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S.A. Gerber

Between the Drops


humid in

the café’.

half weather,

half the

steamy song-

stresses singing

union and

torch ditties

to an

audience of

café’ intellectuals,

graduate delinquents,

and a

couple of

recovering drunks.

able now

to discern

hope between

the raindrops,

as they

also rhythmically

provide good

backing  for

the ladies.

seems that

not a

few miracles

reside between

the raindrops…

look hard,

keep count.



A bright light

invades dark space.


Once a fortnight,

it shines through.


After total darkness,

it is painful,


stark and foreboding…

and yet, welcome.


A little goes

a long way.


Try to enjoy

while it lasts…



it never does.

S. A. Gerber is a native of Los Angeles, CA. presently dividing his time between

L. A. and L.V. Nevada before a final move to the former.

His work has appeared in such diverse publications as DesertVoicesMagazine…

Subtopian Magazine…Talking Sidewalks… Mad Swirl… Sediment Literary and 

Arts Journal… Poetica Magazine… Black Heart Magazine… The Blue Collar 

Review…Los Angeles Review of Los Angeles, and The Linden Avenue Literary 



His two (2) volumes of poetry, Under the Radar and Inventory can both be obtained on Barnes & Noble and, as well as Beyond Baroque bookstore in Venice, CA. and The Amber Unicorn in Las Vegas.

Place to Run


Give us a place to run…

a well-worn path to freedom,

complete with burning hurtles,

which many have started

though few have completed.

In the name of Ernesto Guevara,

Woody Guthrie, Ms. Parks, Russell

Means, Caesar Chavez, Paul Robson.

For the sake of Emmet Till,

Minister Malcolm, Bobby Francis

K. , brother Jack & Martin…

Give us that  place to run!

Easier to obtain a Glock 40 Cal.

Than a Bachelors’ in ‘Poly-Sci’.

Quicker to kill than to negotiate.

Schools in Beverly Hills awash

with technology while hot wind

blows through the broken windows

of Cabrini Green or South Central’s

halls of learning.

Armed African and Latin children

kill one another in record numbers

over turf they cannot even claim as

their own…or drug generated trifles…

even “respect” they think they are due.

White-trash mutants shoot for record

number of deaths with ‘gun-show’

weapons in theatres, churches or campuses.

The poor complain only to themselves

in frightened whispers, while the one-

percenters vote in other filthy wealthy

mongers to raise their bar even higher.

Political drones, war-makers, and

the rest of the present ‘ruling class’

couldn’t fix it if they wanted to…

which they don’t! They cannot.

Ironic to be this short of breath…

without that place to run.

All poems copyright by S.A. Gerber (c)2016
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