Had I But Known

Had I but known it was the last time I’d see you
I’d have arranged a coffee time big and bold on the calendar
Marking the event as a singular and tangible reality

Had I but known that your future would be a short trip down the timeline
I’d have asked you to tell me more about your past, and I’d have listened raptly
Imprinting every fact, every event, honoring your matchless journey

Had I but known how significant that last trivial conversation really was
I’d have recorded every word, every nuance, every implied punctuation mark
For later review during bittersweet times of reflection and painful consideration

Had I but known I would have asked to hear more from you and,
That I had more I wanted to say to you about our shared history,
I’d have cautioned you, bargained with fate, searched for a profound statement
That would have told everything, but changed nothing. 
Had I But Known.

- Diane Dean-Epps

- NO PLACE IS HOME FOR THE H'DAYS - ("CHANGEALUYAH")

…It’s almost upon
the 2:00 warning primed
for the drill, 00:24
sec. clock to a finite’s
r’newel, undertime-aftertime-

&-time-again…  It’ll
be happy this an’ merry
that, & this, auto-
greets like E-cards that hallmark
the same but save the stamp, d’ya

know d’ya, Macy’s-cum-
Gimbels Saks ya? into the
red zone pilings of
negative cardage…timeout
you think time out!…but…It’s

happy this an’ a
merry that, an’, an’, so…a
gift-wracked tighter than
a crypt of mammoneggnog
stumblin’ home from the horrordays,

not very wise, man
that Swarovskithingy, 1
yr’s. desbt collector
matches the steel of her eyes…
but hey, It’s almost upon

a happy this a
merry that, that ol’ c’llegial
cheer, good cheer, lots of
tinsel, & pining for…  snow
jobs, requiem, New Year’s bleed.

H.e.m./H’H.
11.25.MMix.
ST
LB

Home at War

A wild world exists outside my window.
Strange voices permeate the sanctity of home – volatile, mad, and unfamiliar.
Our previous life, a study in docility, has been quickly obliterated from existence.
Everyday has become learning new ways to survive.
Our struggles have transformed us into involuntary warriors –
Combatants towards civility – unwitting witnesses to a life now deplorable.
There is no looking back.
Our backs will strengthen both in tolerance and anger.
Our souls harden in a daily war against those who once endured, fought, and lost.
We fall in line behind those obedient fools – unable to find the way back to then.
Soon, we too will trample over the innocent quiet voices – their tones foreign to our ears.
We will mock, smile, and exist – while they fall apart.

- by Michael Weems

A.M.

A pair of sweet brown eyes gaze over my sleeping form.
Waking and turning towards them evokes a quick wave of shock, elation, and flattery.
On countless occasions I’ve longingly stared at her –
Unsure, in my mind, over whether I’m happier for her to sleep a few minutes longer –
Allowing uninterrupted glances at each part of her perfection:
Her hair combining with daylight to halo her shoulders –
The hypnotic rise and fall of her chest –
The ever so slight flicker of her eyes as they travel through dreams.
My other senses want her to wake
Allowing her to know the equal devotion that flows from my mind.
Today, a sweet smile resides – one that sparks of comfort –laziness when it can be afforded
There are no words to be spoken – silence lets her re-enter our world from where she’s been.
Instead – our eyes meet and even though its morning, time becomes a non entity.
Morning, noon, and night soon become spend together waking and falling asleep once more.
Our fingers touch – an invitation to know each other after the separation of slumber.
“Good morning”, she speaks.

- by Michael Weems

Writers Guidelines

Eye on Life Magazine publishes three or four poems a week from the submissions we receive. We are looking for short to medium length poems, no forced rhymes or poems crammed into forms in which they clearly don’t belong. Ideally we want to see stunning imagery and/or meaning that cannot be fully contained by form, or form that actually and effortlessly works.

If accepted, your work will be published online in our Poetry Unlocked feature. We will send you a link so that you can view your work and tell us if any corrections are needed.  We will also be happy to post a link to other work you may have already published online.  

We do not pay for poetry submissions at this time. All rights revert to the poet upon publication. We respond to submissions usually in less than two weeks.

We look forward to seeing your work!

You can submit up to five previously unpublished poems by using our online form.

Half Made Moment (a salute to becoming)

life’s banquet
slowly baked
appetizers consumed
hearts and minds
nourished
treasured memories and
magical moments
artfully crafted
molded and stuffed
into a ripe
hopeful present
reality’s recipes
all slowly simmered
savory treats
for tomorrow’s
wondrous feast


- by William Vollrath

Plaid Skies & Purple Dogs

           
Just beyond the opaque doors
phantoms lurk
for weary souls

Familiar strangers back to play
restless past lives
now have their say

Flying monkeys, large talking fish
wise astral cousins
with something to teach

Images form, as grapes on the vine
consciousness opens
each night at dream time

- by William Vollrath

existential irritation

the rash remains
like a cockroach
momentarily almost comfortable between
eternities seeking warmth, water, food, security
and a good orgasm
brief, bio-chemical fulfillment
in the face of on-going mental cruelty and
the recurring void of
spiritual starvation
but my therapist assures me
it is only a little existential crisis
curable with a bit more
focus on the healthy       
integrated whole
there is a lot of it going around

- by William Vollrath

NEW YEAR’S PROPHECIES

A war will end or carry on or start.
A celebrated pair will split or wed.
Philanthropy will touch the whole world’s heart.
A shocking rampage will leave many dead.
Star athletes will use drugs to fuel their wins.
High offices and titles will change hands.
Shamed politicians will confess their sins.
Storm and disease will ravage divers lands.
Markets will plunge and soar and reel from fraud.
Doctors will name new foods that help or harm us.
Sects will square off about the will of God.
’Twill all have been foretold by Nostradamus.
   Twelve months from now, we’ll view the coming year,
   As usual, with mingled hope and fear.

HOLIDAY FARE

Another year of everyday assaults
On all the virtues “aw shucks” calls to mind
Has left us ravenous for vintage schmaltz –
It’s Jimmy Stewart and Frank Capra time!
Life often isn’t wonderful, we know,
And angels-get-their-wings theology
Is no less bogus than the movie snow
That pretties Bedford Falls.  But let that be.
Let homespun goodness take its lumps, then win.
Let go sophistication; swallow whole
Hollywood’s smorgasbord of saccharine
(Although tear-salted) junk food for the soul.
   Let a wonky newel post be iconic
   And winking heavenward be unironic.

- Chris O’Carroll

Last Words

I hear you in a dream calling out.
Searching for that someone
you have never known. I sit alone
in a rotating corner—shadows forming
all your favorite shapes.

My dream-self does not know
where it belongs in such dreams.
Always wishing it could tell you
that I am findable. That in your equation
I can be proven.

You’ve seen my silhouette, coming off the walls
you walk along. It hinders the burning sun for you;
is a barrier when it’s cold.
But have you looked closely, lately?
Look now.

And though not in the shape of a crown
or a single, confident rose,
it is not a dangerous thing.
It is not meaningless.
Did you even know, you’re its maker?

These are the things I want to tell you.
But my dream-tongue must hold.
It holds because I know that in the place
where we actually speak
we are speaking our last words.

- Jason Sturner

The Night Of Christmas

In the night
When darkness
Became light
A starry flock
Of angels
Gathered round
The golden comet
And bestowed
Sparkles of joy
On all shepherds.
As they set forth
A little Manger
Was already glowing
In their heart.

- by Olivia Arieti

- YEWLTIDE REVIEW -

the imitation
trees magis verus, of piney
timed & tines spined just
so no needles to tread, dread-
not little Zhu-Zhu’s, none thrown

to the cabbagepatch
this, you’ll see China…  But home-
boy? parbaby’s been
carted from the caddylack -                  
bruised & scrapped…  No-no, I got

I’ capped, why It’ll
take the teeth right offa’ me
no Diamondalle this
but (coltrhearted) love supreme
in the name of love, the ‘house

on the finger’ c’mon
forget yer troubles c’mon &
get happy…that chunk-
o’-diamond on your hand is
a fortune, baby but you’ll

know It stands…’for a 
placapatron, you see me iron
the apron? rented?
bought? the wedge driven between
the houses on the fingers

will remind, a crass
weighted memorabilian
infidelia, like
that wemmed 9-iron face, our
unshibboleth…  chauvreckless

designated drive-
err, wrecked…kobi-kobe (‘he
who supplants’), tokens,
of where’s the tiger sleeping
tonight-tonight’ll be like

any night on the
west side of your story, oh
glory mellowking 
not a reward!, bored am I
boringyou, bearing…buy-bye.

tinsel continues
to fall, this is the winter
of our malcontent
disquiet’ng little children
asking does China observe

Xmas?  the icon
like the false prophet suited
plenaryday, yet
Oh!, we mimicry…China
celebrates Xmas, he makes

the crap!  Spend-Spend-$pend
that house of the ‘vowprayerie
& Yule be sorry!

H.e.m./H’H.

12.3.MMix.

(Sarcalogos Balatros)

ST   

The 12 Panes Of Christmas

Note: “How can there have been such strife in a Morlde` filled with beautiful Music; & how could there have been  beautiful Music such in a Morlde` filled with strife?”  -Soupy Sales, 2012.

                                        - XMAS’ RADOTER (REDUX) -

Yule be Xmas
afore ye know
the pag’an go
for patterned
stamped snowflakes
‘bove the
Andy Williams’ Shows
DVD Stufftaculate CD,
Away, In A Manger For The Happy Employees,
drivelings (no place like) home
for the Hollydayease
in
a Ford Barricade & SUG Thirsty,
Nay, the new GM Bailout.

Suffer
the little Children
new bornes, infants
what nary see
but a Semi-Claus
ere
semiclaws,
tithes for the celibre-cause craws.

Remembrances
to things past-past, of
natal assemblies
en callow chorale masse
gone
Proustikipped,
to mortitorium’s
N’well

& stockings filled
with
the chimney’s cold care
yet in hopes
das Geheimnis Viktoria
would
somehow brassiere…

Dear G*d,
(Walsch also asked)
How’re You doin’ It, &
Your Son?…Tarnished
proof weighdown here, filled
with
vanilla, frozen grins &
Joyburdened smiles…
‘neath
pattern-stamped snowflakes &
piney Glade heads
afore the marshed desert
Koyaanisqatsi

Like yearlings’
trotted-out
Saviormusic
whilst the other 333
like
666 -
doubled for toil ‘n trouble -
employed
to savaging
One, many, or ‘nother…

Christmas partidges’
riffeled feathers family?
pared, unprepaired,
Indeed, vouchsafed
an enemy sans name
on
a horse with no name, save
Internecine

AmeriKa.

For
A kiss ‘neath
the mistlesilo
whilst acaroling
of the Bedlamites
(Acts, II: 2-6),
the Psalming 100?,
Screeching
like sleds in pit gravel to
the Silent Night

HeyMen!

There lies
an evergrander Light
at the Dawn, but
Hey!,
who’s gonna
tear-away
from
Yawnni,
& the extra-Vaganza
of
Truth?

                    H.e.m.H’H.

                    12.13.MMviii.

                    (ST)

                                                         - GIG-‘88 -

…He phoned to inquire
to availability
of the Band, “Mr.

Leeds, yes, we’d like to
hire your Combo for ‘New Year’s
Eve,’ and possibly

other Parties, are
you available, and what
do you cost?”  “Yes, and

how many Players?”
“Oh, we’d prefer a ‘Trio,’
4 people, you know

a Piano, Sax-
o-phone, a Trumpet, the Drums -
who does the Singing?”

“Our Quartet’s price is
Two-thousand.”  “Ah, what about
the ‘Trio’?”  ” Yes, that’s

Fifteen-hundred.”  “Oh
that’s too much!  “Well, hmm,  you can
have the ‘Duo’ for

Twelve…that interest you
at all - what did you think you
would spend, Mr. Schnurr?”

“Oh, about ‘Seven,’
or Seven-fifty… no more
than a Thousand.”  “Tell

me, do you own a
SpeakerPhone?”  “We just got it,
we love it, why it’s

great!”  “Good, I’ve got your
number, & for a Thousand
Dollars, I’ll dial-you-

up at the stroke of
Midnight & Sing ‘Auld Lang Syne,’
Get yourselves gathered!”

                                      H.e.m./H’H.

                                      8.2.MMv.

                                                   - PIZZA ON EARTH -

gnashing in the snow
it’s a Vixen SUG
for here or to go? -

ho! ho! ho!   ho! ho!
keep The Christ all ways in You,
& extra cheese, please.

                            H.e.m./H’H.

                            12.21.MMiv.

                                                      - 12.25 -

4:30 AM
paraselene; treetops un-
glistened - unpaillet

4 dreams vaporize,
memories undistanced, and
then, Ebb’s, ‘Angel Eyes.’

                      H.e.m./H’H.

                      12.25.MMiv.

                                                    - PREAMBLE -

du riguer, cultures’
custom/law to utter in
the, ‘Happy New Year!’

Me?  I’ll chill in my
bottle of Ol’ Lang Syne lost
for Millennia.

                        H.e.m./H’H.

                        12.31.MMiv.

Bleeding Starlight

Drinking the words of the Soul Touchier
Swimming in his depths of painted passion
Dreaming his dreams, feeling his pain
Tears cascade down my cheeks as I
Immerge into silence
Raining crystal shards upon my being
Sharp as knives upon my abandoned emptiness
Tracing shadows with your image of thoughts
Breathless to the beauty of your soul
Longing to open the chamber and heal the heart of the Beloved
To seal my oath with a kiss and be wrapped in glorious warmth
Golden warmth of an embrace captured in time
Frozen in the hourglass of my mind
Fire dance of the ancients weaving the night
Watching from above in your glass tower built 9 stories in the sky
Being lured to your stage, spellbound by your enchanting grace
Every simple gesture a declaration of magical strength
I can’t hide from you feeling me
Shaking before you with the weight of the fall too heavy to bear
Lightning flashes glimpses of the capitol
Rain of pain washes filth from the earth with heavenly tears
12 Messages for the heart of broken wings
His voice loving and caressing
Reading captured words of poetic thought
Giving me strength to do what I must
My confession of betrayal written in rhyme
Inflicting sorrow upon the golden heart to the deepest depths
To bleed out starlight
Condemned to death but saved by your grace in a moment
Moment of eternity looking into the eyes of infinite beauty
A promise of what is to come
Waning moon of the 13th of June
A day that is forever burned into my soul
To remember always
When the wine turned to blood
And ashes were no more

- Melissa Diana

WOW

can’t remember the name

but remember

that guy we used to like

on that show

what was it called anyway?

anyway

we were all together

and what’s her face arrived

remember her

she lived next door

when we lived on Otsego

or had we moved to Westchester

yes, yes, New Rochelle

no, no it

was in the Hollywood Hills

anyhow it was

afternoon, or was

Christmas Eve

no, no

Thanksgiving

yeah, yeah Thanksgiving

remember

we all had loved the soup

that Vicky had made

or did someone else bring it

anyway

turned out

the soup everyone loved so much

was really the gravy

for the turkey

yeah, yeah,

it was gravy not soup

when we found out

we all laughed and agreed

it was a better soup

than it was a gravy

it was pretty

funny

that must have been

twenty years ago

yeah, I’m sure of it

twenty years

no wait,

could it have

been longer

yeah, yeah

it was

wow

- by Ivan Jenson

Thank You

The day of giving thanks is due
so they want it from the heart.
Our words don’t mean a thing to them
but they’ve used them from the start.
When we ask them how much cash they’ll pay
they laugh and say “not much”.
So we pull a thousand nooses round
and say “thanks, we’d rather not”.

- by Jason Voorhees

HOLIDAZE

I sit by myself
ready for dinner
Wild Turkey in hand
with sides of weeds and Mushrooms
Cocaine  for desert


I am alone by choice
have plenty of places to eat
I celebrate thanks in my own way

My dinner is an all day event
I draw pilgrims and Indians
I throw up often
only to consume more and more
I listen to classical music to set the mood

I think if there was ever a time to be thankful
it is now
as my buzz is reaching a climax of historical magnitude
I talk with Ben Franklin
and we agree that the turkey should be the national bird

Thank you Giving
Thank you very much

- by Mark Murphy

The Pedestrian Guide to Thanksgiving

You are about to enter a unique world with fugitive time and felonious texting.

Mining in a fowl grotto:

Cold fingers probe dark places

seeking release…hold on.

Found chef’s treasures: kidneys, heart and neck.

Grandma ripped the yard riding her atv.

Sparkling and hypnotic. Don’t stare,

but there it is…tinsel hangs off her chin.

Now playing the greatest hits for your audio pleasure.

“You Never Listen to Fleas” followed by

“Blank Stairs a Leaping”.

Impending covert texting during deep conversations

held in a spinning room.

Focus pokes us on the light and hang on to a chair.

The turkey gives birth to a plastic pouch of gravy.

(How touching.)

A cougar stands in the living room

pretending not to be there.

People ask questions.

“What do you do?”

(Friends and relatives come with instructions)

I shake them upsidedown on a regular basis

looking for instructions on the souls of their feet,

bend them over and search the back of their necks.

“Ann, what are you doing?”

A snicker slips to a guilty grin.

No instructions?

Clumsy words wound my friend.

Not knowing till after the fact

became a limp possum,

pretending to be in a tryptophan coma,

I poke him with a stick.

No movement.

Damn, my pornographic hearing.

Bang, bang, ditty, can, can!

Those French girls fell out of the poster, again.

(Ah…the hazards of buying art on sale at a magic store)

They jump on the coffee table and flash their bloomers,

singing “Little girls get bigger every day”,

demanding accordion music and tossing drinks.

Ok girls, back in the painting!

I go outside to clear my head

and borrow Grandma’s atv.

The moon cast its spell.

I transform into a cougar.

(This will make shoe shopping interesting)

I return home,

stoke warmth and good cheer.

Have a wicked Thanksgiving!

- by Raven King

Thanksgiving is Here

Cut the turkey, slice the pie and serve the stuffing!
Thanksgiving is here.
Mash the potatoes, grill the corn and commence the fighting.
Thanksgiving is here.
It’s not the same without Uncle Joe,
And his ass-less chaps at an all time low.
Thanksgiving is here.
Where is Aunt Debra and her new choice of liquor,
Along with her daughter who’s never looked thicker.
Thanksgiving is here.
Why does Dad insist on burning the DVDs,
And is that mom handing him more matches I see?
Thanksgiving is here.
Nana must be smoking dope in the garage, which seems valid
Cause Cousin Mike just the entire bowl of pasta salad.
Thanksgiving is here.
I see cheese spaghetti and dirty rice,
When was the last time Fran checked for lice?
Thanksgiving is here.
But now it’s time to make a toast,
To the family that really must mean the most.
I only get this one chance a year,
Even though it might be the time I fear.
What this dysfunctional family means to me,
Is that no matter what I’m not sorry,
For these times I do bet
I’ll most certainly never forget.
Thanksgiving is here.

- by Katie McBroom