POETRY: "Art Project" By Larry J. Knight, Jr.

"Art Project"
By Larry J. Knight, Jr.

She found herself within
soft brush strokes.

Her canvas was more than
a surface for creating; it was
an outlet, a medium with which
she discovered her soul’s depth,
a slate upon which she hid
emotions too raw and too painful.

POETRY: "At Three" By Larry J. Knight, Jr.

"At Three"
By Larry J. Knight, Jr.

Imagine yourself at three,
young, still believing in magic,
no disillusionment or doubt,
still wide-eyed and fond of smiles,
still enamored with sky and sea
and sun; still in love with innocence.
Those beautiful, idyllic days,
the ones celebrated in verse
and remembered in lamentations
issued by sage men on stoops,
they can always be reclaimed.

They are not myths.

They are not legends conceived
on the metal typewriters
of fiction authors; they are real.

Imagine yourself at thirty
or forty (or fifty), your world
altered beautifully by the absence
of marginalized thought, or
your eyes transfixed by beauty.

Your childhood yearns for freedom,
craves second chances at life;
it cries out in theme parks and fairs,
dimly lit movie theaters prompt
familiar aches for enchantment;
it secretly giggles each time a balloon
breaks free and soars and wafts
with invisible wings in summer.

Imagine yourself at three,
wonder and wishful thought
directing grown-up endeavors,
fascination and curiosity
at play in dusty, grey minds;
envision youthful smiles,A
gracious, glowing laughter
and light and love
then begin to live.

(c) 2013 | Larry J. Knight, Jr.

POETRY: "The Death of Communication" By Larry J. Knight, Jr.

“The Death of Communication”
By Larry J. Knight, Jr.

Communication is dead.

We stare transfixed at translucent screens
emitting a spectrum of colors imitating rainbows;
they bring the only color to our dull grey lives.

Our veins are ethernet cables, our blood flow
is the electric hum of circuitry. We are hopeless
in a digitized, downloaded, 1080p display society;
we have a technologically advanced
inability to communicate with real people
in real situations, in a reality made more real
by stuff. Our lives are affected by plastic and metal.
   
Dinners are chat sessions, exhibitions of emoticons;
lunches are emails, tweets are breakfast...
our hearts are iPhones pumping the rich
coded language of ones and zeros; we ctrl alt del
everything and everyone and every emotion.

Love is empty words staring back
from a cold display; the flashing cursor
counting down our last moments of civility.

2013 | Larry J. Knight, Jr.

POETRY: "Anthem of the Unspoken Word" By Larry J. Knight, Jr.

"Anthem of the Unspoken Word"
By Larry J. Knight, Jr.

Neruda wrote about love.
Gibran wrote about the universe.

Their blood is ink poured over
white space, transforming it
into art; they have changed me.

They have changed us.

We are children of unspoken words;
written down to inspire, edited
in red ink and revised for better effect.

We are not confined by margins
or typography, font or format;
we are defined by thought,
created for transcendency.

Our verses are veins,
and they flow through us.

(c) 2013 | Larry J. Knight, Jr.

SHORT STORY: "A Voice from Time" By Larry J. Knight, Jr.

“A VOICE FROM TIME”

By Larry J. Knight, Jr.

    The children gathered quietly. The low murmur of their conversation mixed with the sounds of nature; a bird in the distance seamlessly matched a girl’s voice, the spring breeze enveloped them all. No one gave much thought as to why they were there. They stood, as most would, at attention -- the lessons of discipline had been instilled in them long ago. Children were to obey, not disappoint their so-called sage elders.
    As they stood, waiting, one boy began to gaze at the deep blue sky; he counted the clouds wafting through the expansive azure space. Another boy, slightly older, began fumbling with a strand of thread that unraveled in his pocket. He counted the number of times he could wrap the piece of unseen string around his finger. Another child, a girl, stared down at the flecks of gold in her fading nail polish; her mind critiqued the drab paint as she leisurely contemplated different shades and styles.
    Time lingered.
    No one spoke, they just stood with placid grins etched into weathered faces. They maintained the illusion of interest, they did not want to disappoint. They scanned their surroundings -- surveiled the emptiness of the field seeming to stretch for miles. They thought of the buildings that once stood in the spot -- the lives that passed through its corridors, the voices that echoed through its courtyards. All of that was gone. All except the time capsule.