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Copyright Group and Year

Acknowledgmentsby Jack Varnell

Special Thanks to the following for support

critique, and inspiration for my work here andon EmotionalOrphan.Net

Joey McCain – Artisthttp://www.emotionalorphan.net/wp-content/autoviewer/index.html

Gay HarperCoin and Feather Press

http://coinandfeather.wordpress.com/

Laura Mercurio EbohonAuthor-Poet

http://iamlauramercurio.com/

Caroline HagoodAuthor-Poet-Solver of Riddles

http://hellopoetry.com/poet/caroline-hagood/http://www.culturesandwich.com/

And of course the innumerable numbers of communityin the ether on HelloPoetry, Facebook, Twitter, BlogTalk's Speakeasy

Cafeand EmotionalOrphan.Net

Martini Businessby Jack Varnell

On Martini Business Nights the rules of decorum were written by Esquire or Playboy.

The red bar-side book divulges the secrets brewed with ice, libation and a sleek chrome shaker, because its all about the accoutrement, and technique. Mr Boston said that, NOT James Bond. If he was so cool he'd be driving a Cadillac, not some two seat euro trash car.

The sounds float like ghosts up the split level stairs, rumbling through the tasteful pile carpet, newly installed in the room where the golden boy heir to the throne lived. Trying desperately to sleep, holding his Teddy bear, buried in the bedclothes.

He didn't get the idea of dialects, but on those nights he heard broken Italian from the owner of a restaurant and gathering place for celebrities and men in sharkskin. “Mr. Diamond District” was there. The broken Jew, let into the “club” because of his family's jewelry business, and a nasty gambling habit. He had a place to hide the dirty money, and was not in a position to not comply. The southern drawled lawyer, a regular, and a large overbearing gentleman hiding IRS problems bigger than him was in attendance. The traveling paper supply sales man was the child's favorite. He always brought candy, or gifts from far away lands. He drank more than the rest while telling secrets about the hideaways of key government personnel in the event of a Russian bomb, learned during a stint with the CIA. The men, of course, were sworn to secrecy. No one could reveal what the “Greenbriar” was REALLY for.

They were not alone.

The concubines, wives, better halves or the little ladies, were dutifully there in their Max Factor best. Bimbos de la journée were there as well for the single, or nearly single men. It was their time out of the cage. Out from under the thumb. Gossip flowed freely, without the

threat of breaking a nail on that pesky rotary dial. They showed off their new frosted wigs, because Vogue said the beehives were passe. Tupperware was compared, bought, and sold by way of canapes, and they informed each other about who was having the best sale on floral jumpsuits made by the polyester designers this week . "Where shall we take our cruise this year ? Bermuda is getting so old."

Though they got louder as the night wore on and the tales got taller to compete with the sound of poker chips mixed with the laughter and the tinkling of glasses-each one appropriate for the libation it held.

The invisible guests got louder than the party.

In attendance were Frankie the Jersey heartthrob, Dean the golden skinned, silver tongued, import who held more whiskey than the rest and became more charming as he did. Jerry the clown made it all funny before his dedication to serving his “kids”. Even Sammy with two strikes and a handicap made the club. HE was different, and well, if Frankie said it was cool Daddio, then it was.

Even then the child knew that no matter the title or potential, he would never end up like them. It was too lofty a goal for the attainment of something unwanted. Perhaps that was the real noise that kept him awake on Martini Business Nights. So as usual, he pulled the chenille covers over his head, said his prayers to Joe Namath and those heathen hippie Beatles, praying that just maybe he'd hear sounds of Mancini, Mathis, or that soulful Reverend Green. They put him at ease every time, and he and Teddy went off to a different life. Until morning.

All works JN Varnell / Psychoholik /The Emotional Orphan are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

Unspoken Words, Unwritten Poems, Unopened Gifts, And Santa

by Jack Varnell

Your words take on a whole new meaning-Possess a whole new impact and power,when they jump from the pagerather than from the blue hazy hue of modern technology's window.

Like a reflecting pool, they mirror an image of you that is seenonly by you, but for those incapable of seeing who you really are.As the lonely mountain mere reflects a distorted vision in flux,you must learn to see the image has changed. That it is only an image.

You are no longer bound by the impressions made by others over the years,nor the images you have been taught to be true.Those images and impressions given as gifts by self motivated Santas demanding you unwrap and cherish them to be considered a “good girl”.

So easy for you to forget it is you, your life, and your words that are the gift.A gift left wrapped, and under a tree in a house with no laughter.The gifts of old words leave you partially deaf. Unable to hear the new words, loud as a party.You have wrapped them so tightly they cannot escape into the world. Just like you.

It is time my love, for you to find yourself.You are wrapped in the new stories. Poems in waiting. In those words as much as those words are in you.Invisible ink needs to be seen, like the world needs to see the true you.

It is time to find yourself, and to share yourself with me and with the world.I am begging you to set yourself free. The words are the catharsis, poems, the gift. You are not the words. The poems are not you. Belief in Santa must be shaken.

Thank you for the book. It is only the beginning.It is my most prized possession, and I Love You. I long for the day the words are spoken, poems written, and gifts opened,and your laughter as you enjoy them like a wide eyed child on Christmas morning.

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The Elevatorby Jack Varnell

There is an elevator in an apartment building of an architectural style I am drawn to. Older, wiser, utilitarian yet beautiful.It isn't all flash and glass, or a modern monstrosity designed for efficiency.Not built with cheap foreign labor, cheap foreign parts.Delivered on a plane via bar code and not a rail car and a bill of fare .Not thrown together as quickly as possible to get bonuses for beating deadlines.

It is an elevator inside a piece of art. Built by artisans.Meant to last forever, meeting the needs of its residents,with grace, beauty, honesty and character.It has personality, and tells a story with griffons and gargoyles.At its peak is a small garden, and a fountain, guarded on four sidesby the watchful eyes on the head of a brass falcon,just beyond the barbed wire fence installed after the jumper in 1965.The warm rays of a mahogany half sun welcome you from the archway above the only elevator in the building.

As I sit in that rooftop garden smoking, throwing popcornat the pigeons long since un-threatened by the brass falcon,I became aware-as I do about many things or people- of the shortcomings.The laundry, and trash chutes abandoned in favor of plastic bags and additional water connections. An entrance buzzer because brass falcons, griffons and gargoyles do not make you and I feel secure.The aforementioned anti suicide chain link, which certainly offers no real comfort. The jumper.And of course, the elevator. A marvel in its day, it still needed an operator to lift us to new heights.Someone trustworthy and necessary for the successful operation. A professional at getting us where we need to be.

I chuckle at how Life imitates Art, and how Art imitates Life.How I, the older, wiser, utilitarian, though a marvel,not thrown together as quickly as possible, in order to make a lasting impression or help others not need brass falcons, griffons and gargoyles-still need an operator with grace, beauty, honesty and integrity to lift us to new heights.Someone trustworthy and necessary for my successful, happy living. A professional at getting us where we need to be.And I silently thank God for you being that and so much more for me.

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Tornado Hawkby Jack Varnell

There is a great windlike the Hawk on a Chi - town lake.

Blowing hard to get past.Over, under, around all sides.

With my futile resistance, it blusters through, Slices me to get where it must go.

Copper smell permeates. Lifeblood pollutes the shore.

A tornado springs like from a tale about a Kansas farm.

Spinning my world and all in it, topsy – turvy. Vertigo.

Visions of home tumble to the ground, chopping me off at the knees

Abandoned colder, more dizzy than before the storm

All works JN Varnell /Psychoholik / The Emotional Orphan by are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial- No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

This Is A Testby Jack Varnell

This is a test of your emergency long lasting net worth.

For the next thirty days or so, your loyalty will be questioned.Your honesty and integrity will be examined, and all the kindness, generosity, compassion and romance you have offered will be reviewed for sincerity and trustworthiness.

An inspection will be done,and recommendations made related toyour security provision potential,and ability to provide.Morals and values will be screened as well as an evaluation offatherhood worthiness and parental qualification asdictated by an invisible standard, and the Deadbeat Dad scale.

This is a test-only a test. In the event of a real emergency,possession of a penis gives you the right to remain silent.You would be given instructions on how to proceed, as you areabandoned and left for dead.

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The Leaning Tower Of Babbleby Jack Varnell

She, someone, or something keeps her heartlocked away.I would rescue her.I'm just that self righteous.

Ha ! As if I can even help myself.Ride in, polished, armored on my white charger.And set her free from that tower in her head.I'd never get past the other Jacks or the King of Hearts.

She sits alone. She is lost in thoughtShe sits alone.Lying to herself and whoever listensthat it's the way she wants it.Have her thoughts lost her,made a prisoner of her heart ?

I would not know. I never listen.Heroic tales like Prince Charming, today,come from towers of their own.Like a projection room at a Drive In Theater.She replays her own movie with a plot that never includes the love she's sought

Emptying many tins of film I know I'm a projector with no clue how to startShe looks to be away from meAnd from a blind date gone awryShe longs to feel the sidewalk under her feetTo escape Love, a dream, a fairytale, a whimUnsure her heart in the tower, can even really beat.

Has she never felt a lovers' gentle touch ?Not even mine?Heard the professions-protestations of undying Love?No matter how many times ?Outside the chained gates of the towershe wants to spread her wings-to soar.But she believes the wings too heavy-chains too short.

The Tower is leaning and she doesn't realizethat a feather from those wings could make it tumble.

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Stolen Moment Given Awayby Jack Varnell

Stolen Moment GivenIs what happened better relegated to memory?

A replayed film of reality living only in our heads? Did it ever happen? How could we lose that power?

We deny it, that’s how.

Stolen moment givenFirst kiss at the end of the bed.More comfortable reclined with, or without clothing?

I sipped nectar from the pulse at your throat. Alabaster, Ivory, Mother of pearl.The jewels got up and walked away on their own.

No prompting, no reason, no explanation, no need of them.It’s just what happens.

Nothing has caused real pain yet. There has been no irreparable damage. Will you cycle back through old pain, again?

Will it be my fault? I will try to not speak to you of it now or forever. Just give me forever.

I bathe in the chance to stretch out beside you under the stars. We will remember. Our connection to past, present, and future, lives there.

If you can feel that, it’s a very good sign. It keeps my hope alive. I will hang on to that as long as I can.

Any way that I can. Because forever is not as long as I once thought it was. And a stolen moment given, cannot be taken away.

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Page 3

Jax Rabbitsby Jack Varnell

On the asphalt of the parking lotthe moon makes a quiet lake.I remember other times.Spontaneous encounterused to be enough for me.I no longer felt aloneat those times.Looking at the moon,with the rabbitsmunching on the evenings first dew,Me, breathing in the night,the aroma of the cafe.

The freshest scent,of a woman encountered,the brief adventure,left me off balance.With a burning desire.to live there forever.My heart filled.Under the moon,I returned,dazed and unsatisfied.At that timeLuna was my loyal companion.Awakened to the morningTossed from bed.I find my own sick body.My old thoughts.

I like to go outunder the rain or the sun.I enjoy watching the streets,talking to people spontaneously.I believed I could change my fortunes,until the last week.Each new morning offered the promiseof a life as yet unlived.One of loving and being loved.After great exertions I sat smoking.Me. Alone with my greatest fear,that I was to be alone.

I have aged and now want a home.One I could cherish,leave at night,To stroll and stopon the avenue,for a look at the moon,Returning hometo my dedicated partner,a quiet woman, patiently waiting.I have aged, no longer content with myself.The passersby are always the same;the rain and the sun, the same;and morning’s a desert.To exert is no longer worth it.Going out under the moon,With no one waiting for me,has become dark.

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Cobalt Soldiersby Jack Varnell

The ancient windowsill and it's cobalt blue contrastsoversee the sun-shined courtyard that's always been there.

The cylindrical soldiers of fused sand held and kept pure Grandmas ease and comfort those last days.

Now, cobalt sentinels watch over the courtyard, shielding fromthe same golden heat and flame that first gave it purpose.

Bottles emptied, their beauty remains.Soldiers new orders have been given, and their purpose has changed.

To ensuring Grandmothers memory lives on forever, while the sun shines on, over the courtyard that's always been there.

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I Lookby Jack Varnell

I look when you're not lookingstudying each featureof the marble statue face

I am astounded at your beautythat small unguarded laughcoming from lips pursed just right

it sets me aflameand the longer I stare, unawarethe more consuming the fire becomes

I see tenderness in your eyesthe caring of your heartthe want for making things better

I feel your touchas it brushes my imaginationand your scent silently envelopes me

I look when you're not looking.studying each featureof the marble statue face

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Implements of the Intruderby Jack Varnell

Rubber tubes tangledPlugged in andtaped securelybinding hands.

Electrodes gelledand reporting.Insolent yet comfortingechoes of heartbeat.

Calls to mindthe reminder of aburglar alarm,warningof the intruder uninvited.

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LOVE (Acrostics)by Jack Varnell

Life lessons - left unlearnedOur compulsion to stare at the sun - leaves eyes burnedVictory through union and acceptance - easily gained.Escaping loneliness and its crimson stain

Loneliness-OvercomeVapidity-Escaped.

Lessons learned,Our unblind hearts revealValued visionsEverywhere

Life Lessons learned,Our unchained hearts revealVictorious visionEscaping

Leaving OutVaccuousEmotion

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Love is in the Airby Jack Varnell

Today I remembered they say Love is in the air.I’ve been stifled in my life–is it my life?I cant breathe.

What I thought I knew turned to nothing.What is to come is still unknown.The one thing I know for certain ?I am alone.

Feels like I’m floatingin a dream-must be someone else’s-because my life could never belike the one I’m living.

Deflated regularly with a loud hiss.I thought I was on target.Come wake me one more time-I cant stand to sleep for, dreaming of your kiss.

It’s good to think Love is in the airLots of good things live there.It’s the playground of the angels,where the fragrances of the flowers fly.

The lingering smell of you is there.I can feel you on the days I still believe.On the days I don’t I’m left here wondering,if Love is in the air-why is it I cant breathe ?

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Pillow Talkby Jack Varnell

Their words in bold italics,tumbling from their mouths. Exclamation points,asterisks,parentheses, and footnotes.

Hidden messages.Covert meanings. Clever diversion, in masked clarifications.

More to the storyleft unsaid.Never-mind the Noise from their mouths. and lips moving.

Inner voices, no escape.And would not be ignored.There is something to be said for that.

More of the storyleft unsaid.Never-mind-

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Death Rattleby Jack Varnell

Say something. PleaseLong winded, with verve.With dedication, with depth, and feeling. Something evangelistic.

I need to hear you now,to be rid of what I thought I heard before.Death rattle, gasping, as the last breath of hope flees.Escaping the way you wish to escape. Silence sought, gasping too loud for goodbyes.

There is a disease, like a cancer. Belongings are being divided, final tasks being done.Or not. They seem the only important things left.

Those who meant something, those who truly care are gone.Purposefully forgotten or or simply nuisances, as the respiration goes more quiet and slows.

The rattle gains hurricane force.There is a calmness, a stillness.A quiet before, during and after the storm. Yet the rattle grows louder still.

My love and I have failed you.No shelter from the storm.Ride it out.Come inside.The shelter is here.Forget you love the rain.

Say something. Please. Do nothing. Please.

licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License. Based on a work at www.emotionalorphan.net.