Only Happy Lies

I told myself at the beginning of this year

That I would try to write only happy poems.

That is harder to do than it sounds.

But would it be a lie if I said I tried,

But then wrote something sad instead?

Would it be a lie if I said this prompt

Made me happy,

Didn’t take me down a rabbit hole

I didn’t want to go down?

Don’t get me wrong,

I love rabbits, especially the little cottontail ones,

The ones with the cute little noses.

No lies there.

But would it be a lie if I said I’ve never lied?

Ok, don’t answer that. I won’t if you won’t.

It’s not a lie that I don’t like lying,

Especially to myself,

But to stop lying, I have to examine the life I lead,

To reflect on who I think I am.

I must ask myself the tough questions 

and answer them, honestly.

Hello. My name is Paul, and I’m a liar.

It’s been 3 hours and fifteen minutes since my last lie.

But who is counting?

—Paul Causey

Idol

There lives a god within,

my own personal creation.

This is a god tranquil as a river trickle.

Cypress roots and limestone rocks 

along the river banks collect her.

This is a god as sinuous as wind

that glances along skin.

Bare arms, bare legs, bare skin,

wet with sweat,

welcome the parting curtains of heavy heat.

This is a god that burns alone in rage,

as sudden as the lightning’s strike

on dry prairie scalp,

overgrown, praying for a burn,

for the steam of scars,

the green survival that resurrects back.

There is a god inside, 

my history’s creation.

I wish I could atheist her away.

But she is there to stay.

I must restrain, I must care for her,

remind myself

that offerings to her are 

an offering to me and you.

—Emily Romano

Untitled

— Kim Mosley 

Tomorrow is a Yesterday

What fun to find 

that without my fear

or the lies that resistance insures survival,

tomorrow becomes a yesterday  in waiting.

Where time resembles 

 a canine expectation

on windowsill watch - 

a perfect strategy

to stay in puerile fascination.

To know the whole of everything 

with that childlike speculation

of what makes sense in this world.

A world that’s still, when my heart is full. 

A world not needing much in certainty.

Just being quiet enough to hear 

creation in conversation.

And in this world of mine

today is the only thing of value,

not needing trust or hope

but imaginations 

that have just enough wisdom 

to be confidants of the absurd,

to ask to place a window next to everything

as perhaps I'll need to go out and play.

— Ed Sancious