Poetry of Issue #1                        Page 18
Click page 1 Click page 2 Click page 3 Click page 4 Click page 5 Click page 6 Click page 7 Click page 8 Click page 9 Click page 10 Click page 11 Click page 12 Click page 13 Click page 14 Click page 15 Click page 16 Click page 17 Click page 19 Click page 20 The Blog Bog The Mag Rack	Our parts of which we speak... I enjoy the way your verbs   taste, stroke and titillate   my hut of flesh and its resident soul. I endure the way your adjectives    desire to describe the details of beauty.   Adjectives are paintings of dawn:   they strike sulphur,   but they do not emblazon my vision with brilliance. I revere the nouns that name   the person, place and thing that you are.   Every appellation I use provides   another reference to the benevolence of you. I hate the pronouns assigned to design ourselves,   for enwrapping yourself in pink   won't disguise the cries of your mannish side    and my anima is pregnant with a passion to reproduce. I appreciate the conjunction that you have grown to be.   You are the “And” that facilitates my spirit's state   By using the adhesion of compassion. I adore you for the prepositions that grant these facts:   I am on a bed of beatitude with you.   We do what we want for joy's geysers,   experiencing satisfaction after the flow.	Our parts of which we speak...cont I titter at the interjections we use as illustrations of our jubilation.   The exclamations are sillier   than children chortling on a carousel. I assert adverbially,   both you and I have become   rather pledged to the notion   of cherishing an emotion   without using its word.   Soundlessly appreciating that thoughtful space, waiting for language to transport the topic, our best sentiments on commitment are expressed.                            Bob McNeil  2013 _____________________________________________	The Rotunda                                 In a bucolic rotunda We admired the distant mountains crowded with pines,            Dark-green spots, minuscule figures   In the fine silver thread between God and humanity.                            In a solitary rotunda                          We talked, we laughed,           Soft, loving echoes tapped the ancient wood                                    We dreamed                       One dream, the same dream.                     The rustic bench we were sitting on      Would be covered with a mantle of spring flowers                                                   After our company.              Creepers would climb the idyllic gallery            As our mellow presence cured its nostalgia.                         The sun so warm, rewarding,                     Irradiated auras of something pure.        I leaned my head on your shoulder, the eyes closed  Your voice filled with peaceful notes the quiet morning                       I need the Beauty', I whispered Words from the heart carrying desires for unknown bliss  Inside, you wanted and longed for that rare plenitude                        There are tracks in the snow                                  Precise and neat      We walk hand by hand along imaginary paths           White paths towards rotunda universes    Constellations of pristine Beauty grow in our souls                            LEA DIAZ