Tu pure, o Principessa,. Ma il mio mistero è chiuso in me,. Il nome mio nessun saprà! No, no, sulla tua bocca lo dirò,. Quando la luce splenderà! Ed il mio bacio scioglierà il silenzio. Il nome suo nessun saprà. E noi dovrem, ahimè, morir, morir! Dilegua, o notte! Even you, o Princess, in your cold room,. Watch the stars, that tremble with love and with hope.

LATE BLOOMERS a Poem by Steven Kilpatrick. These grovel churned damp soil to life. The flower off the grave. That rises, lurks and stumbles like the rose. These grovel churned damp soil to life. The flower off the grave. Drowned among rust shoveled waves. These grovel churned damp soil to life. The flower off the grave.

8230;From the town where I was born,. Has driven my destiny,. The town which I have lost,. My glance is greeting me in my dreams. Vom Dorf, drin ich geboren,. Trieb weit mich das Geschick,. Das Dorf, das ich verloren,. Grüßt jetzt im Traum mein Blick. Ripped from the safety of earth. Aunched at warp speed into deep space, I brace myself against the thrust. The conversation in the control room, already fragmented into squeals and clicks by static, is consumed by the raging roar of rocket engines.

An online journal of imaginative verse and prose dedicated to the magical, the ethereal, the supernatural, the dark, the absurd, and the unknown. Tuesday, October 31, 2006. Sunday, February 26, 2006. Late in the year, farmers weave haystacks tight;. Then when a globe moon drifts up seas of night,. No one of menace speaks,.

Torch songs of indigo fire;. When a Sabbath breeze fingers your cheeks,. Otis Redding rings even deeper. Inside the satin holes pocking. The thought of another pubescent staircase. Knocking fall snow off my shoes. I skid across the marble floor. The gym- -concert hall tonight- -. Smells like it did forty years ago. Once we were many,.

She sways, trancelike,. Aroung the crowded palace floor. Despite age, her hips move easily. Through steps well-practiced down her years. Waltzing in a moonglow satin gown. Her broadness compounds joy,. Toward the ancient frescoed ceiling. She loses herself in the lilting beat. Delights her feet with the feel of the floor,. The spring of velvet slippers against silk. The orchestra, catches her whim,.

THREE POEMS by Elizabeth I. Mid afternoon mist and coal haze lull me. In the ballroom, Edward and Tammy Rhodes. Sit in solitary splendor at the mahogany bar. Aged dolly proportions, platinum-haired Tammy. Might float from her lavender. Drooping from one too many. He pays her no attention as diamond-.