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thestolenpoem springtime2012

by belle

marian webb, yolanda mora, skuld, mike meraz, michael farris, helen lea fowler, belle, bruce c Mitchell mystic lady, arne torneck

ABSOLUTIATION BY Helen Lea Fowler 14 January 2012 Thirteen generations in: Marriage, no baby. Heal with hands, Rhythmic touch; Soothe the beast within. And sleep. He fears me leaving But I am stitched to him Like mirrorskin.

photo by belle: “boamistura”

by belle

mike meraz Madame Butterfly Madame Butterfly (the humming chorus), and peace and God and learned lessons. a young girls heart aches in San Pedro, and in other places. if they only knew, they would not cry, at least, not so much.

Unheard Truth the ties of two souls sharing is deeper than the ties any sex can bring. words making love with words confounds the most passionate romance.

Lift Me Up With Your Happiness lift me up with your happiness. cast your eyes upon my face. tell me you love me. kneel down and pray for me. make me feel whole again. it matters to me that you are alive. it matters to me what you think. tell me, tell me, tell me, your dreams, your nightmares, your memories. I want to know when I can't remember what love is or how it feels to be coddled in the arms of a mothers love.

Some Good Old Fashioned Ice Cream you put yourself in a chocolate chip place when you choose to do things through vanilla pride. stay strawberry humble. stay orange happy.

Mike Meraz lives and writes in Los Angeles, Ca. He has been published numerous times online and in print. You can check out his work here:

michael farris Dancing

with the demons, the misfits, the neglected, the naughty children the parts of me pushed into closets contained in straight jackets shamed and denied. It is a delicate art running a group therapy session with the neurotics I have enabled. Then again without their craziness I chase losses and shames beat up good intentions and punish the wild ...

Michael Farris was born in Austin, Texas in 1948. He spent the next forty years wandering the zigzag path of childhood to adulthood, returning to Austin in 1988, where he lives with his artist wife Kathy.


The hook slicks in. How easily she snags. How tightly she tugs. She knows no surrender. Long in exile, she returns, To lead you to forgotten rooms. In a careless moment She sucks the tongue from your mouth. Coils it round your demon need, Slips it back behind your lips. You swallow her hard. Scornfully, she sniggers at you. Knows that you can’t do without her, In spite of your painstaking Hopeless attempts. She washes over your mind like an old friend, With the comforting allure of a new lover. And she’s back with her pedicure In the ring of your desires; Your powerless soul at prayer Under the Gothic arch of her painted foot.

arne torneck

Truthful lie

I don’t care that lines of time have crossed my face. Truely, without falsehood, certain and most true: I really don’t! What I do mind is: the routes they map, dispatches they convey; the archives they accomodate, and habits they betray. I see river beds of lust and anger; parched ravines of pride; glacial trails of sloth and greed, and avarice and gluttony. Indelibly etched lies: scars of my deadly sins, dry season wadis of time and despair ... But I look at your face without finding a trace of such mortally sinful intaglio. Nothing surprising to see there;

just an orderly leaping of years. Yet, this doesn’t quite synch with your acts, and I think that it doesn’t reflect what I know about you. Are your own secret truths so much finer than mine; are you purer a liar than I am? Dearest one, for whom I am ready to lie: for whom it’s my duty to lie.

By a book bin

Jerome Stern, director of the writing program at Florida State University, initiated the World’s Best Short Short Story Contest. Stories were to be about 250 words long; first prize was a hundred dollars and a crate of oranges. ∆∆∆ By a Book Bin (Word count: 250) I was browsing a book I had plucked from a book bin in front of a discount bookstore. A book of short stories – really short stories – a page or a half a page each: two hundred and fifty words maximum. As I read, a short, rumpled man in his 30s materialized and asked me if I could help him with some children. He smelled from cheap whiskey and slurred his words. “Help you with some children,” I said. “What do you mean?” “What’s that around your neck?” he said. “It’s a sprout.” “A sprout? What’s that?” “A seedling. A symbol of new growth. What do you mean can I help you with some children? Do you mean can I give you some money for your family?”

“No, I don’t mean that. What’s that on your T-shirt? It’s Indian, right? Northwest coast? Quakiutl?” I told him that he was correct. “It’s a raven opening a clam shell,” I said. “God giving birth to humanity. What’s this about helping you with some children?” “I need some,” he said, and made a gesture like he was waving a flag. “Well, maybe you should speak to a woman,” I said. He shrugged and turned to walk away. I reached out and snagged his elbow. “Listen,” I said. “I can’t help you with this children business, but I could let you have a hundred bucks and a crate of oranges.” “No thanks. I just need children,” he said. Then he turned and toddled off.

What thou lovest well is thy true heritage. - e. pound

bruce c mitchell

Dirt shines in the dark

Shiny girl. He couldn´t look into my eyes, He hides his face, he whispers he tells me Bright things, dirty things. (write them) Dirt can shine in the fluorescent light Of that sad planet. It is night. It is very late, He says it is dawn, and i am down Dirt. Stones under our feet. What else can i say? Nothing i have said. This is our time. Our morning and Why not. Why not everything He said to me. “Don´t worry” interfacing faces He says i´m driving him crazy And i smile even though i´m half-asleep. This is sex. His face, lost eye, god you´ll drive me crazy. I have to buy things. Things have become Strange to me. Scary Dirt. Plants. Owls. Moon. And High-heeled shoes. He says my name, or her name, For she laughs with him.

I laugh too. He laughs at me For all the foolish things I say to him. I act numb, fool, idiot, can only Think about him and the words he said. Trust. Moss. Woods. Words. Stones and bondage. This is an enormous community. He e-mails me. I delete them all When i get mad at him or at everything. He spits, and writes he doesn´t spit. Spit. He sleeps with me with the blue Light of the screen on. So back again to solitude. Not that old. Making faces for the pictures “Be yourself” But i still don´t know who i am What i want or what i want not. Words weird e-mail for my love From shiny girl in the dark.

by yolanda mora

Looking backwards

by skuld

by skuld

by yolanda mora

by skuld

by Yolanda mora

by belle


The torture chamber in this eye Watches everything wrong Or everything right. This is a dark place, room, no number For this happens in my house Where you´ve chosen to live

Or my parents´ house, farm in these lands Where i have to live, and i lie a lot In this couch, big bed for two We close windows, almost spring Fountain dry, we fumble To each other But you like it As you like it. Nature outside, we hear crickets, owls And spiders inside so scared of Something: the ominous Nature. Green lawn awaits us outside, to be watered And the neighbours Spy behind the curtains I can hear him, handling something Outside. This is a square room, we don´t do TV, Internet, music, but you and me, brown Colors, dark, is this me? I lie a lot. A face, saliva, two heads two feet. And food for a month. Whatever. This is love then, you and me alone, Don´t breathe: moan. Legs hurt, you don´t want to move a toe. I splash my face with iced water To take the photograph, We don´t need make-up.

The scene is clear, not clean, but it is My face, tired, white flash, eyerings, Dishevelled hair, red red red Organs. You lost your keys in the swimming-pool Thick, green water. Oh i can hear The hens beyond the fence And the rooster You smile and i can´t see it. A pleasure. -by yolanda mora

by belle

Mystic lady POEMS FROM 30/8/08 Confinement solitary In my confinement solitary, I conjure me up a theory, Some company in purgatory, a gentle voice to comfort me, A lonely voice that greets me, Who would never mistreat me, In my new identity, hush hush in our anonymity.... I watch the daybreak fade away, Sitting in the back seat again, Slipping back in my box again Invisible and tucked away , Paying dearly for my mistakes, Butterflies they fly away, quiet thoughts become inflamed, talk away ,their talk is insane, And you try to quietly explain, But I forget who I am, I forget who I am. Just like every other human, I'm just like every other human. Shes a shape shifter Shes a shape shifter A little sister, A lonely drifter, Her life is becoming sinister Shes trapped in the eye of a twister, Shes a chameleon,

Fitting in like a jigsaw with everyone, That sometimes I depend upon, Shes stealing thoughts from everyone, For you to read and dwell upon, From conflict she will always run, Shes lighting you a candle, When life's too hot to handle, Shes a shape shifter, A little sister, trapped in the eye of deadly twister........ Lost Lost, But when did we become brain washed? White washed ,but at what cost, Innocence lost ,paradise lost, She lost her soul, and became white washed. In quiet suburbia, She is blending in with the designer furniture, Should I envy her? Should I become like her? Space age, new age, Buy another book, turn another page, Drowning in the rat race, She lost the old ways, Dont you know its all the rage Space age ,shes so new age, Innocence lost ,was paradise lost ? Living on both sides of the fence, Did I cause you offence? White washed,

Brain washed, She became the one who lost.

Something for nothing Crash, sink, fall, Stop ,start and stall , So you thought you knew it all, You thought you could dechiper it all, Dreams that start off small , Take shape take flight, An imaginary respite, A small tunnel of light, Become another dissolution for you to spite, Illusions that hover about in your sight Then slip out in the dead of night, Something from nothing , Something for nothing , Everybody wants something for nothing. The eternal conflict between a man and a woman. One two three, Always think you humour me, He is man,who thinks he gives a damn, Does that give him the right to think he can? To Use me,abuse me,accuse me, Always trying to confuse me, And all of this is suppose to amuse me,

Let the vultures loose on me, Do I need a man to tie a noose on me? Defences go up, the shutter comes down, Expectations hit the ground, dreams carry no resonant sound So easily lost ,so easily found.................

paris, by yolanda mora

Marian Webb

GOAT GIRL That's her, the goat girl in the white dress hemmed at the knee. Her right hand up, her left hand down, she grips the horns of the silky white goat, whose neat, cloven trotters grip the ground by her neat white boots,

her gangling calves. Her adolescent face is beautiful and sad, her mouth set solemn, she knits her brows pondering the empty sky. Our grandmother cried when she told us how she died of galloping consumption caught from the children across the way when she went to them with gifts day after day, day after day at seventeen, at seventeen she lay in bed unbelievably ill and her lungs wasted away till she could not breathe. Our grandmother went the same way, the same way. Our grandmother and her sister went the same way. Eileen the goat-girl, our grandmother told us you came back again and were an infant with a face set solemn pondering the waning sky in our grandmother's eyes, our grandmother's eyes.


I wish I had that opal lost under flowers. I'd peer into its pareidolic iridescence and read my fortune in colours. Blue for truth, green for envy, purple for royal cloth, pink for love, red for danger, gold for the light of the sun. Opals and feathers from peacocks’ tails carry bad luck, so say some. Those eyes that swallow light, dumb and blind as the moon, shine invisibility on strangers and spies. The colours seen in oil slicks and the curdling of metals glimmer in the lining of the mind, blinking mutely, stumm as a purse shut tight, imprisoning secrets yearning to be disgorged. The latch unsnapped, its shot silk disperses light's entities. A clot of dew risen from fiery sheen seeks the still air where it whirls all colours clear, over land, over sea, orbiting the flower of fortune's bond.

MOTHER I strike these keys one by one, each rings in my mind till I sing it. Mother, I sense you are vexed as I tinker, not at a song. I merely intone individual frequencies. Look at you, twitching with rage, itching to bawl and shriek and curse the annoying noise as it worms into your secret nerve. Mother, your mother was young when she left. You were too young for speech as you wailed night by night for her milk. Mother, the stars are singing tonight. Each one has drifted as stars do, minutely over the course of lives. Mother, I tune my sky star by star to your mother's song recalling her honey lullaby echoing beyond the bitter drone of her rue.


by skuld



by belle


yolanda mora/marian webb editors

The Stolen Poem Spring 2012  

Spring 2012 Cityscapes, faces and generations