Swan

Why such sorrow for the swan on the water? Why is it her head is hung with such woe? The moonlight lines her with silver as she glides ripples atop the placid pond. And there are banks of passionflowers that glint their crimsons through the night. Had I been that swan, never would you see my nape so weak and crestfallen, so inwardly curved like tendrils at winter’s start. Because there are other swans on the pond with dispositions just the same. And if I swam my sadness to theirs, perhaps our troubles would combine like violin strings and bows.

From Guest Contributor Man O'Neal

Mall Christmas

Christmas shoppers crush the mall their noisy chatter drowning out tinny holiday music. Fairy lights glimmer from boughs bedecked with fusty smelling red bows. At the epicenter of the mayhem is Santa Claus, surrounded by dingy fluffy snow. Corralling people into a staggering line, the elves keep order as Santa's beard is yanked -- it's real! -- and wishes whispered in his ear. A ruffled and flustered child heads for the over-sized presents next to Santa's worn throne. Ripping shiny paper away, the child's eyes fill with tears -- it's empty! A quick-thinking elf offers a fat orange. Tears gone. Christmas is saved!

From Guest Contributor D. K. White-Atkinson