“Holes in My Armour” by Paula Lietz

Holes in My Armour


the storm strived for balance
it was foaming in secrets
and I turned away from
the brunt of its wrath
knowing it was game
I had no choice but to play
and no hope of winning
with each roll of thunder I faded
keeping chaos and beauty at bay
denial or self-defence it did not matter
I closed my eyes in sweet reprieve
listening to the echo of the downpour
like a dog licking her wounds I wanted
the solitude, needed the time of which
oddly we know devours all things
a timid then demanding beckoning
an annoying bright light seeping
through the holes in my armour
refractions splayed upon the metal
a kaleidoscope of art filling the darkness
with the breathy chant you are you are you are
my fear of being subsiding as I realized
my perception of space itself was distorted
by the brilliant prismatic hues signifying
I was actually only maintaining space
on a complicated planet, perhaps art to some
and the wreckage of the storm I thought was ~
just that, a thought

Artwork & Poem by

Paula Lietz

© 2013

“Lament For The Poets” by L.K. Thayer

tongues cut from the poets, the poets are hushed
our thoughts evaporate, our vision crushed
the dark nights scold and souls tear
our aching hearts broken, beyond repair

lament for the poets, for the poets are chastised
into dark pools of guilt, waiting to be baptized
gentle lambs long for when we can write
by the harshest glare, shedding all kinds of light

we stare at the doom of an empty white sheet
in hopes of creating something complete
subconscious mining memories unfold
spinning our threads of what’s untold

now that the poets are given a voice
I shred my cocoon and embrace the choice
passion rooted like a weeping willow tree
blessed, I must forgive the sinner in me

Give us, O mother of poets and sisters of men
the courage to write our truth forever, Amen
for scarred are the poets whose hearts bleed
we are called upon to heal, as we are freed

L.K. Thayer

Pencil Drawing of L.K. Thayer by Thor Klaassen

Netherlands © 2012

Charles Bukowski


 cows in Art Class

  good weather
  is like
  good women--
  it doesn't always happen
  and when it does
  it doesn't
  always last.
  man is
  more stable:
  if he's bad
  there's more chance
  he'll stay that way,
  or if he's good
  he might hang
  but a woman
  is changed
  the moon
  the absence or
  presence of sun
  or good times.
  a woman must be nursed
  into subsistence
  by love
  here a man can become
  by being hated.

  I am drinking tonight in Spangler's Bar
  and I remember the cows
  I once painted in Art class
  and they looked good
  they looked better than anything
  in here. I am drinking in Spangler's Bar
  wondering which to love and which
  to hate, but the rules are gone:
  I love and hate only
  they stand outside me
  like an orange dropped from the table
  and rolling away; it's what I've got to
  kill myself or
  love myself?
  which is the treason?
  where's the information
  coming from?

  books . . . like broken glass:
  I w'dn't wipe my ass with 'em
  yet, it's getting
  darker, see?

  (we drink here and speak to
  each other and
  seem knowing.)

  buy the cow with the biggest
  buy the cow with the biggest

  present arms.

  the bartender slides me a beer
  it runs down the bar
  like an Olympic sprinter
  and the pair of pliers that is my hand
  stops it, lifts it,
  golden piss of dull temptation,
  I drink and
  stand there
  the weather bad for cows
  but my brush is ready
  to stroke up
  the green grass straw eye
  sadness takes me all over
  and I drink the beer straight down
  order a shot
  to give me the guts and the love to

Artwork & Poem by
Charles Bukowski