Open Mic Archive
December, 1996

Up-dated December 29, 1996


without a flutter
white-tipped wings
ride the updraft-
joined by spiraling cinders,
once your love letters


Harvest Glow

Eye's bountiful harvest of these fleeting days:

horses grazing in the golden autumn haze,

aspens grasping sunset's last red ember glow,

flaming yellow leaves mellowing to soft halos

This land, embracing sun as lover, slowly letting go,

reflecting sunset's fiery passion in cozy afterglow


The Gift

I have no gift to herald forth

a new born baby King;

Yet what I have I'm told will cause

the Angel Choirs to sing.

No Gold or Frankinsence or Myrrah

with which to celebrate --

But with the gift I give . . . instead

His death I commemorate.

Though wretched is my offered gift --

unworthy for a King . . .

On bended knee . . . before His cross

a yielded soul I bring.

Original Poems by Ron Baron


tea steeps, warm in hand
disgussion of poems and prose
writer's bloc meeting


Updated December 19, 1996


Around and around
go the princes and
mounted on their enameled steeds

sitting primly
on bright colored saddles
hands clutching
the jeweled bridles

around and around
the twinkling mirrors
of reflected lights
as mechanical prancing
keeps time to piped music

the riders unaware
they are going

Nancy Ayash


We've turned into dragons

and flown straight south,

past rivers and streams

and car driving beings,

and afterwards children find our scales

in the gardens.

We're mystical creatures,

and we're still in love,

counting our gifts

on leather-turned-gossamer

jewels of wings.

But these perfect things

make us unhappy

when we sit too still

and think of wings,

because everyone knows

that dragons aren't real.


Dernier regard

Une fillette blanche se regarde dehors

Son fond de sourire dur ne se regarde pas

Ses doigts cherchent muets à repasser ce pli

Il est creu et meurtri

Son oeil lui donne tord

Elle ne s'entend pas

Elle est et c'est fini



You watched me yawn
so now you think you know me
and you cross the bar to buy me a drink

Should I have covered my mouth
or did you in the counting of my teeth
approve my pedigree
and fall in love?


bright colored fruit
cradled in an old straw basket
rain tapping
on a kitchen window

glorious morning!

Nancy Ayash



Is there a point of altitude beyond which there's no sky?

Is there a place somewhere in space where age never says die?

Is there a soft sequestered grove where mysteries are born

and nursed to full complexity before becoming storms?

J. William Bailey

Updated December 5, 1996


moss-draped live oaks
canopy the stone angel
in the dripping rain-
I replace
your wilted flowers


Fish hang from the clouds
Moving through the silver rushes
Looking for the moon?