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The Tale of the Two Teas

by Mary Margaret Park

Kiwi Snapple raced around the room

She stomped her feet and preached of doom

Her sweat so cold of condensation

Her peach friend screaming condemnation


Peach Snapple flashed her pitted eyes

It’s my turn now was her reply

and with sarcastic voice she did say

I’ll not be your friend another day


Kiwi announced, that’s just fine

You’re a fruit, a pithy swine

You don’t play fair, you never have

You are spoiled, you’ve gone bad


Peach Snapple in reply did snap

You’re less than tea, you British bat

You think you’re proper and sophisticated

It’s my turn now, you should have waited


Bruised and battered, fermenting slowly

Kiwi screamed that’s fine I’m going

I’ll play no more games with you

Your tea is tainted, what will you do?


Peach Snapple paused, as she considered

When she replied her smile was bitter

That’s not what your boyfriend says

He thinks my drink sweet, and no less


Kiwi Snapple did feel faint

Her anger steeping, without complaint

With sly smile she said come here

You’re not afraid now are you dear?


Peach dripped in response with vitriol

She reared her fist back and punched Ms. Snapple

the two flavored teas poured upon the floor

Their containers empty, they were no more


white linen

a crown of thorns

and buttercups remorse

upon the favored brow

of woman child Lenore


in everglades of waste

another man doth tread

to beseech the sweetest lips

for a most scandalous delight


and now he stands before the throne

beneath a veil of red

he sees her ghost-like form

a sideways glance hailed from within


his heart, alas 

is broken

his dear maiden breathes no more

a victory bequeathed in death

he cries forevermore

why hath thou forsaken me?

forever after

my sweet Lenore

by Mary Margaret Park

By Mary Margaret Park



Our moods are many things

A kite a sail a Coin a cane

soaring high into to the air

or tumbling back into despair



Our emotions frame the hours

Casual keepers of glass towers

with no regard to flights of fancy

casting stones or sitting calmly


at Will they shape the day

With brightest joy or blackest thunder

breaking thoughts as they plunder

These fickle stewards 

       of repose


amber, in crepe’

a stir of sweetness

gilded tassels about 

a parasol

they spin into transparent flames

above a slender arm of lily white

a shapely wrist

with aristocratic flair


a bedside manner 

that speaks of lethal wounds

her expression, stilted

wrapped in ducats delight

terms of endearment

buried beneath shadows


transparent grey in light

her eyes; a mourning dove’s

silken orbs ensconced

in white china


pride, shattered beyond

truth, the whispered token

of a dying day

in profile she resides

her patrician nose

cut and defined


against the darkness


By Mary Park et al.

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