Before the day begins…

At the edges I see the darkness.

Not fading

not gloom

but darkness.


walking like cat so

you can’t hear it.

You know it is there.

Pointing at you

from the shadow.

There just around the edges.


I heard the darkness breathing.

It is there.

One bulb

its light spreading as if a liquid

pushing against the hard formed darkness.

Yes it is there.

I feel the edges of its quiet.

I feel the sound of its consumption.

It wants everything

this darkness there.

As if I was a pop tart

fresh from the toaster

gone before the day begins.


Sandler Boggs

Wandering around the morning mist and wondering about time.

In the morning as the mist rises just over the ground lifting itself I wonder. Coffee cup in hand the warmth of the world surrounds me. I look out beyond the window of my life and wonder. Wonder is an interesting word. It begins and ends with time. Time unlike the coffee is not always warm. It doesn’t greet you with a smell. It doesn’t invoke a TV commercial. It is.

It exists. Wound around everything like a stubborn vine. It can’t be removed. Tendrils that the witches can tug and pull. Examining each individual thread and considering should they cut it? It is the one thing we always lack. I don’t have time. I am out of time. Can I have more time please? What time is it? If I could turn back the clock. Yesterday, in the end seemed to be a better day.

Time unlike that morning mist does not lift with the rays of the sun. It does not settle gently back down to the ground. Time lands with a thud. Each bit of the time around us weighing more than the last. Weightless time has weight. Soundless time is a cacophony. Empty time is more full than anything around it. Sneaking around silently in tiny tennis shoes only to land with a massive ear shattering thud next to you.

Time is the eternal gift. Time is the little death. No it is not fear it is time that takes a piece of us each day. Launches that piece into the universe where we are never able to touch it again. Time though is the greatest gift as well. It is the one thing we never have enough of.  Time to play the poet now is the mud not the pebble.

The pebble pushed down the stream always covered always moving. The mud, grabbing ahold of whatever is there. Sticking to one moment. Malleable and flexible yet the pebble more polished. You pick the pebble up but wipe the mud from your hands first. Not realizing that time is the mud. And in the end in wiping from your hands you send it back on its journey.

It is not in the end your journey. Your journey like the pebble is from the mountain to the sea. It takes the amount of time allocated to move your pebble. To move your tiny pebble. There is no more than that time. Your pebble moves at its pace. Time a completely pace. In loosing the mud now time is again free of the bonds that held it.

The witches look at your thread and wonder should we cut it now?


Scott Andersen

IASA FellowP6b2!

Your stop is the next stop.

To be punctual.

On time.

Right there.

The clock not yet aware

that itself late

hadn’t ticked,

or tocked.

A wind up monkey in the corner.

Cymbals clashing with the room.

Noise bursting


leaving only empty chairs.

Sorry, sorry, sorry

time around them

flowing like a mountain river.

The fresh melting snow

glistening as it

turns to doom.

Rushing down a mountain

covering the clanging monkey.

In the end


the cymbals crashing

until the water covering them

creates so much friction they stop.

It means nothing in the end.

A tale uttered.

A song sung blue.


If only punctuality were a noun.


Sandler Boggs

I was sure I heard a voice there…

The whispers all around

like saw grass

cutting and pulling

at the skin



it sloughs off.


for a moment.

But the whispers

just the around the edges

there behind the busy buzzing hive

and with the

ladies drinking Champaign

you can hear it.

You can hear them.

In the hallway

the men stand around

arguing Brady vs. Montana

the Champaign glasses



you can hear it?

There in the moment

trapped between what was

and what could be


You can hear it?

Or have tinny ears

quit this season

and left for home?


Sandler Boggs

Inside the Salamanders Mind…

There by the edge of what

is now the base

of what is now

a bridge

was the salamanders home.

A single rock

that leaned just right

leaving a space between

the rock

and another rock

The perfect home

for little salamanders to

scurry safely away from snake’s

and turtles.

You could

the salamander once said

stay in a million rocks

and never again find home


but now gone.

The base of the bridge rising

into the air.

In the salamanders head

the bridge

on where his home was

matters little

as he scurries quickly to avoid a snake

and the always watchful turtle.

home is now not as nice

a tighter fit

and so much less secure.

But it is home.

and not a bridge rising into the air.


Sandler Boggs

Alone again with our thoughts…

In the desert wind

that chafes

the sand finding holes in clothing

to sandblast

exposed skin


Raw we turn

the corner to find the mirage

it is still there

as it was before.

A bar rising

from the desert sand.

Flashing neon lights

and a picture of Frank Sinatra

adorn the wall

that is a sand dune.

“I’ll have a camel back please”

and the bartender brings

the camel closer

the back pressed against the sand dune

knocking the picture of Frank Sinatra askew.

“and you sir”

“I’ll have a sandtini”

perhaps then the chafing

will stop.

As the mirage fades

and we are along again with our thoughts.


Sandler Boggs

Like rain against a tin roof…

`To hear

as if the world now two

three steps further away

and in hushed tones speaks


looking away

lips moving at an angle



at times the sound

pops like plastic wrapping bubbles

bursting outward

with an explosive moment

of sound.

Then gone

you turn to where the sound

came from

with nothing there.





Tinny perhaps

an echo

not what it was

stereo and full

but less now



a small bit of sound

that swirling around

goes the other way.

in the quiet

we are all alone.


Sandler Boggs