She was part of a graph
read her short epitaph
She had died on the first of May

She was just a blue dot
of some ink that was shot
from the hole of a printer array

the disease was a hoax
to the gullible folks
reassured by the man everyday

though the man was a slacker,
a fat tally-whacker
She supported his perilous way

if She'd just worn a mask
to the rally as asked
She just might have been with us today.

AN ANGEL'S SONG

We ventured out in the gray of night,
On amber furrows beneath the linden trees,
Where the breeze caressed you're naked knees,
Smooth as a stream, kissed by the moonlight.
The fountains which sobbed in the marble square
Bequeathed to the brisk, aromatic air
A somnolence of grace, repose and song,
As me worshiped you're black and braided hair,
Which sighed to the stars, mellifluous and long.

John Lars Zwerenz

spring lady beetles
destroy soft, sap-filled aphids-
faultless peach roses

Lobo! oh Lobo,
In the forest you roam,
Like a ranger,
Guarding your home.

With a sound that shrieks,
Through the land,
Making man and beast,
Fear your band.

Prowling through the trees,
As you sniff,
The scented night air,
Smelling sweet perfume.

Like Robin Hood of old,
You stalk your prey,
With alertness and cunning,
Stealth in lay.

With fur of grey to black,
Your beauty and power,
Like quartz do shine,
Like mothers flowers.

Roaring,
Of thunder,
Could be heard,
Men and women in blue,
Flew,
The red, white, and blue.

From,
Base in Nevada,
They came,
Ariel feats of,
Daring,
Glistening in sun rays.

Ah's,
Could be heard,
Seeing the Thunderbirds,
Fly,
Doing maneuvers,
Parting the sky.

Men,
And women,
Of the sky,
Displaying proudly,
Old glory,
As they fly.

The good doctor says I’m in the middle
“Not great, but not too bad,” she says
"Fucking Russian roulette of life visits again," I say to myself

Despite the tests and the numbers,
and the dizzying array
of alien sounding terms,
my friends and family are here with me
physically, and in my anxious thoughts

You can't see them in the test results
from the blood you keep taking,
or how they help heal me in the dark hours
at 3am, where the demons lie

a red-haired kid sat alone in his room
slasher film sound as loud as it gets
while his parents slashed each other in the kitchen
with sarcastic slurs and threats
he watched the young victim be torn apart
wondered what it's like to die
but most
what it's like to kill
he felt the crash of glass
the slasher slashed
the knife came through the screen
he heard the owls of winter
asking what they always do
and he was asking too

The sailboats in the marina,
when the wind is just right,
sing music from their masts

The maestro, a two-masted beauty,
leads all the others in their song
A haunting tune, like free-form jazz

The accompanying boats
offer meandering solos,
beautiful in their creativity

When their musical flight is done
the soloists come back and join the others,
picking up the melody again

Your imagination can be lethal.
Distracts you from reality and tricks you into another dimension because of its limitless tendencies.
There are no leaks in imagination.
No one knows what you are imagining.
You can give a thousand, a million, or a billion hints and no one will know.
It is as powerful and daunting as black magic
A swirl of beauty entering the brain, manipulating it into a false reality so you can have solidarity and peace.
But like everything beautiful, there is a downside.

I keep calling my mother's voicemail,
though she’s been gone for months,
to hear her voice again

I consider leaving a message, but don’t
I will though, but not just now
Maybe I’ll do it tomorrow

Even with loss in bloom,
I’m sure I’ll be stronger soon
Maybe I’ll think of something to say
when the memories aren’t crashing in all around me

It’s just a simple message to leave
You’ll be there one more time for me
so we can talk about how we’ve been,
here, among the ashes