Hey, gang! I’m honored today to see The Piker Press publish another poem of mine — “Turning 41.” I wrote this poem last year!! Thanks as always to Editor Sand Pilarski for allowing me to share my voice at this wonderful online lit mag.
“Turning 41,” by Eric Robert Nolan
[Update: okay … I wrote this poem many years ago, not last year, because 41 was a while back. Whatever.]
I cannot determine the date of Barnes’ work here. Alternate Internet sources date it at 1932 (or later?) — yet a version of it apparently appeared in the 1905 book Architect and Engineer (Architect and Engineer, Inc.). I’m guessing that Barnes completed multiple versions of the same work.
DC Comics.
If you give any credence to Donald Trump’s claims of election fraud (or, indeed, ANY claims the man makes) let’s put them in the context of his track record in telling the truth. I’m linking here to The Washington Post’s compiled list of 26,548 false or misleading claims since he took office.
The list was last updated on October 22, so there are more that two full months of steady accusations that have not been subjected to verification. (Trump’s Twitter feed currently reads like that of a rabid, reality-impaired Don Quixote.)
Fake news, you say? Bias? Take a look at the list. It’s easy to understand, it’s meticulously detailed and it has links to back itself up. It … looks pretty real to me.
This is the great truth teller in whom you have placed your trust — the man you’ve chosen to believe instead of The Supreme Court, all the lower courts, election officials, election workers, new reporters and even his own Attorney General.
It makes you think, doesn’t it?
From “Die Gartenlaube” (“The Garden Arbor”).
I think it would be better for both of us if we made a clean break, 2020.
I went ahead and boxed up your things.
Popular Publications.
‘Ignoring your passion is slow suicide. Never ignore what your heart pumps for.’
Let’s play a game of Russian Roulette.
You and I are seated at a table in a smoke filled room; there’s an old six shooter positioned perfectly between us with a single round floating in one of its chambers. The heavy aromas of mildew and fear cling to your skin causing you to perspire. We’re alone. There’s no one here to save us; the only entrance to the cell is destined to remain locked until only one of us remains. You’re scared. So am I. Our lives have been reduced to this moment where we’ll play a game of chance to see who survives. Nothing else matters right now. It’s just you and I.
There’s a coin beside the gun. We’ll flip to see who shoots first. I pick it up and use my thumb…
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Eric Robert Nolan, Author 