Anne Sexton – Fruit For Thought…

“To thrust all that life under your tongue!–
that, all by itself, becomes a passion.
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.”

– Anne Sexton

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“Orange Still Life” © 2010

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“Pagan Moon” by Nick Owen


I try to catch the sunlight
You’re drawing down the moon
You know
That some small flying thing
Will be here soon

I’m casting into cyberspace
The tendrils of my web
A hungry, unknown artist
Another dull celeb

The beauty of my photograph
Will catch you if it can
Spinning world illusions
All for unsuspecting men

I ask you
For a little while
To stick with me
Immersed in poem-pictures
Life suspended
On the cyber-tree

The web of granma spider
Will drain you of your blood
Cocoons of poem-pictures
Can transform your mood

If you think you are a caterpillar
Climbing up a leaf
I bring a transformation
And a solace for your grief

Unlike the hairy spider
I am not a creeping thief
From your dreary daily burdens
I bring relief

If looking into beauty
You fear that you will die
I offer you a rebirth
A butterfly

Poem & Photo by Nick Owen


All Rights Reserved

© 2010

“Madame Cafe” by L. K. Thayer


"Cupcake Cafe" by Nancy D. Regan

she no longer daydreamed
of sunsets
nor of a man on a white horse
nor of miracles
nor of dancing till dawn
nor tantrums
nor true confessions
nor her lover

she only imagined cities
who’s cafes she could write in
a table and chair she could
with her pen and paper
scribble her thoughts down
drink a glass of wine
and let the rhymes take
her away

she would live her life
by walking to the café
to her table and back
then walk from her table


to a solitary life, with her cats
and books and paintings
and poetry

she knew that this
was what she wanted
when she woke in
the morning
after brushing her hair
and feeding her cats
she would put on her shoes
roll down her socks
grab her pen and notebook
and walk down to
the café

she felt a warm feeling
of home
not at home

but within

L. K. Thayer

Photo by Nancy D. Regan

All Rights Reserved

© 2010