Little teenage couples
Old people scowl
Richard F. Yates is a poet, short-story author, and artist living in Washington State, U.S.A. He is married and has two daughters, works in the writing center at Washington State University @ Vancouver, and his work has appeared in such places as: Mad Swirl, The Salmon Creek Journal, Words-Myth, Word Riot, and Vision? Nary! Magazine. He was a featured presenter and workshop instructor at the Raymond Carver Writing Festival in 2008 and 2009, one of the winners of the 2007 Ooligan Press Flash Fiction Contest, and served as the poetry editor for the 2005 issue of The Salmon Creek Journal. He is a member of the Washington Poets Association. For more information, please check out his MySpace page: http://www.myspace.com/richardfyates.
Ode to the Spork
Oh unsung hero of hot lunch
J. D. McGregor is the pen name of Y.P.R.’s foreign correspondent, currently residing in Jerusalem, Israel, where he is studying Torah and learning to bake a kickass kugel.
The Robot Speaks of Rivers
(with apologies to Langston Hughes)
I’ve known rivers:
I’ve gotten wet in ancient rivers, older than the
flow of gigabytes in a;lksklvcioewkl.
My hard drive has grown fragmented like the rivers.
I saved documents in the Euphrates when kj;lsfd;a;sd.
I built my spreadsheets near the Congo and it lulled me to saf;dkzvio.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the power cords above it.
I streaming-downloaded the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln
went down to New Orleans, and ;lkalmvzcxoiv;jlkqmf;oisdnlkgvakldsv;oamklsd.
I’ve known rivers:
Ancient, dusky z;jkvm.
My programming has grown ;lmkqeoivjhz;lkv’asduogqnrwkfv;qlkwmer like the rivers.
Some Nature Haiku
The proud, burly tree
Rests on the now crashed TV
Thanks a lot, nature
Bees dance in the air
Merrily they dart about
I’m stung eighteen times
Bees and the Tree
I tend to my stings
With aloe from the felled tree
But it doesn’t work
The stings are swollen
Causing pain TV can’t ease
As a tree’s on it
All over I bleed
30 Rock should be on now
I wish I were dead
Life is meaningless
The universe is empty
Do not go outside
If Jackson Pollock Wrote Poetry
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