night is calling

by horace p sternwall

illustrations by danny delacroix

when there is no turning back and the last wallop has been packed and the last freight train runs down the track will the universe cut us some slack? or are we eternally doomed to look out the window of the same room and hear the same gypsy play the same tune and the same dog howl at the same moon the world would be a great place if you never had to show your face but could put yourself in a state of grace and disappear without a trace night is calling the rain is falling i could go outside and dance but would rather fall into a trance and be sported far way to a world without night or day with no need for absinthe, opium or magic spells and wake up changed into - anybody or anything else

minstrel song

by jack dale coody

revised and updated by roger "peg leg" wilson

illustrations by danny delacroix

i am a wandering minstrel the horizon is my home more glorious than the empires of babylon, greece and rome i am a wandering minstrel and i walk the world alone and i have no need of internet web, wireless or cell phone i am a rhyming hobo my heart is wild and free the proclamations of empires are watery moonshine to me no obama putin zuckerberg or gates will be the master of my fate no al qaeda or c i a will dictate what i have to say i write my words with the wind and the winding road is my page i sing the truth that never dies to counter all imperial lies the oligarchs in their barricades have every reason to be afraid as sparks of truth fly through the air for living creatures all to share i am a wandering minstrel the horizon is my home more glorious than the empires of babylon, greece and rome

4 poems by 4 poets

illustrations by eddie el greco and danny delacroix

sunny jim by chuck leary once i had a monkey his name was sunny jim and every time i think of him my eyes grow wet and dim i met him in the circus in december of forty-nine we were breaking for the winter and our prospects were not fine he was only a monkey i was only a bum we headed for the highway and i stuck out my thumb i wish i could remember all the things he did and said i only know he was my pal and that he is now dead the clown by mary c fogg the fire is alive and many eyed, twists and falls, and its laughter, at what? - is all colors, the red open mockery, the gold soft sneering, the green gentle amusement, the orange is loutish hooting and looks around for its friends' approval, the purple sardonic contempt, too quick to catch - almost too quick to catch long ago by corinne delmonico long ago but strangely near a princess brushed away a tear in her castle window seat her faithful spider at her feet every day the princess sat at the window looking at the horizon cold and flat on her head she wore a hat to protect her from the sun as she waited for the one who would sweep her off her feet and cause her heart to flutter sweet love was all the princess knew it pervaded her through and through what other joy could life provide? so she waited and she sighed lines by regina osgood stapledon who wants to love me? no one, it seems will i ever find romance? only in my dreams who will remember me? only the wind for i have never been sanctified nor have i sinned

a particular subject

by konrad kraus

lettering by roy dismas

tweed

the missing spoon

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by roy dismas

"and so, you obstinate creature, you persist in denying your guilt?" "but i didn't take it, madam, i didn't! i swear i didn't!" mrs morthwicke did not conceal her contempt. "what say you, mister stanforth?" she asked the lean, somewhat wolf-faced gentleman standing on her left. "i am afraid it's as plain as a pikestaff, madam," he replied, with his long fingers firmly clutching the gray lapels of his frock coat. "the spoon is missing. no one else had the opportunity to take it. if there is only one possibility, it must be acknowledged, no matter how distasteful. therefore - ". he gave a rueful shrug. "do you hear that, miss?" mrs morthwicke asked the weeping maid. "mister stanforth solved the case of the jackberry diamonds. he saved the life of the queen from the mad turkish anarchist. am i to take your word, or his?" "oh, but please, madam, please," the girl cried. she looked around wildly. outside the windows tall trees could be seen waving in the wind, amid a few gusts of snow. "it's so cold out! and i didn't take the spoon, i swear!" hanson, the butler, was a bit disconcerted by the proceedings, and not from any sympathy for the maid, whom he had regarded as a sniveling, incompetent creature, with no personal charms to offset her inefficiency. it troubled him that the missing spoon had not been found, either in the girl's chambers, on her person - thoroughly searched by mrs allen, the housekeeper - or anywhere else. but in the face of mrs morthwicke's cold fury, and mr stanforth's reputation, he kept his peace. "please, madam, at least let me stay until morning! listen to the wind outside! how it howls!" "i am afraid i can not allow you in the house a moment longer. take her away, mrs allen." mrs allen stepped forward and escorted - virtually dragged - the weeping maid away, followed a few paces back by the solemn chanson. "an unpleasant business, mister stanforth," mrs morthwicke observed, when they were gone. "i thank you for your assistance." "unpleasant indeed, " mister stanforth replied. "but from my perspective, a trifle." "i see no reason to further inconvenience the other guests. shall we join them?" "if it is your pleasure." mrs morthwicke rose from her chair, and mister stanforth followed her across the long room. as he did so he passed his hand over his inner vest pocket, ever so gently caressing the outline of the small silver spoon contained in it, and the hint of a smile crossed his lips. for while it was true that mister stanforth had indeed solved the case of the jackberry diamonds (among many famous cases) and had saved the life of the queen on more than one occasion, it was also true that he enjoyed playing malicious pranks, especially on the more anonymous members of society.

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