by Walter Ruhlmann
Huts built on black sand,
the volcano is a giant,
it steps inside my heart and
shakes its feathers above my hands.
I recognized traits of the stark
farces on its face, sparkling.
It's crippled and it's dark,
it bears deep ageing marks,
unmistakably a mask.
Suddenly they come in
stepping out of the books
Aunt Consuelo, Evelyne,
The Lady of Shalott and Zelda.
The ladies – wide-eyed –
mouth gaped – are as puzzled as I
can't believe my eyes;
I kneel down and cry.
works as an English teacher, edits Datura, Beakful and Urtica. He has published
close to thirty chapbooks and poetry collections both in French and English,
and hundreds of poems worldwide. His blogs http://thenightorchid.blogspot.fr/ and
W. Jack Savage is a retired broadcaster
and educator. He is the author of eight books including Imagination: The
Art of W. Jack Savage (wjacksavage.com). To date, more than
fifty of Jack’s short stories and over a thousand of his paintings and drawings
have been published worldwide. Jack and his wife Kathy live in Monrovia,