by Lisa Martinovic
Today I saw a mother and daughter holding hands
skipping gaily down the street
I felt the ceaseless tide of history
generations of mothers and children skipping
I watched them skipping along
in a world that’s hurtling to annihilation
all fire no ice
a world we wouldn’t wish on anyone
yet it’s what we’ve bequeathed our children
And they skip anyway
For what else is there to do?
Bow to a fate that seems inevitable?
No, let us skip in the
by Lisa Martinovic
The wind is our enemy. Open water swimmers know this. We know it down to our marrow, the last refuge of warmth in a body as it descends into hypothermia. Scanning the shoreline on this bleak February afternoon I can think of little else. Rain clouds blot out the sun and the already sharp winds bite through my skin like shark’s teeth.
And I’m going out alone.
The seaweed-strewn beach is deserted but for a young couple sitting on a piece of driftwood, swaddled in blankets and huddled close, heads
to reach Slaminatrix, email
poemedy
at
aol
dot
com
I took up singing at the tender age of 60. I don’t sound great but, oh, baby, I’m having a blast! If you’ve always yearned to sing, dance, paint, write, act, surf, or frolic naked in the woods with a panpipe, don’t keep your spirit on hold for a single moment longer. Make the experiment! Dare to be an amateur! Dare to write badly, sing off-key, lose your lines, ruin a canvas, wipeout. Life is too short to let your passions languish unexplored. Do it for yourself. Do it for all of creation. Do it for joy.