3 poems by 3 poets

illustrations by roy dismas and konrad kraus

fragment of a fragment by horace p sternwall comrades, let us rest a while before we walk another mile as into oblivion we sink let us have another drink let poets and philosophers and others that the gods prefer debate who's second, who is first i only know i have a thirst oh why rose empires and nations and so-called civilizations humans should have been contented when booze was invented to sit beneath the trees as easy as you please and imbibe its pleasant fumes instead of pursuing heroic dooms who needs golden palace rooms and alabaster tombs when the sweetest dreams of all from an upraised glass can fall myself by samantha monday sternwall if i could only be myself i would never be anybody else i'd let them play their happy roles and save my own unfathomed soul and watch from my window serene across the lawn so green the rays of the sunset gracefully crack across the gardener's bent back if i could be a flower for only one hour it might be fascinating, yet i am afraid i might regret being unable to return to a life i did not finally spurn my own true life - the life of me the only person i ever want to be special by chuck leary i'm special. are you special, too? let's go away together, me and you to a magic world, where hearts are true and no one can tell us what to do we'll never have pimples, warts or hives we will live our own lives it will never be too hot or cold we'll live forever and never grow old i will pick you a new flower every day and you will look at me and say i never knew it could be this way i love you more than the sun has rays fairies and elves will bring us food we'll never be in a bad mood we'll walk beside an ocean deep and the rain will sing us softly to sleep

the last romantic

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by konrad kraus and danny delacroix

harold smith, a romantic soul had a desperate resolute goal he pined for the lady emmeline and dreamed to ask, "wilt thou be mine?" fortune favored harold not and brushed him aside without a thought the stars looked down on him unseeing and cared not for his inner being his fellow humans likewise cared not a whit how harold fared in pursuit of such romance as might be granted him by chance the city's drawing rooms are lit by flashing eyes and sparkling wit amorous hints and flashing glances in which all manner of promise dances but outside on the avenue are those for whom the wind blows through sad fantasies and ragged clothes no love song, but the croak of crows for such as harold, in the mist the tale has no redeeming twist no jolly songs around the hearth no escape from this abandoned earth the moon looks down on her rough sibling no teardrop from her eye is dribbling her face is smooth, her smile is cold at every story ever told his humble plaint was never posed the book on harold now is closed owls and bats look down askance at dreaming love's last graveyard dance

cherry

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by roy dismas

under a blue familiar sky polly baked a cherry pie the farmhands fell down in a coma overcome by its aroma through the fields the effluvia spread the hands fell down as if struck dead and through the corn rows, stern as sin john the baptist came again john, cried polly, half in fright why are you here before midnight? the end approaches, john replied and i am just along for the ride dark clouds appeared like flying banners but polly did not forget her manners she kept her wits as she was able and asked john to sit at the table in a calm collected state she put some pie upon a plate and poured a glass of orange juice for catastrophe was no excuse john tentatively took a sip outside in the apocalypse the sky had turned to darkest night and demons howled in rare delight as prophesied in ancient screed the fearful four on flaming steeds filled the horizon from side to side the gates of hell were opened wide from duty polly did not swerve she thought a cup of tea might serve before the world was finally gone polly put the kettle on before the water she could pour the pale rider came through the door no time for lengthy lamentations or exculpatory explanations "john, it was so nice knowing you" "polly, i really liked you too" then death, with a knowing glance so sly finished off the cherry pie