Flame Out, by Joseph M. Felser

Flame Out
by Joseph M. Felser

Eternal flame
burns out
gives heat
and light
to none
save your
self
Marley’s jest
sixty candles
on a dead
man’s chest
blown out
no more
wishes
for her
code blue
he’s gone

Joseph M. Felser, Ph.D. received his doctorate from The University of Chicago and teaches philosophy in Brooklyn, New York. The author of numerous articles and two books on philosophy, religion, myth, and parapsychology, he recently began writing poetry, which has appeared in both print and online journals.

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Nicht diese töne, by Joseph M. Felser

Nicht diese töne
by Joseph M. Felser

Nine daughters
of joy please
pour me
a double
life is short
art eternal
he said
if the deaf
can hear
music
why couldn’t
you hear
mine?
not a long
time
not everlasting
but no time
like the
present
past
or future
that dimension
of here
and now
that you
cut out
when you
left me
time less
this is your
eternal
life!
he said
no life
after death
—or before,
either,
if it comes
to that

Joseph M. Felser, Ph.D. received his doctorate from The University of Chicago and teaches philosophy in Brooklyn, New York. The author of numerous articles and two books on philosophy, religion, myth, and parapsychology, he recently began writing poetry, which has appeared in both print and online journals.

Holy Night, by Debi Swim

Holy Night
by Debi Swim

Let your words
be few
fevered pitched
with awe
with woe
with hope
borne aloft
into the ether
scattered
across the vast
plains of the sea
swelled in a symphony
of swallow-tailed
butterfly wafts.
Oh, God, hear
these ignoble
squeaks
of piteous man
pleas of mercy
crush the clank
and clamor of
hubris
let the silence
of the downy
eve peal
like a Christmas
bell. Toll
for me.

“In the midst of a world of light and love, of song and feast and dance, Lucifer could find nothing to think of more interesting than his own prestige.”
–C.S. Lewis

Written in response to Red Wolf Prompt 354.


Debi Swim
writes primarily to prompts. She is a wife, mother, grandmother and persistent WV poet.

Falling, by Joseph M. Felser

Falling
by Joseph M. Felser

Snow falls
gently
on her
shoulder
frozen crystal
tears
reflecting
light
lost
in time
close to
him

Joseph M. Felser, Ph.D. received his doctorate from The University of Chicago and teaches philosophy in Brooklyn, New York. The author of numerous articles and two books on philosophy, religion, myth, and parapsychology, he recently began writing poetry, which has appeared in both print and online journals.

Lost Track, by Joseph M. Felser

Lost Track
by Joseph M. Felser

Stood on
platform
waiting
for you
until you
kicked it
out
from
under
me

Joseph M. Felser, Ph.D. received his doctorate from The University of Chicago and teaches philosophy in Brooklyn, New York. The author of numerous articles and two books on philosophy, religion, myth, and parapsychology, he recently began writing poetry, which has appeared in both print and online journals.

Burden Of Life, by Debi Swim

Burden Of Life
by Debi Swim

How much does it weigh
that uncertainty
as it settles around your shoulders
like a puma?
You carry it gingerly
trying to sooth the underlying growl
into a purr of contentment.
There is no way to know
when the claws will come out
(if there are any claws at all)
when the teeth honed on bone
(if they’re not worn to a nub)
will sink into the jugular.

Uncertainty has heft.
Everything is uncertain.
We live with it like gravity
balance it like scales
and keep on hoping
to tame the beast.

Note: “I mean Negative Capability, that is when man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.” Keats
Written in response to Red Wolf Prompt 353.

Debi Swim writes primarily to prompts. She is a wife, mother, grandmother and persistent WV poet.

Drumming Up Blood, by Keith Moul

Drumming Up Blood
by Keith Moul

A church group sings sweetly at the bandstand,
drumming business in souls, without percussions,
but with gentle faith. It’s Sunday. The wide plain
expands and enlarges in summer heat, animals still,
few signs of habitation save cars nearing for music.

One thinks of the old awakenings, comings to Christ
in the flower, in the leaf, in caressing breeze on cheeks;
or remembered spirit now coursing through the blood
as people lift arms in praise and jubilation. Some lives
have endured deceptions and miseries until the moment;
others see their children submit to mystery long adhered.

No single voice provokes their vision or font of peace.

Wind carries song out beneath sun’s beneficence; fowl
still at rest take notice by their eyes, but do not stir.
They have witnessed God’s presence many times before.

Keith Moul’s poems and photos are published widely. Finishing Line Press released a chap called The Future as a Picnic Lunch in 2015. Aldrich Press published Naked Among Possibilities in 2016; Finishing Line Press has just released (1/17) Investment in Idolatry. In August, 2017, Aldrich Press released Not on Any Map, a collection of earlier poems. These poems are from a new work about prairie life through U.S. history, including regional trials, character, and attachment to the land.

The Reality Of Intangibles, by Joseph Felser

The Reality Of Intangibles
by Joseph Felser

Did you come
to me
last night
as I lay
asleep
whispering
of things
long past?
I remember
everything
the sly smiling
delicate curve
of your words
the musky perfume
of your mind
hunting ideas
asking questions
poking holes
in musty theories
forging links
with me
astonished
by the
boldfaced
signature
of your
soul

Joseph M. Felser, Ph.D. received his doctorate from The University of Chicago and teaches philosophy in Brooklyn, New York. The author of numerous articles and two books on philosophy, religion, myth, and parapsychology, he recently began writing poetry, which has appeared in both print and online journals.

As Father Lay Dying, by Milton P. Ehrlich

As Father Lay Dying
by Milton P. Ehrlich

As Father lay dying
restrained in bed,
he wanted to go home,
but he clung to a phone
grunting orders to his broker
about trades of puts and calls.
Family maintained a vigil,
reading Barons, Business Week
and the Wall Street Journal
to keep him alive.
His quivering voice, a pinhole
of light in the emerging darkness.
Clinging to the last of his breath
he was determined to secure
a vault of safety for Mother.
While the forces of Darkness
tugged at his soul, relentless
in his sense of responsibility,
his withered body focused on
tallying up the numbers
like a good accountant should.
Father taught me to be responsible.
When I lay dying, I’ll revise my poems,
making sure the alliteration,
enjambment and internal rhymes
work well enough for publication.
I’ll keep reading what old Ez taught me
at Ezuversity about how to write poetry
until my eyes give out and I disappear.
Entwined by blood of my blood,
a strike price of love endures.
Father will always be my King
even though we walk divergent roads.

Milton P. Ehrlich, Ph.D. is an 86-year-old psychologist. He is also a Korean War veteran who has published many poems in periodicals such as the Wisconsin Review, Descant, Toronto Quarterly Review, Chariton Review, Vox Poetica, Red Wheelbarrow, Christian Science Monitor, Huffington Post, and The New York Times.

Perrin’s Marine Villa, by Milton P. Ehrlich

Perrin’s Marine Villa
by Milton P. Ehrlich

Mabel is sequestered
in a well vacuumed room.
There’s not even a handful of mirth
in this house.

A whiff of flatulent air greets her guests.

Her glittering faux diamond earrings
make her look like a frumpy old woman
holding court as she sits on a stuffed chair
with her swollen feet elevated
on a Moroccan hassock.

She wants to go home,
not play any more bingo,
but forgot where she lives,
though an aerial photo of her house
hangs on the wall.

Neighbors who visit, still tease her
for being “from away”.

A young Nova Scotia soldier,
once a fine mate
peers down from her dresser in a resolute gaze.

Jesus hangs nearby rising
from the dead
behind rolling white-caps in a turquoise sea.

No one wants a one-way ticket
for the parting of flesh,
waiting for your name
to be written in stone.

Sent to their rooms
like misbehaving children,
they wait for an announcement
for their hour of departure,
a journey to the world beyond.

Milton P. Ehrlich, Ph.D. is an 86-year-old psychologist. He is also a Korean War veteran who has published many poems in periodicals such as the Wisconsin Review, Descant, Toronto Quarterly Review, Chariton Review, Vox Poetica, Red Wheelbarrow, Christian Science Monitor, Huffington Post, and The New York Times.