14-13



A Cream-Puff Deferred


What happens to a cream-puff deferred?

  Does it go to mold
  Or gestate like a cheese
  And turn to curd?
  Do its insides liquefy—
  And then ooze?
  Or does it have to learn
  to sing the blues?

  Maybe its taste evolves
  Like hundred-year-old eggs.


Or does it sprout legs?


by Richard Krepski

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Richard Krepski resides in the twilight zone between scientific rationalism and poetic lunacy. He is retired from a career as research scientist and educator. Information on his book Alchemical Gold (a conglomeration of poetry, cosmological speculation, and religious philosophy) can be found at substance-to-spirit.com. His poems have appeared in Mobius, Tiferet, Jesus Radicals, and Bolts of Silk. He won the Tiferet writing award in 2009 for his essay "Center of the Universe."

14-12



Upon Julia's Nose

When in the spring my Julia goes,
Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her nose.

The poor girl's got such allergies,
Her eyes all red and watery.
O how her sneezing shaketh me.

by Steve Klepetar

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Steve Klepetar claims to be the best known Shanghai-born Jewish-American poet in all of Central Minnesota who has written a dissertation on Sir Walter Scott (no, he didn't play Scottie in Star Wars—look him up). His work has appeared widely and has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, which his father-in-law would have told him would get him on the subway as long as he had a token.

14-11



The Lamb


Little Lamb, who made you?
Do you know who made you?
Broiled you to a golden turn,
Watched you so you didn't burn?
Broiled your center rosy pink,
Chose a good Syrah to drink?
Raised a glass to mourn your loss,
Then served you with a nice mint sauce?
Little Lamb, who made you?
Do you know who made you?

Little lamb, I'll tell you.
She's the partner of my life,
She's my lovely, clever wife.
Oh, her cookery's a dream!
Leg of lamb and spuds with cream
Or a fine basmati rice
Rich with cumin and allspice.
Dinner's ready in a trice
And you won't have to call me twice.
Leg of lamb is very nice,
Yes, leg of lamb is very nice.

by Steve Klepetar

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Steve Klepetar claims to be the best known Shanghai-born Jewish-American poet in all of Central Minnesota who has written a dissertation on Sir Walter Scott (no, he didn't play Scottie in Star Wars—look him up). His work has appeared widely and has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, which his father-in-law would have told him would get him on the subway as long as he had a token.

14-10



Theodor Adorno Steps Out


He wrote for his Habilitation
on Kierkegaard's interiorization.
  That post-doctoral thesis
  and its exegesis
fell smack on the death of his nation.

But Theodor fought the good fight.
He stirred up the wrath of the right.
  When troubles first started,
  they called him Entartet,
and he used his head and took flight.

Adorno grew clearer, not rowdier
as Europe's horizons grew cloudier.
  When irrationality
  swelled nationality
his summa to Oxford went laudier.

New music?  Adorno adored it.
Pop culture?  My dear, he abhorred it.
  One hundred eleven
  ascended to Heaven
when Faustus revered and restored it.

As Theo Adorno grew older,
his writing grew brasher, yet colder.
  He cried, "Sisyphus
  never had it like this
for no one cast doubt on his boulder."

Adorno had plans for Berg's Lulu,
that opera free of all frou-frou:
  of lust without passion
  in serial fashion,
he'd conjure the voodoo of woo-woo.

In the Heaven that doesn't exist,
Adorno is there—with a twist:
  his infallibility
  threatens tranquility.
But, God, thank God, doesn't insist.

by Karen Greenbaum-Maya

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Karen Greenbaum-Maya is a closet German Lit major and a retired clinical psychologist, and not a moment too soon. She likes ducks, also duck, a conflict leading to her tragic view of life. She has a history with sheep. She can recite the value of pi to twenty places, but who cares? She may or may not outweigh all the Stones rolled together. She believes that if you want to hit someone with a fish, you should just hit them with a fish. She takes life very very very seriously. cloudslikemountains.blogspot.com

14-9



The Deadly Diet of Danny D. Wyatt


Danny D. Wyatt could not keep to a diet.
His stomach just wouldn't be quiet.

Feed me! Feed me! that stomach did cry.
Poor Danny D., he was forced to comply.

Apples pies and cinnamon toast,
Eggs and bacon it loved the most.

Cakes and soda it loved them, too.
Gum drops and licorice it loved to chew.

On it went, day after day.
The stomach consumed all in its way.

Soon Danny's stomach reached the floor.
The stomach insisted on eating more.

Danny D's stomach filled the whole room.
It looked around for more to consume.

There was Danny alone for an hour.
Guess what his stomach chose to devour?

by Paul Goldberg

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Paul Goldberg Paul Goldberg lives in Baltimore and belongs to a wife, 3 children, and 2 dogs. He writes children's poetry inbetween making a living. Paul is a graduate of the University of Florida and holds a masters degree from Hebrew University in Jerusalem. paul@basicpromotionsinc.com
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