Mike Meraz



You finally say
I love you
And she doesn’t
Or reciprocate

She just says
“You shouldn’t
Have said that”
Which is good

The next day
She comes over
A little bit

A little bit

Some of the
Edges have
Been smoothed

She gives you
A hug upon

You realize
You made the

You waited



You are a

I am a
18th century

We are two
Pieces of

One quiet
As stone

The other
Filling the room



She is now
And I can listen
To sad music

There is nothing worse
Than a love song
When you yourself
Are heart-broken

But now she is

And the stars
Are lined up

The earth is

At least
The Part
Under my


Mike Meraz


Wendy Rainey



The Buskers

The punk rock girls came to my room with daffodils that they had snatched from someone’s garden. They said they were looking for someone to play with. The dark haired girl set her violin on the bed, took a flask from her jeweled purse and poured some scotch into a glass she found by the sink. She handed it to me. I took the glass, glancing at the dried toothpaste on the rim before I downed it. The redhead pulled her ukulele out of a bag and began strumming. She asked me if I could sing, did I play any instruments. The dark haired girl took an apple and two oranges from my desk and began juggling them, her cigarette dangling from her mouth, ash falling on the floor. I motioned for her to throw the fruit to me. She threw an orange, then an apple, then another orange. I juggled in front of the girls as they talked on the sofa. The dark haired girl had woven blue flowers into her hair which was piled up on her head in an enormous bun. In the center of the bun were several tiny plastic babies in different stages of distress. Some of the babies were crawling down the side of her head. The redhead had freckles and a short haircut that made her look like a teenage boy from the front. But from behind a long thin braid hung down her back, tied with a green bow. She began playing her ukulele again. Both girls sang Dream A Little Dream, their voices intertwining with the melody. Still juggling, I joined in. When we were finished the redhead put her ukulele back in her bag and went to the mirror to apply her lipstick. The dark haired girl slipped her flask back into her sparkling bag, grabbed her violin and said, “C’mon, we’re goin’ buskin’ in Piccadilly.” I put my coat on and as we walked toward the door I told the dark haired girl to leave my 5 pounds on the desk where she had found it. She took my 5 pound note from her bra and put it on the desk. I turned to the redhead and pointed to her left jacket pocket, “My necklace, please.” She reached into her pocket and dropped the necklace into my hand. We walked out the door singing Tiptoe Through The Tulips in falsetto through the hallway as we made our way out to the sidewalk and onward to Piccadilly Circus.

Wendy Rainey

Fruit for Thought…


Fruit of life – by Frida Kahlo



Beware of those who are bitter,
For they will never allow you
To enjoy your fruit.

Beware of those who criticize you
When you deserve some praise for an achievement,
For they secretly desire to be worshiped.

Beware of those who are needy or stingy,
For they would rather sting you
Than give you anything.

Beware of those who are always hungry,
For they will feed you to the wolves
Just to get paid.

Beware of those who speak negatively
About everything and everybody,
For a negative person will never say
A positive thing about you.

Beware of those who are bored
And not passionate about life,
For they will bore you with reasons
For not living.

Beware of those who are too focused with
Polishing and beautifying their outer shells,
For they lack true substance to understand
That genuine beauty is in the heart
That resides inside.

Beware of those who step in the path of your dreams,
For they only dream to have the ability
To take half your steps.

Beware of those who steer you away
From your heart’s true happiness,
For it would make them happy to see you
Steer yourself next to them,
Sitting with both your hearts bitter.

Those who are critical don’t like being criticized,
And those who are insensitive have a deficiency in their senses.

And finally,
Beware of those who tell you to BEWARE.
They are too aware of everything –
And live alone, scared.”

Poetry by Suzy Kassem
― Suzy KassemRise Up and Salute the Sun: The Writings of Suzy Kassem

L.K. Thayer



“Praises From a Tenor Sax”

like salt on a bloodsucker
recoiling, shriveling
paralyzed fits of punishing

with the sell-out
the down and out
muck and mire choir
praises from a tenor sax
and a song
you can’t let go of

fill the loving cup
and drink it dry
try to stay away
but you can’t fight
the pull
of the taffy

you get stuck in the
and you wanna

L.K. Thayer

Photo by VC Ferry – NYC




Mike Meraz



(Epic Rites Press (2015) Cover art by Toni Greis)


She has the


To give



The highest



And the




And like some




I put my


On the







Even though

I once



I will


Go into that




L.K. Thayer Reviews  SHE POEMS by Mike Meraz

Meraz is a less is more poet. His women have the power

and he lets you feel where he has been punched.

There is no excess in his writing, just below the belt truth.

Meraz takes you into cinematic short films of his love life and

as the leading man,  he makes you care about what happens to him.

SHE POEMS is inspiring, provocative and profound in it’s complex

simplicity. His style is cunning and addictive and after each poem

all you want is more. – L. K. Thayer 

SHE POEMS by Mike Meraz on Amazon

Pablo Neruda

Lemon slices background

A Lemon

Out of lemon flowers
on the moonlight, love’s
lashed and insatiable
sodden with fragrance,
the lemon tree’s yellow
the lemons
move down
from the tree’s planetariumDelicate merchandise!
The harbors are big with it-
for the light and the
barbarous gold.
We open
the halves
of a miracle,
and a clotting of acids
into the starry
original juices,
irreducible, changeless,
so the freshness lives on
in a lemon,
in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,
the proportions, arcane and acerb.Cutting the lemon
the knife
leaves a little cathedral:
alcoves unguessed by the eye
that open acidulous glass
to the light; topazes
riding the droplets,
aromatic facades.So, while the hand
holds the cut of the lemon,
half a world
on a trencher,
the gold of the universe
to your touch:
a cup yellow
with miracles,
a breast and a nipple
perfuming the earth;
a flashing made fruitage,
the diminutive fire of a planet.

Anne Sexton


(self portrait)

“Death’s a sad bone; bruised, you’d say,

and yet she waits for me, year after year, 

to so delicately undo an old wound, 

to empty my breath from its bad prison.

Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet, 

raging at the fruit a pumped-up moon, 

leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,

leaving the page of the book carelessly open, 

something unsaid, the phone off the hook 

and the love whatever it was, an infection.”

Rich Ferguson

Rich Ferguson1

(Photo of Rich Ferguson courtesy of Cat Gwynn)

Plug yourself into the electric present moment jukebox, sing yourself into the total sensurround sounds of now. Wash your hair with sudsy, bubbly playgrounds of wow; give your scalp a good laugh. Imitate a ringing phone; see how long it takes for someone to pick you up. Allow music, merriment & the moon to always find you, no matter how far you may sometimes fall inside yourself. Spread some traffic jam on a piece of toast; take a bite, swallow it without an ounce of road rage as a chaser. Sit peacefully with your hands on life’s steering wheel. Rest assured your heart is your copilot.