The time to choose is approaching
for the one to lead the people,
but with lies and illusion
invading our minds and hearts,
how can we tell the lions from the crows?
Melissa R. Mendelson is the creator of the novella collection, Glass Skies Over Home, and creator of the Sci-Fi Story, “Waken Dream.” Both can be found on Amazon and Amazon Kindle.
The soul’s departure from the body is prearranged; a token of gratitude
for hosting the rabble, ruse and giving toasts to the crass, amused
The rotary bladder screws were supposed to be fastened, tuned
to an engine-metal cast in a steel-cased projection
Bless these rental caps from the free-baser dentist
Meet the portrait of Dr. Cenotaph, and his real grave expression
Heel raising tension – if you feel shaken, lessen
the locomotion of death: the wheels made the flesh grim
There are no executions in the square.
Just look at this town center.
Not a gibbet in sight.
No bodies pierced by poles
like in the days of Vlad the Impaler.
There’s even public toilets.
Take that crucifixions.
And the businessman
in double-breasted suit
eats his lunch on the park bench
They spent their 70th anniversary
just lying beside each other
in the frozen cold of the church yard,
the snow heaped on their graves,
but together again for the first time in years.
I remember my grandfather,
the day before he died,
singing “Lara’s Theme” at his birthday party…
Illuminate this hand, Muse,
To write a song of arms
For Men, exiles of Fate.
For this beginning will occur again…
Oh Muse! Sing.
Rest a forgotten dream as the demons of your past gather on your grave.
Shades of lost friends try to warn you of impending dangers or temptations.
The time of conscience, neither asleep nor awake, vying to show you the future of your past actions.
Fallen friends defending your grave plot facing in.
Dancing demons crawling out of the same plot, hungry for your soul and ready to feast.
Your conscience tired beyond sleep, stolen naps at odd hours—all that keeps the images at bay.
Sleep, the realm of terrors where friends strive to show you shadows of how you helped
while the demons flaunt your shortcomings and failures.
Like a pocket watch
Reflecting lights in Sears,
The stars’ sovereign presides over
A fixed desert’s moisture.
The jagged, sloping summits
Double as sundaes and make me forget.
These valleys beyond support nothing
While stiffs in pressed slacks
Scramble beneath in a trance.
Mallory: I dance as though fire cleanses me,
my hips the rhythm of bullets while Mickey
eats green pie.
Just a simple job. The coffee’s fresh,
cheap, the turkey plate’s real good.
I am from baking sheets
From red dirt that stains
I am from humid heat that weighs down the skin
I am from mangoes sweet as honey
rhum of sugarcanes
I am from telling stories in the night
Put downs in the sunlight
From Jacques up the docks of Cap-Haitien
To Voltaire down south in mountains
In a garden of weeds
a worm recedes through red clay,
covering itself with tender coats
of treason and slithers gray—
almost floats on fruitless
If it does this properly, it will
be compared to fingers and
not trains but still, the soil is
too bland to be tilled and