This month's guest writer is J. Kevin Wolfe and the content is poetry. Here is what Kevin says about his background and poetry:

"This affliction of poetry: there is no cure. It was only in remission all these years I've written humor on a nationally syndicated radio show.

Through numerous articles printed in Writer's Digest Magazine where my cartoons have appeared as well. Even through the passion of writing three cookbooks. Why do I write poetry: because I have to.

I thoroughly appreciate those involved with the Web poetry movement which is putting the most real of things back into our virtual world and giving us an electronic brick wall to spraypaint the graffiti of our souls."

He made his fiddle a lady
in the exhaled haze of a Dingle pub

As the drums and strums
danced the clack of Keryl's spoons
the old men scratched their violins
But not Maguire's lady

She cooed and sighed
as his chin so gently rested on her body
His peaceful touch drew across her
like a warm breath through hair of silk
Then the rogue Jim made her weep

til she bit us with her pain
and a drip of tears seasoned the Guinness

But he knew his lady so well
The instant he smiled and her hopes took wing
She laughed like he'd never made her grieve

Her chorts so loud they drew a curious boy
who jigged on the stains of the floor
She giggled at the jests of Macguire's bow
and the boy floated above the hardwood
his feet occasionally tapping the floor

At closing time
Jim laid his lady in her worn velvet bed
and locked her away
as if she only wanted to sing to him
He hugged her under his arm
protecting his rare lady from the damp chill
of the Irish summer night.

do they?

it's the pebbles
that make life insurmountable

boulders
we expect
but too much gravel
we trip on

when
it's so black all day has ceased
when life is as bleak
as bleakest jet
i lie back
look to the core
of the charcoal night

i gaze deep
into the soul
of the ancient pitch
and ask "do
the stars still shine tonite?"

No Tomorrow

I have no tomorrow
but I rejoice
I know that life is but a candle flame
that can be snuffed by but a wisp

I live life as "last times"
the last time I'll see a friend
the last time I'll kiss my children
the last time my love and I entwine

each last time is a gift
one more gleaming chance
to hear the quiet groan of a lumbering sunrise
to sip the last drop of a melting sunset
to pocket a falling star
somewhere in the coat of your soul

I've seen fate
and it is but a rice paper partition
between boisterous life and voiceless death

every conversation final
make sure all is said

every question concluding
ask what you really want to know

every moment dying
cup it tight
and peek in to see the flicker
of a firelfy called life

all poems copyright 1997 by J. Kevin Wolfe

Kevin can be reached by email here

. (You will find more articles by guest writers in the Archives.)