Industrial Age

The Horizon.
shimmering,
shimmering, shimmering
and beyond,
out of sight,
the factories ,
sitting idle-
quiet-
silent.

They came from beyond the
horizon, beyond the shimmering;
numberless men out of the
vast land. Brickmakers,
bricklayers, builders, laborers,
and factory men.

They created the factories
and filled them with lights,
sounds, and the residue of
a million toils.

Only the buildings remain-
forlorn-
empty-
desolate-
-- crumbling stacks
-- rotten beams
-- cracked foundations

Once busy rooms
-- long silent.
The men who toiled
-- long dead.
The families
-- long gone.

Only the buildings remain;
standing in testament to
an agotime of pride and
importance - but now idle.

So long idle.

And the everwind
pushes and flows
gently
gently
gently
through the empty rooms
out the broken windows
pushing and flowing
gently
gently
towards the shimmering horizon.

December-1997

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Note:

The above poem was inspired by
(what I thought was) a rather vivid
image in the last paragraph
of Chapter 12 of Desolation
Angels by Jack Kerouac

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SIREN

IN AN ATTEMPT
To LooK OUT
THE WINDOW
I SAW
THE SHORES
OF YOUR ISLAND

SURFS
REEFS
AND TIDES
MADE YOU
UNACCESSABLE
TO ME

April—2004

By Bob Slattery

Poets, coaster scribes, and pontificators---we want your submissions. See submission guidelines.

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Sitting with Memories

Sitting on a clump of earth, my old dog
Sleeping lazily at my boots,
I watch clouds drift past.

Except for the gentle rustle of the wind
Walking through the tall grass whistling,
There is no other sound to be discerned.

I drift into my mind, reliving the fond memories of youth,
Smiling in recognition of a forgotten friend lost to the ages,
Or of my old dog who slipped away just a few years past.

I find myself missing them all.

As time passes with all its' regal nonchalance,
I think of all the memories I can recall
And weep for the ones I have forgotten.

Yet always there, just beyond arms reach
Is a fleeting glimpse of what was and what could have been,
And a smile to bring them all home.

Dave B rown

2004

I hear no noise, not even the drum beat of my heart.

Nearby a creek known for housing
Powerful trout capable of leaping dozens of inches
Into the air to catch fattened flies or hovering hummingbirds caught unawares.

Dave Brown

Sunlight drips through blue stained glass
washing blue an otherwise nondescript floor.
Cascading light flows like slowly moving fog across a forest floor-
swallows my toes whole as I watch from atop
the chair resting in the corner of my small room.

Head hung between shoulders
hands wrenched behind décolletage,
a small rivulet begins to form enticing the blue light
to dance gaily about my feet
as it swims through a tiny saline sea.

Dave Brown