Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #1                        Page 15
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The Blog Bog

The Mag Rack


virtuoso of
the primal squawk

of the bridge
and the furious

without the church

but not your daddy's
protest music

sheets of sound
cascading down

chromatic leapings,

riffs copped
from old show tunes,

jagged melodies
for which you had
no inkling

but if you listen
really listen

to the space
between the sounds

if you listen
really listen

to the quality
of the blowing

that saxophone
of John

the voice
of an old

at night
just to you

                           Chris Butters


Sweat dripping
from the energy we made,
God, we were good.

Now, four AM, lying in my own bed,
I look out upon the moonlit parking lot,
sit in a cold sweat, calculate
the differences,
how our busy lives,
like those gyres we drew

with compasses as kids,
by flying apart
all the better might attract
each other back,

sashay and spin, those
gorgeous gyres being perfectly woven
every time we finally
implode upon one another:

your space, my space,
your work my work,
your friends my friends,
your politics, my politics.

                           Chris Butters


You turn to greet me
Brown hair whipping
Broad smile gleaming.

Your blue eyes mischievous
Breaming with life
Exciting as well as warm and calming.

Gradually our arms envelope
As we meld together
With a touch as gentle and sincere
As it is playfully exhilarating.

I close my eyes, still holding you
Yet seeing you lying in waiting
For me, stretched out on your bed.

Alas, with arms outstretched and
Fingers barely touching
The time comes when the embrace must end,
But no loss lass
'cause the view is lasting.

        Sean E. O'Connor