Make every day a beautiful day.
Eye on Life Magazine is a Lifestyle and Literary Magazine. Enjoy articles on gardening, kitchen cooking, poetry, vintage decor, and more.
Silently, I tip-toe to touch
The soft angel-face I love so much
Each whispered kiss releases me
From the present into eternity
Then I so blessed as my child brings
His sleepy arms about me linked
Like softly folded gossamer wings.
Then lifted up, he enfolds my yearning
Scattering my illusions of need, burning…
Into Fairy Dust
With tight hug and wide-eyed trust
He offers me his simple truth
“I love you mom”
Oh precious gift, my lovely son.
Blessed be,
each of your wrinkles.
For it was wisdom you earned
and shared
that drove the canyons and carved those lines.
Blessed be,
your hair,
grey, white or gone.
For the sacrifice of time and patience
and love
changed them forever or drove them away.
Blessed be,
the tar stains
on your lips and teeth and fingers.
For they are the imprint of every cigarette you smoked
every two minutes
past when I should have been home.
Blessed be,
your arthritis.
It stands as testimony
to all the times you ran, jumped, tripped
to protect me.
You are a sacred person, indeed,
for you chose your path
to be my sanctuary.
Bright Saturday in June
and there, for once, the whole of it
and, Lord, I have no camera.
Outside the church
a wedding party waits.
A Mass is still in progress.
Before the wedding can begin
ten men, in files of five,
must carry out the corpse.
I’ve fed Old Tom
for many years
with never any thanks,
not one meow.
He arrives at night
with eyes ablaze.
I crack the door
and slide a tin
of Fancy Feast
across the deck
toward him
like a puck.
He hunkers
on the railing till
I lock up.
Then he pounces.
The tin’s a mouse,
you see,
and suddenly
it’s time to eat.
I remember the train
and the cab that I caught,
the train because of the meal that I had,
too many plates, the tiniest portions,
the cab because of the driver I had.
I could see in the mirror his eye
soar to the side of its socket,
a hummingbird there
ready to flutter into his skull.
From station to town,
that hummingbird flew
as I kept listening
to its master extol
the town’s lone hotel.
The grains of sand between us
Made a pearl
We made that pearl into a ring
A ring that binds us together
Like twine
Barbed wire
A simple understanding
Some days
Like today
Everybody’s hungry
Everyone keeps saying to each other
“I can’t believe I’m still hungry”
“Didn’t I just eat?”
Everywhere I go people are still hungry
They can’t seem to get enough to eat
Some days
Like yesterday
People go about their day-to-day lives with a look of raw hunger on their faces
They can’t get enough food to feel satisfied
And on those days
Like yesterday
I feel happy
I feel happy that we’ve found something to bind us together
he sat alone in the cold mornings quietyet to be troubledwith the trials of the day.
his face, as worn as the ripples on a lakehe sat while life taxied the lake before him
perhaps he sat in reflection of a life that did not spare himfrom its trials
it seems he still had yet to make peace with this world as he warmed the cold bench alone
-I was drawn to his complacency-
his gaze fixed upon the young in hurried laughter and in the blessed ignorance of youth as he watched and smiled.
-I was drawn to his joy- young lovers eagerly occupied the bench nearest his wooed in fervor'd caresses a benefit only to them his gaze, now rendered despondent
-I was drawn to his heartache-
he now fixed upon a man who scolded children whom played too close to the lake
tutored well, the old man solemnly nodded in approval. -I was drawn to his regret-he sat alone, in reverie while the bench nearest his replaced the lovers in fervor,now warned passive as two aged lovers held hand in hand.
the lake fell silentthe air--still a lonely mistress fed eager pigeons
he raised his hand to shield tears that seemingly startled his view
he fumbled with his neckerchief to rescue the felled tears -I was drawn to his sadness-
the old man, trodden'd with memories of his years in ignorance of youth and love--of loss and regret, accompanied him as he sat alone.
I wondered of all this now when I learned today of his departure from this world.
maybe then, he had no one left to sit with him.
I too, sit alonein the cold morning's quiet
I sit, where he sat.having only to mind my tea my mug--still steaming warmed my hands.
I wondered if he would have also enjoyed a cup.- Sandy Marie I love the girlAlthough she has no handsWe paint ourselves like elephantsAnd dance inside our skin I tried to cryInside the movie theatreBut my hands just got bloodyAnd my popcorn washed away I love the girlAlthough I can’t seeShe wears perfumeAnd I can’t drink waterSe we pretend we’re rattle snakesWho have run out of miceThe first time I saw youI thought you where my wife- Damian Lanahan-KalishYou will drink me, on rocks, one last time
friend. Enjoy it; the sad burn, the heat swell,
the numb threads of nothing. The biting chill of ice-
bergs hitting broken lips and like you, waiting
to change.
But, you don’t change.
Tonight, you will thirst my poison into your blood,
pray to liquid spirits behind a dirty windshield,
run into a small car containing: a wife, a son, a daughter.
Don’t worry, you
alone
will be safe.
the patient earth, strawberry fields, undisturbed
quiet in every shade of green, tasting the smell of fresh cut
grass, the mud pools of childhood, the empty river that
once hummed along lonely roads and flower heads.
A clear night sky made for whoever is looking, just in that
moment, stars that blink away the dark,
and those mornings on ice that meddle with affairs
of warm sheets and flesh, the frost that bites
cold feet in a hot shower.
Hunger for reading
dissimilar of homework
novitiate and
to his, “I’m thirsty” midnight;
reading, here begets hunger
Prompts… and what to the
wonderous gastrome should appear
(and does!) but the seg-
fermented platter “obscene”
delight - mango, persimmon
plantain-like-bmanna
star fruit (doin’ carambola)
papaya, quince, hints
of apple in sinopome
kiwi to all ripe
read-y, this heady
bouquet… uncommon lunch, brunch
munched like a picnic
sliced away, from vinegar
Drosophila Melanogaster
Like bounty, breadfruits
abundant to an ample
sea, fruits who labor
sweet and acrid repartee
dissuaded not for love’s glee
Reading for hunger
this thirst enquenched by Poets
knowits; and like the
apricot grain salves, eager
eye to life’s light, T’berius.
Drawing by Terrianne U. Swift
doggerel versus
preposefilled words’ current
motion, a twitch of
the switch, crankayank, lever
everwhen whrrrs, the 3rd House
light, dark, semi-sweet
benderblender oiled nay un-
unctuous, geared… like new
wheels to a new wheel, spinning
weave-grinning tapastrys, like
chariotgods in
spoked perpetua, like to
turbopoes Powms, Pombs
revolvicos, round an’ ‘round
fuels of fire, on fire
yearn, burning, learning
as it goes and goes…like a
heartsongrespacyc,
or mistrals-succubater
doin’ bidding, mechano-
fittings some, on none…
Haroglyphs not not-unlike
Moll of Flangers v.
the grommet bushings & bores’
piston right wingnuts unscrewed
Simple crankayank
thanks (if’n yer not doin’ yer
job, yer not doin’ yer
job), round an’ ‘round, enjambment
nay injambed, verse-obverse, Powm!
3rd. House knock-out punch!
‘fore the margonom… Nary
litter box tools lathe
fashion’d doggerel biscuits
dig… toilets machines, too!
Grottoed
to the wall,
fluorescence afloat
4 wide
2 high
1 deep, an
ichthyologism
pouted
angel smiles
in & out
of model caves, wile
winding, threading
faux drifting
forward & back fins, treading
like diaphanous lingerie
with nowhere to go
the smalls
hide
in tropical incarpceration
from striped black mollies’
embattled spece
& speckled zebras
in checkered futures
where none is welcomed
save C.F. Muddypuppy, Jr.
swabbing below O O O…
too bubbling unnaturally!
eyes
silverblue dart,
in confine grouper aggress
downturn at the mouth of hovel
graveled & pretty pebbled
this school for alienation
childfish innocence gone
of sweet, ingenue faces
gone
to 2 by 4 by 1 pool
tropicalla
not deep enough!
Vestibule
“Jake” chirrups
to his mirror
& circus clips
in grey-white plumearray
& orange jole
festooned canarycrown
unfurled-furled
talons & beak
that just won’t speak
but
a plaintive, training whistle
in the day, night uncuttle
hungry
for more than scup seedlings!
All
Whilst gaelic, loden lizards
thankfully…scamper.
Drawing by Terrianne U. Swift
First of all, your mind.
The chimes must stop,
the drums, the horns,
as well. Finally, the long,
the wild parade
of mummers crazed
you must spade off
the way my Daddy,
years ago,
when I was four,
on a bright St. Patrick’s Day,
turned the soil in Mother’s garden,
cursed the British
one more time
then drove his spade,
while Mommy screamed,
through the neck
of a garden snake.
The Book Peddlers
have lost interest
in publishing
Good Books
and instead
prefer to publish
Money.
But since Money
is very dull to read
The Good People
have stopped buying,
Which leaves
the Book Peddlers to lament;
There isn’t enough
money
to publish
Good Books
The leaves fall wet, heavy and yellow
stacking on the ground with light applause.
It brings memories of
crunchy fall walks through the woods,
with crisp, damp air, misty on your skin.
The days are shorter and cooler each,
with frost around the corner
It is quiet
except when the wind
tips last night’s raindrops,
caught in cups
of up-turned leaves
and spills both,
drop and leaf,
to the quilted ground
the last trace of nightfall evaporates
with the approach of dawn
as fingers of early morning light
reach across the jagged landscape
in an effort to arouse the sleeping giant
from a deep slumber!
a murmur of sounds
of various and sundry modulations
from the multi-headed beast
betokens a tiding of gladness
(for all the rest of the world to hear)
at the approach of morning!
with each passing interval of time
the prominent peaks and near bottomless canyons
of the dry, windswept tract
(of a veritable no man’s land)
stand out in bold relief
against the smooth sky!
soft movements of footfalls
carry the life force forward
in search of a meal
while simultaneously up above
the birds of prey
circle in anticipation of a victim!
— matthew harris
Tucked in a booth in back,
the last customer of the day
cracks a fortune cookie,
sips Oolong as Mr. Hong
locks up. It’s time for his supper.
Two tall sons bear
from the kitchen dishes
his wife won’t allow
on the menu.
Platters of meat
red, green, brown
huddle and steam
in the middle of the table.
When the Hongs
drop in their seats
chopsticks fly
like beaks. So many bright teeth,
quick as piranha.
An old blue shoe,
a cake of soap,
are all that remain
in the house
on Hempstead.
Sitting in a corner
tracing lines in
the linoleum
I picture the way
she peeled avocados,
chopped onions
and sang.
We were happy
once weren’t we?
A family of three.
With so many
plans and procedures.
The wax we had
molded, the hair
we had brushed.
Promises made, kept
and broken.
The Rockwell that
hung on the wall.
When exactly did
the glass break
letting out the
whisper of despair?
When did the hum
of the furnace
silence, the snow
seep through the door?
Sweep it soundly
in the dustpan,
set it out to sail
along the lines
of the racing freeway
to the dump sitting
high on the hill.
— Kelly Cahill
