Touched – By Francisco Letelier
Authentic Night – By Laura Shepard Townsend
The Rich & Famous And The Poor & Unknown – By Marty Liboff
The Fulfiller of Expectations – By Humberto Gomez Sequeira-HuGoS
Love’s Recovery – By Ronald McKinley
What Style is so Diluted? – By Paul Beethoven
Haiku – By Devakinandana
Roger Houston

By Francisco Letelier
It begins and we don’t feel it.
like the shaping of stone by water
Immersed in its touch
we do not feel its heat
until it is part of skin, part of breath
we dance around the block
touched, someone raises a voice
words never heard before
knock down heroes
and revolutions
We look down at limbs
that walk in places never walked before
the kingdom of books and words lost behind a trail
scrambled and cleared through brush, though emptiness
invisible and sweet
touched we see the world again


Rarely in the city
Does night fall
Into ebony darknesses
Unperturbed by any falseness
or Simulation of light
But when allowed, authentic night
Weaves radiances summoned from the sacred
Into wondrous manifestations
To those willing to venture into it.
This night then
Stirs ions within distant storm-clouds
To flashes of lightning, not as
Bolt brilliances that
Crackle the heavens into partings
But as mists of subtle glow….
Veils of pearl radiances
In a cadence of beat danced by the universe’s breathing.
This night,
The supreme mistress of illumination is at work
To clarify hopes and dreams
As well as their obstacles
To those souls in search of destinations
To illuminate earth bound possibilities
Beyond the lava rock reef,
The ocean folds and unfurls
As fluffed seams of neon
Extended linear phosphorescences
The creation of ecstatic horizon harbors
Or as another path….
Not puny pinpricks
But insistences of gleaming Large orbs of beam
To guide wandering souls Into flight toward infinities
Whatever the choice,
One’s soul will be awoken with thrill
Sleep is not possible this night.
© Laura Shepard Townsend

The Rich & Famous

And The Poor & Unknown
(This really happened, without the rhymes)
The Venice Boardwalk was horrible
A nut drove a car over people
It was terrible –
A rich European bride of royalty
Was killed
Blood was spilled – Reporters the world over
Filled the boardwalk
& asked me to talk –
Did I see the blood & gore?
Tell us more, tell us more?
I replied,
I’m sorry the rich royal bride died
But you’re only reporting the Venice
Dark side
There’s also a bright, sunny side –
Over there is Millie the angel of Venice
She feeds the homeless and poor.
The reporters whined,
No, no we don’t want to hear about the poor.
What about the royal lady
And the blood and gore?
Tell us more, tell us more?
I said, everyday Millie feeds the sick & hungry.
Maybe to you it’s no big deal –
But to many it’s their only meal.
She may not be rich royalty
But saving lives makes her soul rich and saintly…
The reporters frowned, thinking I’m a bore
& asked someone else,
Did you see the blood & gore?
Tell us more, tell us more?
– Marty Liboff
Written soon after the tragedy.
The Fulfiller of Expectations

By Humberto Gómez Sequeira-HuGóS
She’s not
asking for the attention
of the holy order
of stoners and slashers
when she walks
with contemplation
or dances
without reservation
in consonance
with her stimulation.
She’s got nature’s approbation
as the fulfiller of the expectations
for rain and laughter.
She does not need modulation.
She’s a woman,
right up front.
Love’s Recovery
By Ronald Keith Mc Kinley
What a dream
A poised perception
Chronicled by blood
Passion and possession
The melody of our song
We feel then forget
Lost by mind constructs
Thinking of but not knowing
Blaze for a short time
Back to the end
A place in a linear prison
The darkness and the noise
It is what you make it
Your hands only trace what you are ready to see
The pulse of life
Slow sometimes fast
Wait but don’t stand still
Expand and stay connected
Feel and taste the particles of vitality
Look to what you hear Love’s recovery

What Style is so Diluted?
By Paul Beethoven
What narrative is so profound
As to eliminate provocative sound?
What style is so diluted of thunder
As to lack the ability or forethought
That when it rains
Two lovers invariably will find
Something, or somecover to run under!
In waters of love and affection
I swim
In the spring’s breeze of your fragrant
flowered garland, I sing
In the enchanted forest of nectar
the flute’s fifth note; I dance
O’ my silly mind
Why do you resist
I think it’s time we part.
– Devakinandana

15:12 Sunday, April 13th, 2014, Adullam ….. Began to think about this Mother’s Day. Observance. Were she here, what would she say? She is the one who bore me. I could tell Her of the world, today. The living hell For some. Would ask her candidly, confide, Be honest, mom. Was I a source of pride, Or did you wring

your hands? Astonishment For my arrival? Stories to invent? I kept your quilted jacket, worn outside, Our trip to Union Station. What a ride! I miss you, Mom. My soul doth wish thee well. I’d wear your apple, were you William Tell. Your essence is still here. A lingering ray Of sun’s decline, so Happy Mother’s Day
….. Roger Houston