"I had many things to write, but I will not with ink and pen write unto thee..."

POETRYrepairshop v07.01:001

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RICHARD FEIN Watching a Dark Screen I wince at the screen, and want, even crave to change the channel. But I'm like a junkie to a fix or an aging model to a mirror. Not even beer cans in the refrigerator could get me off this couch. Even my bladder protests, but I keep watching. All I do is dig my nails deeper into the pillow, tearing the stuffing out, shrinking it to a shriveled sack. But this movie never made it to the theaters. It tells no tales of duels with swords or star-war light sabers— no conquering Caesar, no eloquent Mark Antony, no suave Hugh Grant scoring with svelte Julia Roberts. Before me unravels a tale with neither climax nor resolution. Finally, I turn on the set and behold the glowing pixel fantasy that chases away the specter haunting the unlit screen— my reflection. ©2007 RICHARD FEIN

Poetry endangers the established order in the soul.

poetryrePAIRshop v07.01:001

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(poetryrepairshop MM.01:001) WALT PHILLIPS Prone just the tops of the trees were moving as before a storm she told me she was tired i knew she was she'd been up since dawn planning things to improve our lives inside us were hearts and livers and other things pumping and filtering i didn't like the idea of storms of the tiring people are prone to but i had no say in how the life force manifested itself except for my small plot of free will--- if you could call it that ©2007 WALT PHILLIPS

Repair Your Mind...Read More Poetry!

poetryrepairSHOP v07.01:001

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(from PoetryRepairShop 99.04:02) CORAL HULL Open Window An open window threw up its pale curtains, indicating a space that I had departed into. He was left in the attic holding the sky in his palms, the sunlight wedge cutting his red jumper in half like a neat apple. He stood by that dirty rage and clicked his jaw like a bear. Never follow a monster into its cave. There is little left of me now. My smile has stretched into blue serenity. Like an old dog's mouth will go long and lean or like a black line, before he digs for a flea inside his ear. A late fall butterfly muttered on the wood of the pane, its oily heart and grey dust lost from its wings. After all he had done to banish me, the tapping willow branch could have been my defeated fingers creeping back in. The situation of the open window couldn't seem to end itself. The best thing was when I made no sense to him anymore. ©2007 CORAL HULL

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