Cold Rambler

Crash-landed, wings clipped Unable to soar or screech Ruinous ashes Slumbering phoenix smolders Exhausted, no will to rise

Mercy, pray mercy, the recognition of age— the one constant in life. It rules each aspect of our hours. it governs the how, the when and the why of our days. It even regulates our sleep— “Hey, it’s eleven o’ clock! I’ve got to get to bed!” It dictates how long  we rest and recharge our batteries, so we can rise and run  time’s course again.  Then, there’s the dream  of throwing the clock away, of burning time by choice alone. But the unemployed and  the retired know that this dream  is a nightmare disguised.  It’s the terror of a pen in hand,  a blank page before us and the nagging question— “What next? What next?” And there is no soothing settlement. We rue the demanding schedule, then mourn the structure once it's gone. The clock permits no compromise. And to think we did this to ourselves— the Lord’s one animal  that measures the passage of days. It’s the gift that’s really a curse.  Mercy, pray mercy, the recognition of age.  ...

If such a creature didn’t exist we’d have to invent it for sure. Whether Zeus or Allah, Jehovah or any of the rest, all fulfil the same  purpose. All create a framework  of behaviour, the laws of god which must be obeyed without argument, without thinking, without due process. All create a framework of rights. Some have them, others don’t. They’re god given so no argument, no thinking, needed. And all need a territory, a god given territory from the beginning of time and for evermore No argument, no thinking, god given.      Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She has been nominated for Pushcarts, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/

We escaped for a moment, and that was apparently for a moment too long. All my dreams were dispersed into a void of emptiness as you were a victim of choice. I cannot fathom the end, but no matter my readiness, it is most certainly here. Heartbreaks are fragments of bad choices and damn near fatal accidents. Now all I am left with is this broken shell and a barely functioning memory. The poison is within reach as it is inside of me. I cannot fathom what lies ahead. I just know that in my life I got it all wrong. There's no turning back, as at the beginning of any story, the saddest truth comes with the realization it must inevitably end. As with that said, I am gone.   John Patrick Robbins, is a Southern Gothic writer and editor of The Rye Whiskey Review his work has been published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Disturb The Universe, Horror Sleeze Trash, Piker Press, A Thin Slice Of Anxiety and Fixator Press. His work is often dark and always unfiltered. 

 One of our members             was only married             for a few months,             when he required of his wife             to end every question             framed with the colloquialism,             "before you choke the chicken?"             His remains were scattered             over a Bavarian Forest,             the Pacific Ocean Maldive Atolls,             and an Indiana Walmart parking lot.             Still he did not rue.             Rather, his only regret             was his inability to locate             a decent decaf coffee    

It was a windy day in a windy city a long time ago. A sudden flurry made me into the vortex and I was surrounded by sheets of paper caught up and blown from a doorway. When it had settled,  I collected a few. They were letters applying for jobs dated about fifty years ago, I forget exactly when. All were hand written  in the most beautiful cursive scripts. I could visualise the care with which nibs had been dipped in ink, the concentration in the touch of pen to paper. These were the stuff of unknown dreams. The names are long forgotten now but I wonder what became of them, those ghosts of a past who touched my life in a flurry of wind only to be blown away.   Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She has been nominated for Pushcarts, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. https://lynn...