Walk with me today, I beg.
I feel as if there are corpuscles of sunshine,
even though the day’s light is grey-filtered.
It’s all bought and paid for, no?
So come, if you please.
I hope you are not afraid
that I might tell you secrets kept too long,
and all the reasons for a fateful change of mind.
Author Archives: Lee Dunn
Lee Dunn has been writing since the age of 18, but found that work got in the way for the ensuing 48 years. In his home town of Toronto, Ontario, Canada, he reveled in his independence at an early age, and spent as much time as he could exploring the city’s Arts scene. He was introduced to poetry and prose by the works of two literary giants, namely J.R.R. Tolkien and J.W. Lennon and thence fell in love with the written word. His work includes poetry, short fiction, and personal essays, and ranges in theme from the surreal to the horrific, nostalgic, and themes on the human condition. He has been published on Spillwords.com, The Dark Poets Club, Journal of Undiscovered Poets, Crepe & Penn Literary magazine, and the Shelburne Free Press.
Madmen
Pain spreads into virgin veins
and newly thought-of branches.
An insistent fist,
twisted and knuckle-pressed
into the backs of us.
We have looked, dry-eyed,
into the dark drear,
contriving a laugh,
picturing courage and rebellion
while fetal in our dampened beds.
And, in the light of day, we walk,
zombified and smiling.
Amica the Christmas Tree
This charming tale from Meg Sefton.
Something’s missing
Do you miss
Do you want
Something lost
Are you here to look
without telling?
It’s one in a million,
I sadly say.
But, star-crossed as we might be,
the future’s not ours to see.
Que sera, sera.
That’s the spirit
There’s no one to adore it.
Too hard-shelled and prickly,
I guess.
Transgressions bought and paid for.
Still, there are soft surfaces of want.
In the shower,
(hotter, hotter),
there’s that brain stem shiver.
White-eyed,
photogenic as an actor’s orgasm.
Protected: physio days
One track mind
Tell out loud
how good coffee lingers
like nicotine fingers.
Remember now
how a curly head kid
had to keep up with Dad,
no proffered hand,
in a strange land
of cigars and racing forms.
*Outta my way, kid.*
And men behind wickets
spat out the tickets
but seldom gave us money back.
And now, coffee cooling,
I think of tag-along days that are long gone.
And I remember how Dad always smelled of cigars,
though he never smoked one.
And how I came home from those days of loss
to a crying mother
and fights in the kitchen.
Arrows
This! From Abby Simpson.
“Before the first nightmare, do you remember what you were doing the day before?”
“I’d like to forget, but I remember,” he said, picking at a loose thread on one of her grey and black throw pillows. This couch, upholstered in a shade of sickly yellow-green, had seen better days. Far worse people had probably laid right where he was, he thought. But that wasn’t the question.
“I was in Jersey. New Jersey – not the island south of England. There’s a gay bar in Newark and I was supposed to be there because this guy Vinny was meeting Steve. It was love at first sight, you know? Steve saw Vinny walk in, and Vinny was nervous because he’d never been to a gay bar before. He knew his parents wouldn’t approve, but his friends were there with him. So Steve bought Vinny a…
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the pact
Don’t worry, baby.
It’s a long while yet
(He said)
Would you rather it be sudden,
or protracted and storied?
Either way, I’ll oblige.
Dignity. Yes we must have it.
No blubbering, quivering,
or hand holding.
Just close the door.
Snick the lock.
I’ll set an alarm.
The house that Jill built
The house she built
is nested inside
the one they bought together.
It’s been long in its building,
with slow accretions
wrung from unshed tears.
A desperation. A resignation.
It has gift boxes, unwanted.
Empty bowls and jars
on brazen display,
meant to catch a beautiful rain
that never came.
Aremyfeetofftheground 