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Married on Monday Divorced on Tuesday Mustang Ranch Wednesday VD Thursday Cured on Friday Slept thru Saturday Virgin Sunday Remarried Monday Fed up Tuesday Pregnant Wednesday But not Thursday Suicide Friday Stomach pump Saturday Reborn Sunday Prayed for Monday…

The mind The mind of every kind Is sensitive It’s true   Potentially It knows no bounds Awareness Sees right through   When awake It liberates Everything we do   Infiltrating beauty Becomes our duty Creating peace For us That’s true

To taste croissant In home of France Baguette to go With wine and cheese To rise above Eiffel Tower And be so pleased Nothing to sneeze About in land Of romantic Squeeze in the please

In the stillness of tears the poets sleep, dreaming of souls below the light. No words left - like a dancer alone on the stage, steps forgotten. On those nights their hearts grow unquiet; marvel at the dread brokenness. Longing to be found again; to find again, perhaps by going home in a different light.

The power keeps going out so I have to write fast.   The brevity of no power forever.

GI sandwich town the yodel expensive gift to the masticating missive no Elmer Fudd is whipping Indonesian puppets so tough it out on the range where my dear pantalone                                play

I posed a question for my love. I paused for an answer, holding still, but in time no answer came.   Wind echoes my question to me repeatedly. Radiotelescope operators called to say they heard no answer, but worked with powerful monitors of sounds from deepest space.   Space raises millions of questions, but if its enormous void emitted an answer for me, they would eagerly share it with the world.

Phrase of music, liquid word, seeps out from corners of the mind,   that weep, but for a moment, when full measure of song, reaches the soul.   Uplifted, absorbed into the tapestry of thought; listen, to the gift of melody.

Dear Lord, in this time of suffering that knows no boundary or border, please keep all Your children – everyone – in Your mercy and care. May we come to know, every one of us, and soon, the hope and joy of resurrection in our own fashion, through all the beautiful shades of our humanity and the passion we all share for living.   Originally published in WINK: Writers in the Know.

The Fire of His Love Burns hot like fusion, Though hotter still.   The Winds of Love Blow hard like fury, Though gentle And kind.   Before the Waters of Love The seas blush, And the oceans pale – A seeming drop On burning sands.   The Magnificence of Love No words can speak. Then forgo the page And say no more But jump in the Fire! And swim in His Seas! And sail upon the Winds! For these, alone, Are the words of lovers.

Stutter Breaths they catch me off guard those stutter breaths, after a   good, long crying jag they’re a staccato response to intensity of feelings expressed   as if my lungs are trying to tell me, slow down just breathe, my dear, breathe

David Flynn was born in the textile mill company town of Bemis, TN.  His jobs have included newspaper reporter, magazine editor and university teacher.  He has five degrees and is both a Fulbright Senior Scholar and a Fulbright Senior Specialist with a recent grant in Indonesia.  His literary publications total more than two hundred.  He currently lives in Nashville, TN, where he is director of the Musicians Reunion, an annual blues festival now in its 35 th  year.  He also t

We’ve arrived! Fear is over! There is no backwards no “safety”.   We must win! There is no option you no longer have the luxury of settling for” almost” or “we were this close!”   We each have only 24 hours in a day but that can be shortened by stress. When you “burn the boats” it gets simple Because there is no way back.

Before I married again, I asked my father out to lunch. Not the safe family unit with mother along, just the two of us to ask his advice.   But really, to find out who he was, who he would say he was. He didn’t. He said the secret to a happy marriage is to give in. Someone has to win.

Some were smiling in the picture, a few looked tired, five former friends at a party, none knowing the others would be there, a forced congregation at the ‘everybody smile’ altar. Behind them, balloons reached for the ceiling, searching for escape from the room with no oxygen.

Gives the direction, entering full of tongues, burning with rage against everyone who sees the direction with a mind to know how to tell what may be from the City of Rumour with streets leading nowhere but in painted perfection that asks for the sacrifice of self to the cause revealed as nothing more than a waiting to deny the future its possession of an ideal again in truth made visible behind the shadow of lies.

Come take my hand let us walk for a while. Bring your goodness, your beauty, that strawberry blond smile. To an open buffet of laughter and play, with honey dipped toppings a cherry souffle. Where we’ll swirl and twirl through God’s given treats. Unfurl a whirl into heavenly sweets. An evening of bliss not costing a cent. Then lie beneath that fortune cookie tree of content.

Navajo weavers embed a skip, a miss a drop in the pattern— reminder— defiant imperfection humbles the weaver and wearer.   Japanese potters emboss the broken dark porcelain it falls in shards but the hands rework with gilded lines make the forsaken rare— trace cracks praised not hidden.   If I were the weaver, the potter, all would be tangled threads and gold.

You will never see a statue do the breaststroke or the dog paddle in a fountain.

an April night the Christmas lights still up oh it’s alright all time is one it’s always now sweet mantras for bohemians god love ’em // rain & sun & greening up your precious hormones catching fire & even though the poet you’re in lust with says he doesn’t give a damn about your dreams you don’t believe him // dark red blossoms on the bush out front & gauze balls on the neighbors’ tree the beer you’re drinking Psychedelic Cat Grass makes you woozy yet your dream is real the