Wayne G. Palmer 

Concord, New Hampshire, USA 

"If man is to survive as commander of the watch, then too must the domain over which he presides." This basic concept of coexistence, as simple as it is complex, is the impetus behind much of Wayne's writing. Twice published by The National Library of Poetry, he has also completed two novels, as well as a collection of related short stories, under the pseudonym Phillip Carter Steele. An area manager for a local newspaper, Wayne is a member of PETA and enjoys the challenges of golf. Wayne told us, "Fortunately, golf is just a hobby—writing is my passion."

Pondering Price 

Waterbug's sundance 'pon lily pad floor,
twirling like Merlin while gathering spores, 
naive to advances, a little green frog, 
guilefully leaping o'er rushes and logs. 
Then zap! - no more waterbug, snapped by a tongue, 
what a woeful mind's startle to wide eyes so young. 

Upon the same lily the amphibian now sat, 
soaking and croaking, quite jolly and fat, 
I barely had time to digest and to smile, 
when an adder came stealthily slithering in style. 
Now swoosh! - no more frog, swallowed whole by the snake, 
a cry from awed lips, to protect I forsake. 

So down from the fields came my dad like a bullet, 
shrieking, but peeking, the serpent's stretched gullet, 
Then thwack! - no more snake, jerked in half by a scythe, 
his red eyes cold, spent, his tail still alive. 
"Now who will slay us?" came my voice from beyond. 
Thirty years hence I still sit by the pond. 

Translucence 

An alabaster morning, 
Shy eye coquettish o'er treetops tipped gold, 
Painting the mind with your peerless panorama, 
Flipping your coin high to radiant chance, 
As we gaze from paper cages, fawning in the shadows, 
Fidgeting old dreams buried deep in our pockets, 
Wishing your fate to the face of our chalice, 
Watching your palette, our hopes, become blue, 
Wistfully yearning, enticed for another... 
An alabaster morning... 
Translucence. 

Pesky Little Sins 

In bibles tall like rubber balls in flight, 
Where rules like jewels transfix our wandering eyes, 
We lock away our disarray from sight, 
Then drool like fools with sweaty palms and sighs. 

A stolen watch, a swollen crotch, what shame! 
A slight-of-hand, no wedding band, swilled gin; 
A rendezvous, a lie or two, false blame, 
A testament to pesky little sins. 

But I will die one day for something less, 
No priests in gowns, just men with frowns to wake; 
For in my heart our lives depart, confess, 
To slaughter all, the weak, the small, forsake.

Plants to asphalt, creatures chewed in maw, 
These pesky little sins of Natural Law.