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March 2011 A Cynic Online Magazine Publication Volume 13 Issue 3 


Pheasant Wings
By Donal Mahoney - Contributing Poet

a haiku

Autumn and the leaves,
crisp in the swirling air, are
pheasant wings once more


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What To Do With Intangibles
By Michael Keshigian - Contributing Poet

Early morning, a little snow
teases the outstretched branches
with the help of the wind.
It is cold, but inside the stove's warmth
cradles the recliner in the lamplight
where he reads poems.
His fingers, thick and calloused,
flip pages enthusiastically
as he notices the shape of his nails,
much like his father's,
distinct half moons rising.
And like his father had done,
it's time to contemplate departure.
One day, the stove unlit, will dispense
the damp aroma of creosote,
the book will lie closed
upon the arm of the recliner.
One day, a relative will enter
and acknowledge
that the house is empty,
no warmth, no breath, no poetry,
an indentation upon the seat
next to the book.
The change will go unnoticed
by the snow, wind, ice, and
those few crows meandering
for morsels upon the buried landscape.
He returns to reading,
the words delight him.
What would become of these joys,
he wonders.
Someone should take them.


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It
By Janaki - Contributing Poet

It's here, it's gone, No wait! It lingers on.
I wish it away, it doesn't sway.
I close my eyes, it still pries.

It knocks on my door, I try and ignore.
It still persists, oh! I barely can resist.
It's at the fringe, I so weakly cringe

It enters, flares, hurts, tortures.
I cry, ache, plead, pray.
It breaks, kills, Ah! I am lees.
But,
I rise, fight, no more on knees.

It said "You can't beat me,
You may be tough"
But, lose it did to me,
Coz I had enough.

It's over now
But still I shudder,
Not knowing
When it will appear.
May it come again
It can't hurt me,
Because, now I know
It was me.


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Religious Ruellias
By Fausto Barrionuevo - Contributing Poet

Emerging out from the fence through a torn metal pipe,
among silvery wires, the Ruellia escapes into the wild.
In the murkiness of a puddle, Ruellias watch Pagan-palms
block out the sun and drop their dead. Constellations flourish.
Ruellias fight to fill the lunar skies with withering strength,
their white-yellowish brims, and petals unfolding dark violet space
hidden in nebulas filled with fresh nectar. Their stems tower
over neighboring plants, knocking on leaves, preaching the word
of the daylight stars and welcoming them to the congregation of buds.
But by mid-afternoon their purple veins start to dry and descend
like meteors. The heat burns Ruellias' forged halos.
During the day the safe shaded buds survive and witness
the palm leaves in a lucid reflection. Singing, clapping, celebrating
death without mourning. Later into the night, when the palm is ready
and the Ruellias prepare to bloom, the palm limb bows and falls,
shattering the murkiness of the puddle and becomes the world.


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Those Poems, That Fire
By Donal Mahoney - Contributing Poet

I stood in the alley, still
in pajamas, somebody's shoes,
another man's coat, my eyes
on the bronc of the hoses.
Squawed in the blankets of neighbors,
my wife and three children sipped
chocolate, stood orange and still.
Of the hundred or more I had stored
in a drawer, I could remember,
comma for comma, no more than four,
none of them final,
all of them fetal.


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Seasons Whisper In My Heart
By Darryn John Murphy - Contributing Poet

Seasons whisper in my heart
Tidal surge, the ocean parts
Cobbled stones, now lie in wait
Heaven swept, now lie in fate

Fallen limbs from distant shores
Whispered echoes, beneath the roar
Pale be thy clouds in hue
Beneath a sky of ocean blue

Longing for the golden years
Yearning for my passaged tears

Yearn not by faith, then with tidal sea
I have come to honor thee
Seasons come and so they go
Towards the heavens and it shows

Feeble be thy hands in prey
There is life, in gentle stare
Cobbled stones beneath my feet
How I'm humbled by my sweet


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Rise
By Christopher Hivner - Contributing Poet

Down side-long rivers
roll my blessings
to family and friends
lost to the edges.
Down muddy slopes
and rocky beach heads,
I stumble
toward home
while lighting a 50 cent cigar
but tasting only tea and honey.


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It'll Be Alright
By Chris G Vaillancourt - Contributing Poet

When laughter rushes from my lips,
and grins escape from my eyes,
I rise up and stand on two feet.
It'll be alright.

If I blush at certain moments,
or giggle like a little girl,
don't be alarmed.
It's the essence of life
cavorting inside my soul.
It'll be alright.

And if I dance when I stand,
dance like we did before,
don't worry I've gone mad.
It'll be alright.

If I wander around the city,
wearing appropriate shoes,
don't be surprised to see me.
I'm interested in seeing
how everyone else is.
It'll be alright.

We worry too much.
We allow confusion too often
to become our rising star.
We fuss and complain,
whine and patrol the
mind.
We look for things we are
not even sure of what
they are.
We laugh to ourselves,
when we are alone,
for in truth we are liars.
We know life goes on,
and so it always does.
It'll be alright.


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Evening
By Nabanita Deshmukh - Contributing Poet

Evening falls . . . 
Paddy fields
Ripple with a gentle breeze.

Evening falls . . . 
Soft as dew,
Tinkling bells of cattle sound
On narrow roads beyond the mounds
Of corn and hay.

Weary forms trudge and plod,
Bare-footed, hunched,
On pebbly roads,
To distant homes,
Half-lit with lantern beams.

Shadows of drooping trees
Stretch and yawn
Fall across the village roads
Winding through fields and streams . . . 

The sound of conch shells and hymns,
Breaks the twilight lull.
Vesper prayers twirl and rise
To a gentle sky pale with hues.

Evening falls . . . 
Lingers in between the leaves,
Waits and listens . . . 
Like a drowsy child on his mother's lap,
Swaying to the hum of lullabies.


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You
By Hanaa Elzahabe Elsayed - Contributing Poet

If life were a ballet, you would be its prima ballerina,
If life were an opera, you would be its prima donna,
If life were a child, you would be his Madonna,
If life were a football team, you would be its Maradona,
But life is not a ballet or an opera,
Life is a jungle and you are its cobra.


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The Drive
By Samantha Soney - Contributing Poet

sometimes I close my eyes and
envision myself driving down a long highway...
just me and the open road,
leaving everything behind.
every thing:
all the dreams, all the stress,
all the fights, the hurt, all the empty promises,
all the messy goodbyes.
I envision myself driving along this road with the soft acoustic
guitar trickling out of my speakers, engulfing me within its chords.
I don't know where I'm going, or where this highway will lead.
all I know
is that at the end of this road,
when there are no more detours, no more signs and speed bumps
no more potholes and empty tanks,
I want you to be there.


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Cup

By Isis Ming Hao - Contributing Artist


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Awake
By Mark Connors - Contributing Poet

It was the best poem
I've never written, nor read

that wrote itself
while I was dead

to this word,
alive in another,

a poem about
something or other,

for a friend, a foe
a lover,

the whatever
for whoever

or whomever,
whichever is grammatically correct,

to be remembered
by no one, by no one forever.

I wake to reflect
on what could have been

the best poem
I've ever written, or read.


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A Season Asks
By DH Sutherland - Contributing Poet

. . .that only a glimmer of pine, oak, winter's
sparse titans watch the intransigence pass.
Hardly a whisper between valleys remain.
Hardly a world moves in this dreamy repose
as time's sunlight ebbs and flows across our eyes.
The emptiness of place and history tells us, ours
is but another story, a wayfarer's tale on trail,
an illusion and promise of where a season asks
us to reside.


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Your Perfect Flower
By AJ Huffman - Contributing Poet

You call me rosebud
and dress me in delicate pink.
You cloak yourself in my sweetness,
the silken kiss of my skin.
And I smile when you shower me
with words of blush and blood
as I bloom in the growing gloom of your eyes.

But at night, when I would wrap myself in sleep,
you come.
And I am forced open
until I run, red and thick,
breaking in your palm.
Then you clip me,
to drown in a crystal coffin
filled with Novocain and arsenic.
And you watch me
weeping wilted roses
until I am brittle and cracked and numb.


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E Pluribus Unum
By IB Rad - Contributing Poet

So still,
singular
crystal
floating,
its drift
joining
heaven's
myriad flakes
to white wash
and lighten
being's
bleak,
inhospitable
landscape.


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R.I.P.
By Carla Broady-Hatcher - Contributing Poet

An Elephant, a Donkey, and an Eagle
Went
          To
              War
Each certain he knew what the fight was for

The Eagle was strong and began to soar
But Elephant lacked strength and needed more
While Donkey's endurance was notably poor

Yet each thought he knew what the fight was for

They drew from each other to cover their lack
Weakening All with each fresh attack
Till nothing was left ‘cept the Red, White, and Black

No one knew what the fight had been for

An Elephant, a Donkey, and an Eagle
Went
          To
              War

They are no more.


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The Lost Decade
By Joe Karmia - Contributing Poet

What am I looking for? Not adventure, not lust, nor power or wealth. Enough people are chasing those things of indefinable ambition. I want just sweet solitude with one other. I have found it too, on occasion, only to let it slip threw my fingers like wet sand. It wasn't perfect! I told my self, instead I should have held onto her for dear life. "I want a do over!" Screams my Lost Decade, "give it back! its only time!". "There there little man", my ego patiently responds, "You had your chance, no crying now just because you played your cards poorly, you had a fair hand dealt to you...". The Lost Decade whimpers away in self awareness, the truth white hot steel encasing it, entombed forever in the depths of my mind.

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Music vs. Poetry
By Chanel Plett - Contributing Poet

Play me
like
an electric guitar
that is unplugged
that only you
on a good day
can hear
in your one good ear

It's all
I can ever
hope
to be
to you

(I'll read you
like a poem
poorly composed
and edit
the shit out of you.)

And I'm fine with that


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An Old Home
By JC Crumpton - Contributing Poet

There should have been something more.
I waited. But nothing happened.
There should have been a ticker-tape parade with a band.
I expected. But only the empty street.

The old neighborhood just wasn't there anymore--
a bulldozer sits there in the spot
where our old blue Ford LTD once was;
a pile of dirt and rubble is piled
where we had built our grand fort;
rocks and stones are loosely strewn across the lot
where we used to catch grasshoppers in the summer.

The baseball field where I spent my spring weekends
stood empty, not even the echoes of ghosts--
broken windows adorn the concession stand;
splits and gaps decorate the backstop;
holes peek through the outfield fence
and the shrubs and the flowers are gone;
the dugouts have been dug out and removed.

There should have been something more.
I looked. But I could not find it.
Coming home to an old home is hard to do
when so much has changed,
so much has been forgotten.


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Whisper in Your Ear
By Paul Magnan - Contributing Poet

There's always tomorrow
Comes the whisper to your ear.
There's always time
To right this ship.

Enjoy for now
The whisper insists.
It's just for today
Then you'll be all right.

No one's looking
Do your thing.
It feels so good
Why shouldn't it?

You welcome it back
This whisper in your ear
As each day slides by
Out of your grasp.


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Airport
By Janaki - Contributing Poet

I stand waiting.
feet-
restless
eyes-
searching
beyond the sliding doors-
looking through strange faces
asking
wondering
"what's their story?"

a silhouette-
in the distance
familiar
like home

a smile-
shared
recognized

arms extended

an embrace

"you are here!"


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Material Waste
By James M Stout - Contributing Poet

Everything fades and breaks down in time
That's true and grows clearer to me each day--
My clothing fades and tears
faster than ever
My car's components consist of mostly plastic,
Needing constant repairs and new parts.

Nothing's made to last.
Planned obsolescence is the new normal.
Money buys more crap than ever
It grows harder to find anything worth a squat

Landfills grow into mountains of old shoes, telephones, computers, and yesterday's candy wrappers.

We can no longer afford to view the material world as disposable, opposable, and consumable.
Instead seek ways to rebuild and recreate.
Or just make the damn thing right the first time.
Rummage through dumpsters and garbage cans.
Sift through dusty, decrepit books with ancient lore and remedies.
Our trash and discarded knowledge are the new mines
And like prospectors of old, with our pickaxes and shovels, we will find rocks that glitter gold.






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