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October 2012 A Cynic Online Magazine Publication Volume 14 Issue 10 

Not in the Forecast
By Susan Breeden - Contributing Poet

Cold, like winter,
only it's summer,
time for basking in
sun-baked corals,
iridescent pinks,
and snowy whites
that never melt.

Southern girl,
rubs bare arms
while walking,
her aqua skirt
flowing like a
freshwater stream.

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Tell All
By Billy Harfosh - Contributing Poet

You ask whatís in my head
You canít fathom
The rabid foam and empty conscience
You canít comprehend my insecurities
Trust my alter ego
Evil minds weaken
Black dog begging for shelter
The boat will rock and roll
Never capsizes
and weíre back to steady

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Where are the Leaders
By David Michael Schmidt - Contributing Poet

we watch the stage and hold our breath
with hopes held high but scared to death
suits arrive to pitch their piece
and slick the gears with tons of grease
search to find the perfect man
to bring to us his hopeful plan
the smiling mouth with level teeth
we never see the lies beneath
what seems to be the wiser sage
knows we will never turn the page
a handsome face with pleasant grin
it does conceal what hides within
the ring of power is large and brass
the fingers clutch as horses pass
the velvet throne looks rich and bold
and painted wood is gilt with gold
agenda feeds on bloody meat
our eyes won't see below their feet
crafted words flow out like wine
drops from lips a sparkling shine
we hear the song that might inspire
the words are spun to mask the liar
they come and go in long parades
we watch and see the same charades
but still we step into the dance
to take the hand of any chance
many hearts are pumping hard
to fill the tubes a thick with lard
we smile and gaze into the mirror
eyes are wide with looks of fear

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I Hate Poetry
By Breon A Evans - Contributing Poet

I hate poetry
The way it lays there
The way it stares
The way it reads
The way it knows me
The beat
The rhythm
The time
The way it usually rhymes
I hate poetry
The old cat sway
It drives me away
The hip new style
It drives me wild
The beat
The rhythm
The time
The way it usually rhymes
I HATE poetry
It must be pitched
It must be perplex
It must be profound
And it must be perfect
The beat
The rhythm
The time
The way it usually rhymes

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The Elasticity of Love
By Afzal Moolla - Contributing Poet

Truth. Lies,

teeming mindscapes,
arrhythmic heartscapes,
wildly cacophonous soulscapes,

all the while as truth slips through the cracks,
on time's wrinkled face.

How easy it is to sew the heart up,
extinguishing the embers crackling in a soul,
dousing the fires of yearning when memories bubble up.

How hard to euthanize such fickle whispers,
cremating unburnt passages of loose-leaf verse,
delving deep into a core once pure, and now rotten.

Shunning pleas,
ignoring plaintive cries,
sewing up the cocoon,
I want to rest in dead space,

As I,
slip inside private nightmares,
awakening long dormant fears,
eliciting a flood of tears,

Till I,
find that belonging,
that peace,
not much, merely a trace,

of belonging,
in a far-off inaccessible place.

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Ebbing Softly
By Darryn John Murphy - Contributing Poet

Somber morning in silhouette hue
Unmasking morn, among the palest blue
Timid are my thoughts in mind
Gathered by the winds, upon the hands of time

No woe and where for art
Then to know thy virtue, among my heart
Beauty sheds among the harshest' skin
To awaken the soul, from deep within

No misery bleeds, among my bones
Before my soul, in kindred thrones
Less I creed by way of virtue
Then to think, in times of fortitude

Boundless thoughts are cast upon my limbs
To be thy virtue, among the candle winds
Grant I'll be thy, sun in gratification
Then to pay my heed, in sum upon preservation

To ebb thy virtue of thine heart
Among the waves in oceans part
Ebbing softly among my soul
The light of love that makes me whole

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By DM Ward - Contributing Poet

One marriage dissolved
In a vat of acid remarks
One house for him and one for her -- check
One car each -- check, check
Cats for her, sharp knives for him
Books, paintings, CDs --hers for the taking
Home theatre with quad stereophonic electronics for him
Rocking chair, deep piled cushions and rugs -- to her
Brown leather couch, queen size mahogany bedroom suite
(With soft Egyptian cotton furnishings) for him and the new queen
The formerly referred to "frigging' useless antique treadle sewing machine and Chinese well buckets
Plants, photographs and paraphernalia" - all hers
Savings and good will -- nil
Misdemeanors and rancor accounted for
On both sides
A no fault, no blame divorce
With zero balance in the end
It was nothing personal -- just business
As usual

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War Within
By Clinton Van Inman - Contributing Poet

They buried them in our little Southern town
Nothing much here for miles around
Why, I guess, they figured they'd never be found
Those toxic drums they buried in the ground.

Our little Southern town was much like all those around
Where towers and church steeples stood tall,
Where most folks never heard of a shopping mall,
Yet here kids grow up quick
And here kids grow up strong
Yet we knew something was wrong
When kids were dying or getting sick.

It was those drums rusting and rotting with time
As their poisons seeped out into the water line.
We always thought war was something
Over there and given a foreign name
Not something within buried in our backyard,
And something most of us would never understand
Those drums of Agent Orange came from Viet-Nam
And were buried on our rich mayor's land.

Seems our mayor had made a deal with strategic command,
As the drums were buried on his promised land.
The mayor refused to comment and moved away,
While we with our dead children were here to stay.

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By Marc Carver - Contributing Poet

The sign at Delphi
says know thyself.
And to be honest
you cannot
know what you want
unless you know
who you are.
But sometimes
I don't want to look at myself so much.
When you can't recognize the man
laughing in the dark
is you anymore.

You could be in trouble.
So find out if you want
but don't forget
the mirror never lies.

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