Corona ghosts crash the party

The president of the corona ghost union

Was not amused when he heard

That the Department of State

Was having a big party


He called upon his 2,750,000 members

To crash the diplomatic party

The ghosts all descended

on the party


The party goers sensed

There was something wrong

Then the ghosts became appearing

Slowly their forms took shape


The ghosts looked at the party goers

And the party ended

The guests fled


With the corona ghosts

Fading into the evening wind



By Jake Cosmos Aller


Directions of life

In my life of emergencies,

there are quiet times.

During these quiet times,

I think of eternal existence.


I think of life, death and happiness.

I think of you,

always of you.


You are still a mystery and a fantasy.

A muse who infrequently appears

to keep me confused and excited.

You keep your pleasures locked away

Under a life of doubt


Your warmth stays buried deep

within the reality of your security.

Your refusal to let go

is burning the core of truth.

You are left,

to exist within normality and boredom.


My bravery has also been limited,

as I conform to civilization,

and live my life with blinders on

playing the fools game,

unwilling to gamble for happiness.



By Gary William Ramsey


The plot around the corner

It was when the blue light started to flicker…

He had bought a plot of bare land except for two standing trees and a mailbox and thought it was time to revisit the plot.

The trees acted as a doorway to the grassy plain with bouts of small red rocks. He pulled at his dusty strands, torn, in love and unison with the whistling pines spreading throughout his mind.

He laid back and reclined in his chair and looked up at the streaked sky when a pine needle fell and poked him in the eye.

He began to tear, obsessively rubbing the left. Soothing and irritating at the same time.

He sat up and screamed, “Please take it! Take it back! Please!”

The blue light created a distortion at high speed…

His space was spinning. His muscles tightening. His veins pulsating. His ankles inflaming. His hands shaking.

He fell to the floor as if to pray but did not. Continue reading “The plot around the corner”

Somebody’s father

He knows despairs’ colors:

Monochrome, ghastly,

the brilliant face

a rather strange grey.

This is a surreal setting,

the one that he sees, not

making out a thing

but what’s behind his own



The story’s all there.

You can see it, a glass clear

fever where heat waves waver

on a day actually overcast.

This is evident.

He’s got on a raincoat, dark

business suit & tie.

The coat also is made of

several shades, terribly bright,

Mourning making a Frankenstein.


He stands before a doorway.

There’s a watching priest & saluting guns.

He clutches a flag.  The stars, silver,

they as well are just way too shiny.



By Stephen Mead


Old picture

This old picture of Mother and me stirs emotions…


As I look at this old picture

and into my mothers’ eyes,

when she was young

and I a child,

and you

an unborn soul.

I see her hope and her love for me.


As I look into my own eyes,

I see wonder and I see hope

and I see you.

Even then I knew you were there,

in the wind and in the rain.

You were always there.

And when loneliness consumed my youth,

I dreamed alone with you.


Your spirit took a body,

your essence took a soul,

but you were lost to me

In another time, in another place



By Gary William Ramsey


The guitar play ride

(listening to Estas Tonne)

Twirling guitar play is pouring like from heaven

balancing ‘rope-walker of my thoughts,

pulling her, then pushing, fairly holding;

Challenged to keep balance, she’s on tune with rhythm

Distance, time, dimensions almost vanish

Rushing current of the mind is taking risk to crash

Hey musician, stop! I’m scared to catch up ya

Dating up your music, I cannot be down to earth



By Lana M. ‘Rochel


Fruit on a branch

Eventually, if not picked,

the fruit get too heavy

for the branches,

fall to the ground,

dead and unloved.


Or they are picked

and eaten

within days.


You’re seventeen

and feel like a

pear or an apple

just budding.


As a piece of fruit,

you fear for your future.


You could use

a different analogy.



By John Grey