This is the perculator, verbosity's literary section. Each month, we will try to display a few poems and maybe a short story or two here. Also, we are looking for work by fledging computer artists. If you would like to submit something, please see our submissions department.

Dreams and other broken things...
Linda Moore

I walked
through rooms
that once were my life
and saw
the scattered,
tattered, torn debris...
In the din of silence
and musty, darkened nooks
I saw my innocence
cast aside
and the sweetness of my youth.
I bent to gently hold in hand
to sense of what had been
when light itself
from unknown source
that room,
and I saw
my dreams
cast upon the ground...


Pamela Bragg

This province has magic
skies that soar forever
clouds that pattern
themselves to infinity
colour of the grasses, maroon,
magenta and brilliant golds
and the sounds, city sounds,
Country sounds meshed together.
Set the cruise and drift
over landscapes that are
dotted with tall elevators.

All this is new and sometimes

too big - too open
Like all my secrets are bared
for everyone to see.
I grew up where the ocean
skirts the mountains
where I confessed my soul
to the lapping waves
and feasted on the mountain peaks.

I thought I could never adjust

to the separation
yet the more I learn about
the more important I value
to be open -
like the open skies of Alberta
and of the open seas of B. C.
We are one.

Malibu Sands

Linda Moore

I remember warm, wet sands of Mailbu. We watched as tiny birds, time-stepped in perfect formation, doing what tiny birds do. An exacting performance to the percussion of rhythmic waves. How do they know to do this? Do they grow weary in the sameness? I wonder, would they cease to exist were it not for the doing? I was spellbound by their life as it unfolded before me. Flitting here, there, in formation. Focused, determined. Fulfilled by the very action of doing what tiny birds do.

Were it all so simple. Clearly defined parameters. Focused. Determined. Fulfilled by the very action of the doing. Perhaps.

I remember you pointed down the coast line. See there, you said, the advancing shade line. Or was it the receding sun line? You said those homes over there would soon be in shade, as the sun, its doing done, moved on to seascapes other that this. I wanted to watch but all I could see were the changes going on inside of me. The parameters changing, the doing done. The heat of the daylight sun moving on, leaving in its void the serenity of the late day shade. That time of comfort and peace, just before dark releases questions of its own. How could I not love a man who cared or even knew that those homes would soon be in shade?

And I remember we sat side by side, shoulder to shoulder, alone, yet together on still warm Malibu sands. You said we did not have much time. We needed to talk. So we sat, in solitude, words unspoken, yet understood deep in the very fiber of our being. I saw where skyline met origin of the sea, empowering it to do what seas do, rhythmically build in non-existent perpetual motion, the coming in and going out of wave upon wave, until that energy, so great, must by design, be expressed upon the very edge of its existence, dissipating in exhaustion upon the warmth of the earth.

And I drank of this beauty. I was compelled to remember this moment. My moment of solitude. Alone yet together. My own personal skyline somewhere gives birth to the origin of rhythmic, perpetual motion, the coming in and going out of self. The doing. The very meaning of my existence. My very life.

Again, I am compelled to remember this moment. To drink of this beauty. Alone. With you. What is that energy so great within me that must be expressed upon the very edge of my existence? Where is my warm earth who will receive me and dissipate that energy before I am lost in the exhaustion of my doing?

Without a Clue
Corey Welton

So what do I have to say to your people?
your 2 pack a day poseurs
wearing black and drinking
pepsi on the

They know it all
What is youth?
"I dunno, my was stolen from me
by the shadows of facist institutions
and lonely, sorrowful, angstful bastards of society"
they breathed in my essence
took what I gave
but demanded yet more.
Charity is good?
Not in my case.

I ate what I was given
but spat it on the shoes
those shiny shoes of the breadwinner

"Be yourself" I hear, but
myself is my past
beware my past
of Southern heritage and slavery and civil war
and plantations and...
and I fear those who still think
that life is still just that.

So your kids,

your precious jewels
your twinkles in they glowing eye of glastnost
sit in consumerism
discussing why MTV shows too many commercials
and why "grunge" is "chic"
but are stuck,
to your ways of doing things:
mannerisms, Dear Abby, and the Catholic church
rolled into one great Taco Supreme
And you wonder why they're confused?
inside out
Jess Morrissette

byte by byte by byte by byte
trickles down my ISDN line-spine
telling each part its tasks.
looking, breathing,
touching, feeling
reduced to electronic pulses
working themselves through
diodes and chips.

inside The Box
I see in 16.7 million hues.
every multimedia flower
is pixelated if you look.
information is brought to me
more than Man can conceive
I process it bit by bit
and delete what doesn't fit.

telecommunications--reaching out to others
sharing information at the speed of sound
microprocessors thrashing, more is absorbed.
outside The Box
there is one bug
despite the trove of facts and figures
we still have to
worry about Compatibility.

[back to verbosity]

These poems and short stories are Copyright© their respective authors and are not to be reproduced via any medium without prior consent of their authors.