Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Some of My Favorite Friends

When I was a child, some of my favorite
friends were trees. I was the boy high
in the cherry tree gorging on fruit while
his mother shouted orders for a speedy

descent to terra firma. I was the lad who
hid on the sky’s side of a huge maple
branch and watched as young lovers did
the nasty behind the little knoll in the town

park. I knew where every good apple tree
grew and the best hour to ride my bike
down a certain street or alley to pluck
a gravensteen here, a transparent there,

a cluster of Chinese crab apples so sweet
they tasted like honey. Adolescent pine
trees with their branches so near the earth
were among my favorites as well. What

is there about being as high in a tree as
one can get, relaxing into it until the tree
forgets you’re there and resumes its natural
swaying in the wind? An Indian kid I knew

introduced me to an old elm tree growing
in the gully. The moss on its north side
was inhabited by thousands of tiny ferns
whose small white roots tasted like licorice.

Today my favorite tree is a Chinese elm
on our farm. It was a volunteer. I might
have cut it down with the sit-down mower
as I did with so many others over the years.

But this sprout spoke to me somehow. Today
it is at least sixty feet tall. I take a lawn chair
out there, sit a ways off and wait. Before
long the two of us are deep in conversation.

by Christopher Thomas

Not Always Happy

Things seen and unseen, looking through
a glass darkly and reaching the sixth heaven
know all about the strange distances between
being good and being happy. Who among us

hasn’t learned that sometimes a severe madness
is a kind of wisdom and no matter what anyone
says we are or should be, not all that makes us
human turns out to be good for us. Sometimes

our emotions are street fighters, thugs and bullies.
I’ll tell you this - if people could be arrested for
their thoughts, I’d be the first sent to the bench.
I like to think I’m naturally good and therefore

happy all the time. It’s not true. If I were forced
to choose between staying home to pray with the
brethren instead of vacationing on some lusty
South Pacific island with absolute strangers, I’m

afraid the gates of heaven wouldn’t hear a peep,
hymn or a halleluiah out of me. I don’t know if
I’m a sinner or not or even if I believe in sin.
What I do know is that I often prove to be broken

in all the worst and sometimes hidden places and
have tendencies that make me want to eat and do
things I know damn well aren’t good for me, even
though they will make me unconditionally happy.

by Christopher Thomas

Not a Vacation

This is being
away from home
whether you want
to be or not,

being in the air
with nothing
between you and
a 20,000 foot drop

to death except
some aluminum
and a little wind.
This is sleeping

in strange beds,
lugging the ball
and chain of jet lag
through every meal

and conversation.
This is fast food
at the ferry dock,
picnics with children

you do not know,
and the sheer
strangeness of being
alone on the patio

while relatives you
no longer know talk
about the good old
days when you were

a lad of eighteen
and didn’t have a pot
to piss in or a window
to throw it out of.

Christopher Thomas has been publishing poems in for many years. His work has appeared in Amelia, Bay Windows, Chiron Review, Duckabush Review, Evergreen Chronicles, The James White Review, New York Native, Paramour Magazine, and others. Some of my work has been anthologized.
Lone Willow Press will publish his collection, The Smell of Carnal Knowledge, sometime in late 2009.
Creighton University maintains a web site on Nebraska writers. You can find additional data concerning my writing career, bibliography, photo, etc., if you’re interested. It can be accessed at http://Mockingbird.creighton.eduNCW/Thomas.htm
Land of the Pilgrims' pride;
I'm glad they'll never see.

Babies piled in dumpsters,
Abortion on demand,
Oh, sweet land of liberty;
your house is on the sand.

Our children wander aimlessly
poisoned by cocaine
choosing to indulge their lusts,
when God has said abstain

From sea to shining sea,
our Nation turns away
From the teaching of God's love
and a need to always pray

We've kept God in our
temples, how callous we have grown.
When earth is but His footstool,
and Heaven is His throne.

We've voted in a government
that's rotting at the core,
Appointing Godless Judges;
who throw reason out the door,

Too soft to place a killer
in a well deserved tomb,
But brave enough to kill a baby
before he leaves the womb.

You think that God's not
angry that our land's a moral slum?
How much longer will He wait
before His judgment comes?

How are we to face our God,
from Whom we cannot hide?
What then is left for us to do,
but stem this evil tide?

If we who are His children,
will humbly turn and pray;
Seek His holy face
and mend our evil way:

Then God will hear from Heaven;
and forgive us of our sins,
He'll heal our sickly land
and those who live within.

But, America the Beautiful,
If you don't - then you will see,
A sad but Holy God
withdraw His hand from Thee..

Judge Roy Moore via Jeff Callarman

Monday, May 18, 2009


In this duplicitous world,
Two-faced Devils foxtrot
To the beat
Of your favorite

by Jaime Ferreyros

Thursday, May 14, 2009

Art Feels Pain

Art feels pain
Statues Cry
Tears of stone
Even in the rain
Granite hearts beat Heavy
Limestone egos can easily break
Beneath layers of Sandstone
Dolomite made a fatal mistake
He asked to be a sculpture
Not like his cousin Shale
And now he aches with hurt
From the lifting of the veil

Joseph DeMarco was born in New York City; he lived most of his life in Buffalo, NY. He now teaches seventh grade on the island of Oahu, Hawaii. He is the author of the novels Plague of the Invigilare, The 4 Hundred and 20 Assassins of Emir Abdullah-Harazins, At Play in the Killing Fields, and Blind Savior, False Prophet. He is currently working on several new projects.

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Coffee Break

Tranquility rattles
Serenity speeds
Calm becomes chaos
Money is chief
Sin is in
Control is out of control,
Hope Faith comes back home soon.

by Jaime Ferreyros