Reception Room 52 – Maria Gianna Iannucci (Reflections on Existence)

sew and patch

a lesser love

the lukewarm quilt

barely covers enough


M.G. Iannucci 2020

I am hemming the sorrow of a courser weave, preparing to leave.


Voluntary simplicity is nonviolent. Choosing to leave lesser forms of loving is also the cultivation of elegant minimalism. The singleness of unity is not scarcity, although I have not succeeded in convincing my ego that it is not terrifying. My deepest longing is for an “other” to share my life’s vision but maybe “God” is the only One who fulfills that completion. I am left in a state of perpetual heartbreak over the world, the ache of authentic intimacy.


M.G. Iannucci 2020 at:

Photo: Woman with pillows

Little Vines —Claudia McGill

hold a cool thin hand in your own
without needing to know
whose it is

even fists
even fingernails that scratch
express grief

it was no place for a caterpillar
everyone said
but one was there anyway
determined to thrive

she wants the door knob
to turn she wants
to be doing the turning for a change

a rainy moody autumn-style
heavy dull ache
this summer just can’t shake off

I cry
and then I
wring out my memories

I’ll sit alone in the restaurant
but would it be prudent
even to enter its doors?

come home with me and the pink orchid
in the front window and the new baby
asleep in her room upstairs
come home with me

Read more —Claudia McGill

blood red – just another girl

it was my mother’s
favourite colour
so I planted red gardenias
where bees now hover

my goin’ out lipstick
in a tube thin & sleek
so I can leave red kisses
on my loved ones cheek

so many shades
tantalizing hues
shiny red toenails
peeking through my summer shoes

flags, cars, hair
it flows in rivers during war
soldiers of different races
dying on a foreign shore

my mother’s favourite colour
it’s always been around
now spilled on US streets
from the bodies of those who are brown

copyright © 2020 KPM

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mUd – Kritika (Undressed Thoughts)

slippery brown in the green
rains create this blessed scene
tasting it all are many small feet
playfully they dance as the Nature greets

motherly comfort when they fall
transforms to a bed as they crawl
massaging their muscles with its grease
readying future soldiers by acting as their lee


Note from the Author
Copyright 2020 (All rights reserved)
Copying of the content and image is not permissible. The writers put in their souls in writing a piece of literature. A prior permission of the author of the blog is mandatory before using the content or the image (which has been created by the author of the blog).

Bird with Third Wing

inspired by a painting completed following a series of dreams that skulked my childhood

curse that coal bird
rounding my

flyin’ lame as crooked
with a haggard
third wing,

bird tumbles,
barreling like balloon
half drunk with

and i’m shaken

‘spite my own scorn
and comfort with

i’d never close in
on capture of
said bird,

now would you pass me
a fistful of capsules n’
sill’s stale glass
of water?

so, i waft as rot and steam
from fever’s bed

and pinky trace each
claw scratch on
my foggy

Subconscious Answer – theherdlesswitch

Live too long

Never long enough

Swirling of Dervishes

Red cloth hurricane

Leaves bereft

A small sense

Of seeking what is under

Plumbed too deep

Even there is darkness

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The Fabric – A Word of Substance

How is this possible? You’re telling me, I can’t sit on the grass, collar popped and comfortably breathe in the fresh air? You’re telling me the polo match is canceled? What about the vineyard itself? Is it, too, closed to the public?

And what is “public” anyway? Children in stained shorts? Walmart? What about the private sector? What about the natural, organic spread of pure material? 100% wool vests? Unmixed cotton? You’re telling me we’re no longer invited?

I demand a refund. I wasn’t made to sit, holed up in some closet, only to wither away from society. The public pool may be closed, but my family owns a house on the lake. No, not the lake you’re thinking about. The lake. I’ve been going for years.

You can’t tell me to close up shop. I live in Tyson’s Corner. I was born for a high end lifestyle and I won’t tolerate quitters. You think you can tell me what to do? Who’s your boss? I want to speak to the manager.

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The Escape Velocity of a Rorschach Sunset

As the fiery half-eaten orb
melts farther into the mountains,
the heart shudders in astonished jolts.

A gilded feast of morphing shadows tempts
the pattern-hungry brain to arrange
dozens of weather-beaten points
into monstrous faces of jagged rock.

Vectoring like a maniacal dragonfly
the eyes construct (and deconstruct)
tensile bridges of silken meaning.

The shifting boundary of the rugged terrain
slips in and out of focus;
the cerebral cortex strains
like an under-powered microscope
scanning for a fistful of wind-strewn prions.

As night sounds alight
from their distant cliff perches
the velvet handcuffs of night
ease onto the day’s dumbfounded wrists.

Right now,
on the opposite side of the planet,
day swallows night.

But here,
as the crackling firelight
concedes to the ashen skies,
the entire mountainside heaves
like a labyrinthine lung expanding and contracting,
expanding and contracting until finally,
in a subconscious spasm of breath-stopping resolution,
a flood of imagination floats perspective higher:

twin spires spike skyward
like the saber-toothed fangs
of an 800 pound Smilodon populator,
conjured larger than life
to stalk the freshly darkened horizon.

It was as if,
over the millennia,
the beast had evaded extinction
while scaling the mountain peaks
from the bottom up.

As its rock-ribbed limbs
slothfully stumbled skyward,
an avalanche of tumbling stones
lazily colonized the landscape below.

And now,
the backbreaking journey complete,
its insatiable jaws rise
with the curtains of night
to prey upon the starry skies.

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Holding The Bruised Rose Blossoms Of An Attempted Genetic Rinse

Juggernaut Of Yearning

Metaphysical Magic

Send in the Clowns

Who can breathe
with words lodged between
ugly and uglier?

Send in the clowns
the skies are grey
laughter the medicine
a crying world deserves.

Someone trampled my flowers
stole honey from the jar
left bees buzzing around
a crown 
I no longer desire to wear.

Spirits descend from tree branches
ready to spread fear
with mushroom poofs to hide a view
already hampered by night terrors.

Send in the clowns
the skies are grey
laughter the medicine
a crying world deserves.

Their voices rage
no longer bridled by JFK
or MLK
we face assassination
we waited too long to remedy
injustice for generations.

and disconnect
the snowy television screen
hides no tempered noise.

Send in the clowns
the skies are grey
laughter the medicine
a crying world deserves.

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untitled night – one round corner

a frayed shirt
hangs still
in the window

thought I had forgotten 
that moment from yesterday

a silhouette of oak
climbs up the glass
frame of a moonlit eye

a color so shallow
jumps out of the pane
yet so deep it leaps 
back behind the space
it fills with its
strange delight

and a feeling of something unknown
imposes its brief order 
like a small bite
then slips its dark tail
back into the night

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