an on-line poetry magazine
for the 21st century

WINTER 2021-22


Chris Vannoy


I feel like rip van winkle

I cannot control this dream that dangles before me

on these thin threads of inconvenience

as I slumber into and through this year of self-isolation dreams

in this dream…the internet has taken over

I have farmed out pieces of my memory to Alexa

she has planted them in neat rows of bubble memory

that tumble through my pixeled brain

with pop-up adds in hungry bites flung round the world

through satellites the size of bread boxes

the world is broadcast into my eyes from the computer screen

and I am caught like a dickey boy’s prick in this dream

my eyes held wide open in endless screams

as twisted realities flip through past realities again

in a vain search for truths I can cling to.

tomorrow’s shift forward into tomorrows’ stream

deflect the lightning bolts that wreck these fragile tectonic plates daily

as franticly my fingers fly on my keyboard typing these words

constructing conversations hurled around the world

Zoom to see your 2-dimensional self in Hollywood Squares

upon the screen as the global hub hums me into space

in this dream…

the music has changed and my feet move slower now

and I fall back into this dream of wandering

through this New World that takes me into the ocular reaches of space

into outer worlds that wonder between binary suns

that I will explore from my monastery of sequestered dreams

to question when will this train wreak slumber end?

when will the NEW NORMAL begin?

every night a new dream

every day a reality that changes

and I must cling to that

…the changes

…that it will be alright

I must cling to one slim hopeful truth

that it will be all right…

that WE will be all right

I will just lie down here for a while

and dream a new world where we all will live in peace

and the color of my skin will not matter

everyone fed and healthy, safe and warm

but normal has not settled in yet

it shifts as I turn over in my restless sleep

as dictators build walls around my white house

I am the person whose mouth is behind this screen

trying to breathe

afraid for my children’s children

and the dream begins again upon waking

… in these times of turmoil, I still look up to see the Moon

a constant like the sun that I can depend on

the oceans and woods they comfort me

I feel like rip van winkle….

The morning light wakes me again

wondering just how long did I sleep this last time…

and what has changed?

A plague of Viruses…another useless gunman

spraying a crowd with bullets

I feel like rip van winkle,

but I cannot wake up

because I cannot go back to sleep!


Chris Vannoy came out of the Kansas prairie to grow up in the California sun. Poetry is his passion. Voicing it, his art.