Laugh Or Cry


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Laugh Or Cry




It is a magazine of sincerity, honesty, truth and fulness.

Enjoy some snippets here below …


From Dianna Henning 


Sometimes it’s so subtle

It’s mistaken for something else.

A moth tumbled from night’s porch light

A stone in the heel of your shoe.

Even a tattered corner of sunshine is better

Than believing it’s never found.

Didn’t the widow, stripped in grief

Reveal pure angle of cheek bone—

Hadn’t she, at last, set her face free?

You’d gladly peel off that expression

Smooth it down over your own years

The radiant tucked behind ears.

Under some circumstances

Beauty is mistaken for grief.

But in the widow’s case, the opposite—

A face so clear it revealed her soul—

Enlargement emerging from loss.

The moth was a small god on the porch

The stone, nugget of an angel.




An elderly man sits on a stone wall outside his house

Fondles his dog’s ears, caresses its back.

Nearby, a shovel remains upright, plugged

As though an exclamation stuck in earth.

He won’t pull it out.

He has terminal cancer.

From across the street, I imagine

The choked back tears as his eye lavishes

Over all that’s quietly familiar;

His land shaped to a dream

Of rural beauty, rural equipoise: his lawn

Hedged with sprays of multicolored wildflowers

Porch perched above a lap of greenery

So surprisingly vivid it burns my eyes

As I watch him again and again

Lovingly cuff his black spaniel.


Strangers Between Walls  by Andrei Guruianu

What can I say about changing place

And the weary night song piled outside every window ?

It can weigh you down like happiness, like rain, like the notion of destiny

Or an obligatory farewell that you carry strapped to your shoulders.

Believe me, if it would help you see things in a different light

I would only write poems about ballerinas and dream gardens.

The sun and the fresh air would do you a world of good.

And I would make it rain just enough to spruce up the flowers.

I would do all of this in a French dialect

And part my hair accordingly to look like a soft smile.

But the truth is I could never understand

Why a single language is not enough.

Breath blown into an empty bottle

And tossed into the nearest stream.

This human need for a philosophy of words

When a howl would do much better.

After all, we are only dogs missing the fancy leash

And the tinderbox of home we sometimes call a house.

Places change because with the years we change even less.

We’ve spent too much time in the dirt

And now everything is relative to it, because of it.

More or less under our fingernails.

Scrape away, rinse and repeat

And still the hounding memory of nights under the stars.

Backs to the chill of dry ground

And nothing but a long sigh

For a sheet to pull up to the neck.

How many sighs does it take to make a death ?

Let’s begin counting now and see who gets there first.

Ce n’est pas le cirque du soleil after all.

That much any fool could tell you for a nickel.

Just open your eyes

When the night peaks at its most exotic and serious black.

We’ve been here before, you and I.

Heard sounds that would never make sense out of context.

But there was no need to translate what the crickets said.

For once there was no need.


By Gerd Theissen

Wwill have won if we have an inkling

That our life contains a message –

To us and through us and for others;

If we become certain

That the creator of our life wants

To say something through us :

And he needs us for that.

He also needs little things in our lives.

We will have won if we become certain

That between life and death

We represent something as indestructible

As the meaning of a figure in a parable

If we understand our life

As an idea of God

Which we may think through further;

In short, if we ourselves

Become a meaningful parable.


For more, especially the longer works, please visit the magazine site on the web.


I can’t explain but the pic below is an entire poem in itself !

English: Stone Wall Stone wall and sign at the...