Winter 2007

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Winter 2007



So many stories
you want to impose
on the fruit bowl's
polished apple face,
the window that cries
alive with geese.

 Todd Heldt

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  I have been thinking

I know now
I am looking for proofs
that this is real
that I have existed

There is no substance in my being
there is no core in the atoms I am built of

I am the search of electrons

Sigrid Astrup
 Sigrid Astrup was in born in 1979, in a fjord in northern Norway, and grew up on Tromsø island  (with mother Marianne Astrup).
Her father is Jostein Haraldsen.  He is an author / painter and lives in the Philipines.
She lives and works as a writer, and installation / video artist, in Copenhagen, Denmark.

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    Dan Tabor

Within the gray cells of my torpid brain/Fair prisoners cry, again and yet again/Imploring for release/Against the bars they lean, their wiptful eyes upon the stars/Imprisoned thoughts...such fragile, lovely things/They smile intriguinngly and tease for wings/Oh, Impotance/To know my lips unchain/Sweet songs that struggle to escape in vain/My stubborn pen stabs through the heart of me/And not to write is agony / Copyright ©2007  Dan  Tabor

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under the god/under the god tonight/is nothing semantics decay/sto day today and memory too/is sufficiency me, under/the god is memory and moments/where parts of us/resurrected themselves/tonight under the god/recapitulated pastels/art pain on the palette/under the god a pixel/is now is not noisy life/for tonight. a pain in the memory me dis-remembered abject ob-ject under the god/tonight red is writered right under the/god tonight/David McLean/*David McLean was born in Wales in 1960. He has lived Sweden since 1987. * * * * * *
Jesus Walks
Jesus lives
in a tent
not a temple
coated with blue
velvet sugar
He dances in freedom
of His salvation
with the night and all
days bearing down with sun.
He has billions of ears
hanging from His head
dangling by seashores
listening to incoming prayers.
Sometimes busy hours drive Him
near crazy with buzzing sounds.
He walks near desert bushes
and hears wind tunnels
pushed by pine stinging nettles.
Here in His sacred voice
a whisper and
Pentecostal mind-
confused by hints of
Catholicism and prayers to Mary-
He heals himself in sacred
ponds tossing holy water
over himself--
touching nothing but
humanity He recoils
and finishes his desert
walk somewhat alone.
Michael Lee Johnson 
Michael Lee Johnson lives in Itasca, IL.  After spending 10 years in Edmonton, Canada during the Vietnam War era. He is a freelance writer, and poet.

                            * * *  * * *  * * *  Winter 2007

New Mirage Quarterly Winter 2007



Words and Verse


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