"Trips" - Rachel Peterson

"Trips" - Rachel Peterson

I am addicted
I have been for years it's not one that I could fight I feel as though I am diseased
It's like despite the amount of times that I've told myself I'm quitting that I've told the world I'm quitting that I've told you I'm quitting I just can't seem to find myself quitting

The come up hits you in the face it's like a sharp slap that stings and leaves red marks on your cheek
But once the trip starts it's got you hooked
So hooked that you'll do things like take the hand that just slapped you and cup it ever so gently against your cheek and hope that you could feel the warmth because somehow that slap hurt in just the right way and the wrong way at the same time
And though the trip is the best out of any drug there is the comedown is absolutely the worst
It leaves you feeling empty like there's a hole that is been shot through your chest with buckshot and every time you fill one of the little holes another little hole appears right beside it
The only way to fill almost all of the little holes at least enough of the little holes so it doesn't hurt anymore is to take another dose

I was given my first dose when I was 14
It was handed to me like a newborn puppy and I couldn't help but to touch it and pet it and rub my face in it and allow it to follow me wherever I went
It didn't take long for me to find out that my dose wasn't pure
I discovered that the tainted drug led to the impressions of a good trip
But all the while set you up for a come down that would bring you down lower than even where you started
Isn't it a shame that the first time you try a laced drug makes you not ever want to try it again

And maybe that's why I didn't immediately go try and find love again

But when I found love again I found the purest thing the real thing and the trip was more than I ever could've imagined
But the come down this time was my fault
I couldn't make it last 
I had developed a tolerance 
I needed more of it and I didn't like the corners of his soul that were blocked off when I tried to look at them and even more I didn't like that I wasn't ready to show him the corners of my soul that were blocked off
It wasn't enough
And I knew it
And that made my addiction worse

But now it was worse because I knew what I wanted 
I became obsessed with knowing what it was 
How do you define love 
When is it strongest and how can I get my hands on it 
For a time I confused it with how his hands felt on my skin 
And at some point I realized I needed a soul behind those hands but he wasn't there so I didn't know any better 
I think I'm still confused 

The part of my addiction I can control is how far I want to go 
I must either trip forever 
Or not again ever at all 
I can't have a link to each world 
I've never liked to have strings attached 
I don't have the capacity for grayscale love 
Either black me out or show me all the colors of the world 
There can't be a second dose 
To come down again would be fatal and if I'm going to die by love 
That love better be the most unadulterated kind you can find 
Because I refuse to go out at the hands of an incomplete desire 

"The soul of music" - A Poet Bee

"The soul of music" - A Poet Bee

and thousands
of years ago,
long before
whistles of bone,
even drums,
our forefathers'
listened to the night.

They learnt
to appreciate
and inculcate
rhythm, beat,
and tone
into humanity's
young soul.
Atavistic traits
that now give us
and great

Eons later
in the cold drizzle
of English weather
pre-Druid friends
stayed up at night
and waited
for clouds to part,
clear sky,
and unnamed consellations.

For some cheer,
they listened
to their early souls
and imitated
with drums
and song.

By day,
they dragged great
rocks around
to celebrate
the night sky,
maybe sunlight.
Who knows?

we dedicate
to song,
not the fizzle
of star gazing
behind gray clouds.

Hear, ye. Hear!

And play! 

A Poet Bee will read upstairs at The Globe this evening beginning at 7:30.

"Twin Image" - Wyatt Anderson

The die has been cast.
so what's in the present tense?
rosy skies, thunderclouds,
death shrouds, diapers.

Protocol leads me to believe I have a lotta thoughts
some of which are barely judgments
vindictive in the abstract
philosophy without the baggage.

I am the model, the mechanism!
the sweet bastard gulping for air
my dependency, depending
on the formless mass to magnify 
and explore the outcome
yeah.. that's somethin to suck on.

So I step into the same river twice, but I was twisting
twin brother- always insisting
throw my weapons down in heat of desire
Skin is melting but I'm singing in the fire.   

"What Lies Beyond This Great and Mighty Sea?" - Charley Seagraves

A sonnet for a glorious Easter morning.

"What Lies Beyond This Great and Mighty Sea?" - Charley Seagraves

The new day's waves spill softly onto shore,
While dragonflies patrol the dunes nearby,
And pelicans in tight formations soar
Beyond the blue, into a cloudless sky.
A peaceful breeze, as constant and as true
As love's sweet serenade, drifts out to sea.
It fades, then steals away into the blue
As I let soothing waves wash over me.
A cautious crab appears, then disappears
Into its sandy cave to lurk and hide.
On stilted legs a heron stands and peers
Above this royal blue and restless tide.
I stand alone in awe and mystery:
What lies beyond this great and mighty sea?

"The Girl's Guava Tree" - Bob Ambrose

"The Girl's Guava Tree" - Bob Ambrose
And the good earth sustains

Thanks to the El Rural Centro Metodista.
Mirador, Costa Rica
March 10, 2010; revised March 30, 2015

Beyond the gravel-pocked streets
lined with cinder-block shops

and child-packed homes
capped with corrugated tin

christened in the sweat of strangers
called from a far land

past the worn-out weed field
trampled by children to dusty flat

where rough tracks fork left
below fenced hills of cane and cattle

down, down the rutted path
to the rushing boulder stream

where a nimble girl parts barbed wire
and clambers up the guava tree

through distant light she smiles
and shares

(photo by Bob Ambrose)

"the bridge" - E.s. Sutherland

"the bridge" - E.s. Sutherland

the light like sweet sustenance
sets the people to swarm
like night bugs around a streetlamp
as I watch from an open window
voyeur to the pattern of things

every soul ablaze with joy's inferno
tiny sparks igniting sacred circles
the chain links of community
the realization that flying is a state of mind
of mine, of ours, the hours
of this oblong existence growing thin now
these ecstasies of ecstatic now-ism
like mortality could never pull us away

from all these endless moments of celebration
healing laughter that erupts from the gut
and fills the air with tiny bubbles of hope
every living thing caught up in it
enveloped by the idea of transcendence

to leap over the sadness
imprisoning us in this terminal condition
so skyscraper tall and suffering 
like an unmovable wall
the streaks of our life left behind
a bridge out of the darkness

E.s. Sutherland, from Lexington, KY, is a past featured reader at Word of Mouth. "the bridge" is from his 2007 book, incommunicado. He recently posted the poem to honor the 50 years since the crossing of the Edmund Pettus Bridge, March 9, 1965, in Selma, Alabama.