Monday, February 21, 2011

Nine in Time

A Poem by Tim Holloway

She lay in repose
on the frost nipped lawn,
Jagged, sharp teeth bared in the grimace
of her last thoughts.
Her silver hair reflects the iciness
of the scene.
Her fur coat stiff; breathlessness
claims what once ran wild.
Carefully, awkwardly, I collect her
and then place her to rest rigidly with my discards.
Many mice will dance tonite.

Contributor's Note: This is my sixth foray into online education at Cerro Coso - the first being a pair of computer classes - followed by Philosophy, Ethics, Music, Film Studies, Anthropology, Archeology, Theater, E-Commerce, and Creative Writing courses. It has been an experience that I highly recommend. I’m slowly whittling away at completing the required courses towards acquiring an AA degree - of one form or another - and having these classes available online is priceless.

Monday, February 14, 2011

Memory

A Poem by Tim Holloway

Memory is like
a burning scrap of paper
lighting up the past.

Contributor's Note: This is my sixth foray into online education at Cerro Coso - the first being a pair of computer classes - followed by Philosophy, Ethics, Music, Film Studies, Anthropology, Archeology, Theater, E-Commerce, and Creative Writing courses. It has been an experience that I highly recommend. I’m slowly whittling away at completing the required courses towards acquiring an AA degree - of one form or another - and having these classes available online is priceless.

Monday, February 07, 2011

Sunset Boulevard Villanelle

A Poem by Angie Wilson

A bag lady leans against a palm tree
At the corner of Sunset and Gower,
Smashing cans with a broken chunk of concrete.

Her face has aged twenty years past the dreams
That brought her here. At the heart of rush hour,
A bag lady leans against a palm tree.

At Van Ness sits a double amputee
In his chair by the KTLA tower,
Smashing cans with a broken chunk of concrete.

An impeccably dressed studio flunky
Looks in a rush but pauses to glower.
A bag lady leans against a palm tree,

Singing, strumming, and stinking of Chablis.
Dream big but don’t wind up on a corner
Smashing cans with a broken chunk of concrete.

It’s a short walk from the Grove to gritty
And they keep the doors locked at Sunset Gower.
A bag lady leans against a palm tree
Smashing cans with a broken chunk of concrete.

Contributor's Note: After fifteen years of sporadic study at four community colleges, I accidentally earned an A.A. in Social Sciences from Cerro Coso and now I occasionally take a class for fun. I'm a city girl living in a small town, a beach bum marooned in the desert, a pacifist working on a Navy base.