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Flying Pink Hippo
For Ka'ie, The Infamous Flying Pink Hippo!

Little pink hippo flying
Over this wasteland
She's pink. She's so cute.
I said once, "Pink hippo will rescue me."
I say again, "Pink hippo will rescue me!"
And she flies. Fly. Fly. Fly
Over this wasteland.
She's a pink dot under the Sun;
She's the pink Sun under the Moon,
The million pink Stars under the Sky,
The billion falling pink drops inside the Rain
In my eyes. My very eyes.
Little pink hippo flying,
Flying over this wasteland
To rescue me. To rescue Innocence!
Flying Pink Hippo!
Flying Pink Hippo!

—Angel Dang

Copyright 2003 by Angel Dang


Reflections upon reflections
Reflections in the mirror
Multiplying manifold
A single solitary image.

The world became a deeper reflection of divine
In its multiple misery and abundant canine
Though a dull image with dusty overlay
Mingled rigidly by senses to cover their outlay.

We ourselves some images of very chance
Reflecting upon reflections in our sultry calm
But deeper down our soul we may dig its mire
And throw away our superfluous winded attire.

There will shine an image of our being
Reflection upon reflection of mirror into mirror
Of mirror into mirror of infinity to hand
Of infinity of redemption in an intenser land.

Durlabh Singh

Leaf me alone

The sky above shines down onto the trees,
Casting misshapen shadows underneath,
Dancing like misled, mutilated souls.
Misled, and mutilated in a room, alone with my thoughts.
Things don't look too different in the dark.
The feeling won't fade.
Don't waste the time.
Hurry up, don't let the light fade again.

—Kelly Pritz

Copyright 2003

HF Stein

A Low Autumn Sun

A low autumn sun
Touches treetops, now mostly bare.
The crowds who turned out
For leaves' flamboyant colors
Have long since left. The trees
Are silent, but not desolate.
They do not flee from endings.
A few leaves have not been raked
From their moorings by wind and rain,
They may linger until spring --
Spring, a season these trees know
Even as they let go of summer
And glow without regret
In a low autumn sun.

Summer's Start

Summer began with a start --
The rains that had claimed the prairie
All spring, stopped. The floods, the hail,
The tornadoes, were past. The TV weatherman
Forecast seven days of uninterrupted sun.
It was time to savor the green grasses,
For the sun would soon parch them to brown straw.
Too much water would give way
To almost none at all.
We would yearn for spring that we cursed
While it was here -- or for fall
That again would bring too much rain.

Dad, Watching

He is my son, age nine.
He dribbles the basketball
Toward the hoop for a lay-up.
He repeats his run several times,
Each time looking over to me
To see whether I am watching.
I am part of his practice.
He knows I will die someday.
He gathers my watchful eyes
For storage, and for later retrieval
When I am gone. Now he stands still,
To the right of the basket.
Positions his hands on the ball:
Swoosh. I applaud him.
We look toward each other,
Grinning broadly.
I go back into the house.
He takes me with him
As I leave.

Copyright 2003 HF Stein

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