and one thing is certain from looking at these photos: even though he isn’t used to them, he isn’t scared, either.

That’s because he has a fearless and bold nature that makes him plunge into situations such as these almost (not quite) without thinking twice.

He’s also jumpy and paranoid in certain ways, hyper-aware of what’s going on around him and the best guard dog, when it comes to people, you could ever hope to meet.

He doesn’t care about material objects or possessions or probably even money, near as I can tell, as long as he usually has a full belly when needed and somewhere to lay his head, also when needed.

But the people in his life – he would die for them if he had to, without thinking twice.

There are many people in this world who would say, and do say, that a Dog is just a dog.

Anyone who attributes spiritual properties to their animals, like I do to mine, and like the Chippewa of northern Wisconsin used to do (and some still do) to theirs, will think that such people as that are lacking something in their nature. Not that they aren’t fully human, but yes that they are humans with cold (or at least colder than they should be) hearts.

For me, one look in his eyes tells you instantly that there is a lot more going on in there than some people give him credit for.

In some ways I even believe that he’s much smarter than your average, run-of-the-mill, boring, materialistic human – and very much so, at a level that cannot be scientifically tested or verified at all – and is even more true for all of that.

Words and pictures by Dale Williams Barrigar and, of course, Boo

I Finally Said Goodbye to All Those Years by Dale Williams Barrigar

(Images by DWB)

You’ve been there since then

since when

the last time I saw you

and you were

standing

there

in out of the rain

under the eaves

with the dead flowers

in your arms

waiting for a train.

It’s been

seven years

since then

and today

was the first day I

finally said goodbye

inside my mind.

You were the start of it all

and I owe you for that

but I looked up today and saw

that time has now flown.

And now I’m going to have to

forget you and now you’re

going to have to

make it

like I always knew you could

all on your own.

Dale Williams Barrigar

(Bonus Image by DWB, Boo on Vacation is Wisconsin)

The Trauma of Money by Dale Williams Barrigar

(I am pleased to inform the readership that DWB will be presenting new works for the next several days!-Leila)

If you’re not good at

getting money

and keeping

money

or if you

don’t have money

or if you’re

out of it

right now, or

hard up today you are

pushed to the side

way to the side

almost off the side

or maybe right off the side

of everyone’s mind

and you are thought

way, way, way,

WAY

less of

by

almost everybody,

indeed…

In fact, if you

are not good at

getting money,

or keeping money,

or don’t have money

right now

or if you just cannot hold

onto it very well

once you do

finally

get it

(and, sometimes, you do

finally get it

out of the blue)

because you

gave it all away

to someone else

who told you they needed

it more –

you are

pushed

way, way, way,

way

off to the side

marginalized and alienated

and looked down

upon

spat upon even

thought less of for sure

and frowned upon

by almost everyone

in the good old

USA, today

(or,

almost

everywhere

(but not

everywhere),

globally).

Dale Williams Barrigar

(Images courtesy of DWB)

The Ghost and I by Simon Collinson

(One more by Mr. Collinson.  We look forward to his next visit–LA)

How long do you mourn a ghost?

Is a year or two too long?

Try three, for it was three years ago,

she left me and disappeared,

and now she’s become a ghost that fills the silence,

they say I should move on, forget the past,

and let go of the ghost,

that’s easier said than done, when you’re clinging to a ghost,

it’s like I’m going out with a ghost,

a ghost that’s with me every day,

any where I go I see her, waving and smiling,

she’s present in the laughter and scent of every room i enter,

always there in my memory, the past is real and alive,

the present is an illusion, like a dream of the dead,

they say I need to focus on the present,

but the ghost, you see, she won’t let me,

I won’t let me,

the ghost and I won’t let go of one another,

she’s my shadow,

becoming inseparable,

always the ghost and I,

wherever I go, the ghost goes as well,

together walking through the past,

I hesitate to walk on without her,

I won’t let go of the ghost,

can’t move on, like I’m trapped,

a million times they say it cannot be, it cannot be,

yet the ghost is still here with me,

like I’m shackled to a ghost,

blocking everything, but the past and the ghost,

today I’m here, still with the ghost,

you see there are some ghosts,

you can’t simply shake off and send away,

like the ghost that I haunt everyday.

Simon Collinson

Uneasy Evening by Simon Collinson

On nights like this, when your head’s hounded by bells and hissing howls, watch out, watch out, be on your guard. Tonight it’s out and about, they say something malicious and vicious slithers your way. Is there something wrong with the lights? You’d better make sure all the doors are locked and secure, for there’s something lurking nearby, as close as scissor legs, closer than you dare to think, near enough to nick the hairs quivering upon your neck.

What was that? Have you counted all the knives? Make sure you count them again.

There’s a shadow curling up from the floor, waiting for you to take forty winks as you listen to that muffled scream, it’ll be with you soon. So it’s nighty night, please don’t let the ravenous rats bite, many unpleasant dreams will herald the hour of your doom.

Simon Collinson

Decadence by Simon Collinson

(Ed Note-For the next four days we will be pleased to debut Simon Collinson. We would have sooner but the first five poems he submitted to us were swooped by other publishers before we got a look at them. Poetry can be a cut throat business on occasion!-But we are glad to have four to present. And although they are short, we feel that even the tiniest work–even that shorter than the preceding Ed. Note- deserves its own day, provided such has been earned,. We feel such is the case, and more than once,with Simon–Leila)

Near the year’s ending

like walking past

moss ridden, rotten walls,

that’s withered,

weathered and worn,

so weary, tired,

tottering and teetering,

just waiting to fall.

Simon Collinson

Life in Academia Today by the Drifter

There was a bigshot “Educator” fellow

standing in front of me

once upon a time.

Large white bow tie strapped proudly

on with blue spot in middle.

Proud bald head a-gleaming above

the pouring pot belly, and the proud,

well-trimmed, not-so-delicately perfumed

beard, and he was going on, and on, then on,

and more on, about the super, utter importance

of “Comparative Learning Data,” whatever

the fuck that is.

And turning students into ants in the

colony, into complete and total

automatons, if possible.

And he was professing, and professing

again, his personal, private love

of the data that did this.

(He must’ve uttered it a trillion times

followed by the slickest, lip-licking

lizard grin.)

Here in the crowded conference room

(attendance required)

on another brutal Tuesday afternoon.

My brain wasn’t there, except when

he rudely yanked on it

sending it straight back down

into this deadly quagmire

of mental slavery

and spiritual dearth

not unlike

one of Dante’s worst purgatorial nightmares.

I wanted Mary Magdalene and Bob Marley,

but hell, I did my best

to block it all out and simply observe

the dying orange leaves of trees

blowing gracefully outside

open windows

in the west

of the city

with the glorious blue

of Chicago sky behind.

I thought I saw, I was, for a single second,

almost sure I espied

a squirrel

give him the finger

before disappearing into the nest

with complete disdain.

Then I was thinking

of Shelley,

the Poet, not Mary, the Novelist,

I don’t know how or why.

Shelley, on a lecture platform

(he must’ve been on one before at some point

and he was now)

trying to read his latest radical papers

to a nasty audience

who were all

bouncing

rotten fruit

in their hands

so accurate,

terrible

and true.

They were confounded by

his strongest passages,

they were bored, torn,

they wanted to take it out

on him, some started

leaving while the others began

a booing and hissing routine.

But his intense green eyes, they stared

straight down

at his papers

and his messy, unshaved, handsome face,

and his hanging brown hair

were

burning

like Joan of Arc,

contorted, embarrassed,

shocked, humiliated

by the noise

of the terrible crowd.

By the silent noise of these

“happy,” satisfied, orderly, materialistic,

secular,

ladder-climbing,

cowardly,

passive

peoples

who were now stirred up

into a murderous rage

at his merely conceiving

to be different

for even

a second at all.

The Drifter (Images provided by The Drifter)

Hidden Valley Road by Heather Sager

I once rode a horse

in the woods

off Hidden Valley Road.

I was maybe sixteen.

There was a gray stable

in the woods,

the trees wore green and yellow leaves,

birdsong echoed in clammy air.

My horse stood tall and brown.

I settled my hands around her neck

and she led me

with quiet confidence.

There was a sway

as she took me

along earthen trails.

It felt like we could go anywhere

in this lonely world.

Why do I hold onto this

memory

of Hidden Valley road?

I’m still trying,

it’s teaching me something.

Heather Sager