Linda Kinstler


“I think my whole generation’s mission is to kill the cliché.” - Beck

Roses are Red

Blushing roses of noel* become
Entwined with marigold**
Radiance in the night.
The resin of honey remains,
Now vile in Perfection’s stead.
Yet still he hears the flawless voice
Echoing once beloved
Verses that tell of
Love’s sweetness

*Pink Christmas roses connote scandal
**Marigolds connote grief

Young Love

Potent youth, with its
Unmatched fervor of
Infinite definitions,
All of which were his
To be true. Foolish is
He who jumps into
A poisoned pool of certainty,
Who will drink up
The elixir of Lust until it is

Distance Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

A thousand miles
Separate, yet hearts still beat as one.
His face, still sharp in my mind,
Ridicules this reflection
As the rhythms diverge at last.
I hear old verses sung, those
Coveted during our parade
Of Love. Those same notes
Still resound within me, feel them

Love at First Sight

Fitful glances thrown
Drive darkness away.
Wandering Temptation pulls him
Away from tired wants, with wishes
Strong as will. The old is
Disregarded- for eternal
Sacrifice pales in comparison
To a rapturous embrace
Of wide eyes. Then, all is


Sprawled in the sand
Water washes over to
Bring his darkened perfection.
Black particles like ambers
In the final fire absorb the
Last drop of purity, and he is
Content. Here comes the
Tranquil Night, and so
The sun must dutifully kiss


To him:
Ideas based only on what you’ve heard!
No wonder I’ve so often found them lame,
Your thoughts conformed to these points absurd.
Let’s hope it’s but a phase, soon not the same.
Is it not best to favor the bizarre?
Especially because you strive to be unique
And leave innovation’s door ajar-
Foes of the norm aren’t subject to critique.
The strange and the expected are not so
Unlike, for both make up the human race
With precedents galore. And so, all know
Passé forever, it we can’t erase.

Let you, who lost humanity’s nature,
Be not willed to work as one’s own preacher.


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