I splinter through the door, mind shards
still scattered between qwerty, screen and space.
Time hangs suspended in the hourglass
unsure of which direction to flow.
Puddles avoid careless feet, birds pause flight,
stones roll down edges, leaves and flowers retract,
trees suck in waists, river reverses,
all roads hastily straighten curving spines.
Words oppress my body-detached head and
there are days the world needs to deflect me.
We are careless
Too many things are broken
pictures, notes, people.
We break our word - rarely
hyphenating an excuse
pieces of the truth.
Dreams lie scattered in dirt
sharded by ĎI donít thinkí
a voice out of harmony
cubes in a landscape.
We are careless and things break.
We carry things with us like an empty
violin case Ė useless to anything except
the violin. Grandmotherís bequeathed
jewelry which will never be worn, but it
might be worth something to someone
some day. Old faded, crack-folded too
often reread love letters to remember
and constantly hold out false hope.
We straddle longingís stringless cello that
resonates only with a knock on wood,
and beat the heartís broken-skinned drum
sending unwanted messages nowhere.
Jane Olivier, born in Canada, traversed Africa on business, as a
journalist, and writer. For the lasts seven years has been
travelling the world - 52 countries to date Ė trying to make sense
of it, and still hasnít managed; at least the words donít fail.
Currently resides Quebec .. or in a suitcase.
James H. Duncan
Carol Lynn Grellas
M. Travis Walsh