Friday, April 27, 2018

morning glory



by samantha monday sternwall



little flower outside my window
shaking in the breeze
i heard a story about you
tell me if you please

all these years i thought you
were the same every day
but now i am told different
this is what they say

that every night you die
and in the morning are replaced
by another little flower
with the same smiling face

every night i go to sleep
and i every night i dream
and in the morning i wake up
having floated down night’s stream

am i the same
or different every morn?
have there been 10,000 mes
since i was born?

o little flower
let us face the day
are we, or they, or anything real?
who are we to say?



Monday, April 16, 2018

the traveler





a weary traveler walks down a lonely road to a deserted garden.

where are you going, o traveler, and why are you so weary?

i am weary because i have traveled a long way, and because i am lonely.

why are you lonely, o traveler? i see a light in the distance. perhaps it an inn or a pub, you could retreat to its cozy warmth and rub elbows with your fellow creatures, consume a warm or cold beverage as your fancy suits you, perhaps share your thoughts on politics or art or philosophy or religion.

such things are not for me, i walk alone. alone, always alone.

night is falling, o traveler, are you not afraid of losing your way?

i have already lost my way, a long time ago.

the moon is rising, o traveler, perhaps it will light your way.

i have no way - no way except to doom.

look at this deserted garden, traveler, does it remind you of happier days?

no, not of happier days, but of all i ever loved.

and what might that have been?

the flowers.

ah, the flowers, always the flowers.

yes, the flowers that bloomed, the flowers that never bloomed, the flowers that were cut and placed in vases, that were displayed in lit windows, the flowers that blew away, that blew away in the dust, even as i….

ah, poor traveler, i will delay you no longer.

the flowers that blew away, that blew away in the dust, even as i….



Saturday, April 14, 2018

the stranger


by manfred corrington sternwall



i was born to rule the earth
but nobody noticed it at first
and treated me as just another
anonymous little earthly brother

my early years were filled with woe
i had no place much to go
it should come as no surprise
my brain was streamed with endless lies

how i waited for the day
when i could stand up and say
i have had enough - hereafter
you shall be pupils - i shall be master

the years went by- i was assigned
my place in society’s waiting line
i expected as i grew older
for the world to tap me on the shoulder

and say, you should not be here
there is some mistake, i fear
you are not number 21,876,943,501
you are the child of the sun

the years disappear in the breeze
but somehow nobody sees
will they never learn?
must again and again i return?



Monday, April 9, 2018

thomas and samantha




thomas and samantha lived for many years in the house left to them by their parents, attended by a painfully small number of servants.

they were both creatures of routine.

every morning samantha would come down to breakfast before thomas, and when thomas finally arrived, she would say to him,

“good morning, thomas. if you have nothing to say, please do not say anything.”

and thomas would nod, pick up his coffee cup and his copy of the times, and say nothing.

then one day, shortly after a war had ended, samantha made her usual statement, and themes responded,

“yes, i have something to say.”

“oh? and what is it that you have to say, thomas?”

“that you would look nicer if you smiled.”

“really? well, thank you so much for that astute observation.”

and they both resumed their breakfast.

thomas never again broke his silence at the table.

after a number of years samantha died of pneumonia during a bitter winter, and thomas followed her in the spring, of a heart attack which he had never attempted to forestall through healthy living.

they were both buried in the garden they had loved so well, though thomas had perhaps loved it a bit more than samantha.



Thursday, April 5, 2018

ask for mr black and tell him you are feeling blue




johnny had a number
he kept it in his head
he decided to play it every day
until he was rich or dead

danny stood on the corner
and took down johnny’s number
with a philosophy of life
danny was not encumbered

johnny had a number
and danny took it down
eddie wore a hat of straw
and was a man about town

florence wore a girdle
to keep her tummy flat
edna sat in the window
and did not approve of that

harry drive a taxicab
in order to pay the rent
joe remembered doris
and wondered where she went

sometimes i sit in the darkness
and ponder what to think
but my pencil has no lead
and my printer has no ink