Alexithymia by Ari Augustine

Her body will break like a jar,Spilling the contents of

Pickled words, candied-ginger

Filling the base of a saucer like

Rocks cast into a Seer’s pond.

 

Her words are vessels,

Cargo ships split by seams with

Memorabilic photographs,

Motives tacked to cork boards

Falling apart, she opens her

Mouth, nothing right comes out.

 

Her eyes are the soul,

Cerulean blue lines on a map

Clay basin of a dried up crick where

Compasses with eager needles

Never point South of

Her thinned lips clamping

In combustion.

 

Fractured irises cut words into

Confetti before they’ve the chance

To make their escape.

These Weeds by Gary Bertnick 

These weeds always nearSomehow sprout up

Never planted, but always there;

Diligence reaches out

Perseverance pulls them out by the roots

Endurance tosses them onto the trash pile

New strength burns them with “Holy Fire”:

Weeds as dark, pesky spirit flies

Or gnats that seek to ruin

Spoil at any picnic,

Like deer flies that annoy at the lake!

The garden is finally cleansed,

Daily the garden is watched over

Guarded carefully

Alert eyes and quickened hands,

Nothing impure is sprinkled about or sprayed,

And the garden is kept truly clean!

Only what really belongs is left

What does not belong is tossed out

And remains far outside,

Gone from what the heart of the true gardener embraces.