5 Poems by Steven Wittenberg Gordon

Morale Call

I was finally granted a “morale call”
on the iridium satellite phone.
Five Minutes Only.

Thank God my wife picked up.

It was so good to hear
her voice and let her know
I was all right.

Our daughter was hit in the face
by a swing.  A bloody nose
resulted.

Our son was having problems
in school but was otherwise handling
my absence well.

She was planning a trip
to look at possible sites
for my future civilian practice.

But my future plans seemed distant,
mired as I was in the present.

She told she was proud
of me and that she loved me.

I love you.  I miss you.

And then the call was over.


Sweeping Puddles Away

I spent much of the day,
As it rained over night,
Sweeping puddles away

Of mosquitoes that prey.
In controlling their blight
I spent much of the day.

Of the eggs that they lay
And their larva so white
Sweeping puddles away

Is what keeps them at bay.
So in this endless fight
I spent much of the day.

For my flight surgeon’s pay
My broom moved left and right
Sweeping puddles away

Lest mosquitoes would play
And then breed, bloom, and bite,
I spent much of the day
Sweeping puddles away.


Atlanta’s Triolet

If you believe that you should be
The one to share my marriage bed
Then race me through the forest free
If you believe that you should be
The one to spend your life with me
But lose and you shall lose your head
If you believe that you should be
The one to share my marriage bed


Chick Magnet

The Prince of Troy was offered powerful gifts from each goddess:
A silver diadem of wisdom from grey-eyed Athena,
A golden belt of virtue from the regal, jealous Hera,
A magic ebon bow from the virgin huntress Artemis.
However it was Aphrodite’s gift that the young prince chose--
A seemingly ordinary ring of the darkest lodestone
Suspended from a thong of ordinary braided leather.
Aphrodite placed her gift ‘round the neck of her champion,
And when the smooth stone settled against the prince’s naked breast,
Even proud Hera was forced to lay her jealousy aside
To admire the sudden radiant beauty of the youth.


Europa goddess moon

Frigid.  Under the blanket.  Of sea ice
The womb.  Always quickens
A god in disguise
Penetrates.  Deep.  Beneath.
Life swimming.


Bionote

A poet, writer, physician, and gentleman songster, Steven Wittenberg Gordon, MD was raised in the dairy country of upstate New York. He received his BA from Amherst College and his MD from Albany Medical College, and then completed a family practice residency in Wisconsin. After practicing medicine for several years in various locations, he volunteered for service with the United States Air Force and had many memorable adventures as a flight surgeon.  While on active duty, he played a small part in the military’s response to the tragic tsunami that struck Indonesia in 2004--“Morale Call” and “Sweeping Puddles Away” are part of a larger body of work that was inspired by that experience. Doctor Gordon resides in Kansas with his human family and a poorly trained Airedale terrier. He continues to maintain a modest concierge medical practice and keeps himself ready and available to perform physicals on military recruits when USMEPCOM calls upon him for aid. His poetry appears regularly in Scifaikuest, Eternal Haunted Summer, Asimov's, and, of course, Songs of Eretz. Doctor Gordon is a member of the Codex Writers' Group and the editor of Songs of Eretz Poetry Review. Visit him at www.eretzsongs.blogspot.com, follow him on Twitter @SongsofEretz, or email him at SWGordonMD@gmail.com.

3 Poems by Chrystal Berche

The Sky

Cloud ribbons
Stretch
Jagged fingers
Of color

Rainbows
Bridge gaps
Between wispy strands


Starfall

Before the stars
Fell
there was harmony

now the moon
rises
to chaos
disorder


Fade out Slow

Fade out slowly
Flute song mingeling with restless drums
Fade out slowly
Wolf howl in dusky gray morning
Sound bleeds like colors in sunlight
Edges of memory crinkle
Fade out slowly


Bionote

Chrystal writes. Hard times, troubled times, the lives of her characters are never easy, but then what life is? The story is in the struggled, the journey, the triumphs and the falls.  Sometimes she writes urban romance and sometimes its poetry and songs. When she isn’t writing she’s taking pictures, or curled up with a good book and a kitty on her lap.

2 Poems by Colin Chao

The Fool

They come at you with
Saccharine apologies,
Serotonin supplements,
Scientifically accurate
Formulas that promise to
Make the
Pain go
Away.

You try to play the fool.

There was never a point in
Contesting them because they
Wouldn’t look at you unless you
Had a smile pasted on your face, they
Wouldn’t let you speak until you finished their
Concoction of chemical condolences, until they
Saw that you really had
Licked the
Platter
Clean.

They know you fool no one.

You stopped showing them where it
Hurt because you weren’t really sure what part of
Your body you should have pointed out first without
Adding hypochondriasis to your list of words that
They said, described you perfectly, as if
Knowing exactly how to incant the names of the
Monsters in your head would be all the magic you
Needed
To slay
Them.

So you stop being the fool.

They say they will always be there for you when the
Monsters come, but how can they dare to speak of
Fighting by your side, when you are the
Only one who can see the horrors that surround you—
You have always been the
Only one who’s been fighting this battle—
This battle that will never end unless you
Cast off your armor and
Walk
Far
Away.

They say you’re only fooling yourself.

You think they have broken their promises when
They in fact have been by your side at every single
Moment, trying to help you fight. They can’t see your
Monsters but they can see the shell that you
Reluctantly force your broken body into, and in their
Obsession to protect you they make your steel plates even
Tighter and smaller until it kills you just to breathe, but
At least, this way, the monsters will
Never
Hurt
You.

And you’ll always be the fool.  


Tonight

You don't have to
Bother asking if
I'm coming home tonight.

I cared enough
To call you months in
Advance, don't mistake
My dial tone messages as
A sign that I wanted
To be alone.

You don't have to
Bother asking if
I'm missing you tonight.

I cared enough
To stay a little longer,
I even waited until you
Fell asleep, so you wouldn't
Hear the sound of the door
Closing behind me.

You don't have to
Bother asking if
I'm feeling sick tonight.

I cared enough
To finish my serving of
Pills, and when the beast
Within me hungered, I dutifully
Followed the doctor's orders and
Swallowed another handful.

You don't have to
Bother asking if
I'm leaving you tonight.

I cared enough
To show you my trail,
How it was always too
Narrow for us both to
Travel, and yet
You still bothered

Guess what?

You shouldn't have bothered

Don't you dare say you didn't

Don't you dare say you couldn't

Don't you dare
Worry if
I'm coming home tonight

I always have.

(In

Pieces.)    


Bionote

Colin Chao was born with absurdly high levels of choler in their veins—or so their doctor said. However, Chao does not trust any doctors because doctors make too much money, and money is the root of a particularly revolting kind of evil. Since 2011, they have refused to seek scientifically recognized forms of treatment; they consider poetry to be the best form of therapy there is. You can view the results of Chao's regularly irregular sessions at http://nihil-invictus.deviantart.com/gallery/?catpath=/.

2 poems by Yuxing Xia

Angles

The angle between the sun’s rays
and a reflection of it is not well-defined

like how my face does not really flash
my life experiences to whoever looks at me.

Note: Falling is a reprint from Strong Verse.


Falling

Falling
snow
lands on its feet and
cuddles around
my coat
for warmth
just like
my
dead
cat.


Bionote

Yuxing Xia is a scientist by day, poet by daydream. His work has been published or is forthcoming from Strong Verse,  Society of Classical Poets, Boston Literary Magazine, Otoliths, Pantheon Magazine, Star*line, Eunoia Review and elsewhere (see yuxingxia.wordpress.com). He also really likes boards that promote justice such as the washboard. Like really, all kinds of flat boards.

5 Tanka by an'ya

cold cemetery: Most Overall Votes Tanka Splendor Contest

floods and bridges: 7th International Tanka Festival Competition the Japan Tanka Poets' Society

old memories: First place tanka Society of America Contest

rose moon: Tanka Splendor Contest

 distant whitecaps: published in Tanka tree rings

Bionote

an'ya is known worldwide for writing Japanese short forms and her works have been translated into over 60 different languages. She has won many competitions, been published various places and has numerous published books to her credit. Currently an'ya is the editor for cattails collected works of the United haiku and Tanka Society and keeps her own publication "midnight moon" which can be viewed at anyaonline.us

1 Poem by Paul Doty

The Clarity of the Table

A January thaw flying like a foraging snowy owl and throws a late morning sun into the kitchen illuminating the ducks eggs in a Syracuse china bowl in a scoured white iron sink.  “We'll put everything on the table, and then find clarity.” A Dutch painting, game birds piled high on a table with a pewter pitcher and two rabbits hung from a peg the wall behind, the painting's precision appetite compressed into food snared on the canvas. The Dutch knew the clarity of the table in a meaningful still life and to live life with that invested attention takes duck, goat, lamb, licorice, bay leaves, mutton, chicken, pickled things and a just butchered roast. Clarity is a cool larder with crockery, things tied with string, dried herbs, brine in jars, and metal lids screwed tightly to the upturned glass jar fish faces. Finding clarity is work bringing art in blue cheese stuffed hamburgers, olive oil painted across the palette in the pizza dish, and a letter written home about the food, the way food used to be reported in The New York Times, when the Times understood that clarity was the providence of the kitchen, and sated contradictory absolution was a place at the table.


Bionote

Paul Doty is a Public Service Librarian at St. Lawrence University.  Paul has published essays or poems in publications such as the Reference Librarian, the Leaflet, Mississippi Review, Stone Canoe, Cortland Review, and Rootdrinker. He resides in Canton, New York, with his wife and youngest daughter, a house full of books, and a garage full of canoes.

2 Poems by Unyierie Angela Idem

Wake up from Slumber

Wake up from slumber!
The hawks are about to
Swoop down craters
Invisible to the eyes even
Of the watching gods.

Wake up! For the days
Come when you shall
Wonder where it had all
Gone. In vain you fought
The metallic claws that
Claimed the right to
Appropriate that which
Wasn’t theirs.

Was it a dream, or was
It my imagination to think
That history would  never
Repeat itself?
Did the dream sleep with
The ancestors’ skeletal frames?
Did the young braves cower
In dreaded fear?

Wake up from slumber
And behold your nakedness
Exposed - the impunity of
Shame brought upon you.
Why do your seers search
For lost Wisdom?
The bowels of the Earth
Bring forth nothing to
Compensate for their libations.
The ages connive  in dark
Silence at their sacrifices.
All is vanity!


God has Grey Days

Even God has grey days
When He looks down from
His heavenly abode to contemplate
The chaos down here on Earth.
He must wonder why He
Created the human whose
Destructive streak has seared
The heart of the ages.
He must chuckle at man’s
Futile efforts at elevation
That denies a power most superior.
The grandeur of Man is like the
Transit of Venus behind the
Golden sun: a minuscule shivering
Speck vaporizing into nothingness.


Bionote

Unyierie Angela Idem teaches English as a Second Language (ESL) at Holyoke Community College (HCC), Holyoke, Massachusetts,  USA. In her free time, she reads and writes poetry that addresses a broad range of issues from personal to social and political. Her poems have appeared in Sentinel Literary  Quarterly: The Magazine of World Literature (April 2011 issue) and aaduna (Fall/Winter 2011 and 2012 issues). She has participated in a number of poetry events, including  HCC faculty readings and the aaduna Fundraiser  in Harlem, New York. She has also been a guest  reader at a public library in Massachusetts. She is currently working on a collection of poems.

3 Poems by Susandale

September

A golden hush
Crimson and bronze days
And the earth willing
I am not
To relinquish autumn
To smoke-silvered November

The crying song of geese
Curling clouds in the skies
And in the margins of my dreams
Autumn lingers long


October

Hold autumn close
When the sun strikes broadside
Reach into its heart of gold
One last moment

Plunder her golden orb
On the path of summer’ glory
A whispered lullaby
To rock cradle of sleep
October –  on the outskirts of summer dreams
Drink deep the poem of autumn


November, 2014
 
November with its penitential air
It’s faded shutters of sun

Melancholy lady
carrying a candle
flickering through the fog


Bionote

Susandale’s poems and fiction are on WestWard Quarterly, Ken *Again, Penman Review, Inner Art Journal, Garbanzo, and Linden Avenue. In 2007, she won the grand prize for poetry from Oneswan. She has two published chapbooks on the internet: Spaces Among Spaces by languageandculture.org and Bending the Spaces of Time by Barometric Pressure.

2 Poems by Linda M. Crate

immortal heart

winter
always remembers you
with such vicious
ferocity
that i hate every blue diamond
of snow that crosses
my path,
and every icicle is a constant
reminder of how you
shoved your
icy fingers into my chest
and pulled out my
heart;
but when the amaranths come
and spring burns through
winter's core
you fade away and my heart remembers
again birdsong and sunshine and my
spirit soars again—
you may have soured a moment
but not my forever
as i'm sure you intended
with your merciless words as cold as the winter
that birthed you into this world,
but i am summer's child
i always rise from the ashes like a phoenix
there is a light in me that never dies
and you and your could should
never hope to kill it
because the truth will immortally breathe
through me and my words. 

the girl that belongs to nature

i was fathered by the trees

mothered by the moon and sun and sky

sistered by rivers and valleys and fields

brothered by flowers and earth and laughter

there is a light in me that never dies

i prefer kindness,

but i can burn with all the fury of the

wild

for i am the girl who flies with ravens and runs

with wolves;

coyotes sing with me and finches

soar in my skies

bears roar with my anger and wolverines

exact my revenge

i am never out of my element because i can always

catch my breath no matter where i am

nature always envelopes me with kisses and love

the wind loves to dance across my hair,

and i love the bare earth

dancing across

my feet it gives me more soul than the words of

dying and lying men—

birdsong nests in my ears and flowers crown

my head

and butterflies and bees dance with me

we are all connected but i feel most at home when i'm

sitting in the forest letting my father and mother

wrap their arms around me.

Bionote

Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. Recently her two chapbooks A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press - June 2013) and Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon - January 2014) were published. Her fantasy novel Blood & Magic was published in March 2015.

1 Poem by A.J. Huffman

I Am Deadly

sins, seven
embodiments of evil.
Divided into equal parts, I cycle
through the circle of their calling.
I am daughter of the devil, earthly
heiress to throne
of Hell.

I.                   Wrath

Boiling cesspool of emotion, I spew
volcanic spite into the wind.  I am monster
of mayhem,  mounting miniature wars
against every mouth moving in my direction.
I am visceral.  Planetary vengeance
permeates my fingers, imprinting everything
I touch.  Do not look my way, I am all
eager eyes, searching for something beautiful
to burn.

II.                Greed

Social climber, exponentially ambitious,
I desire to consume all tangible symbols
of power.  I am reflective, a shining mirror
of tyranny.  I am golden
noose, dangling over the abyss of self-
destruction.  Still I claw for the next
level.  I am malicious discontent.  I want
what I have, multiplied by what I can take.

III.             Sloth

Procrastination personified, I am apathetic,
emotionally void.  Motivational chasm, I am
activity’s grave.  I believe I am entitled
to a life of leisure.  Do not engage me,
my thoughts do not register, your words
do not exist.

IV.             Pride

Earthly embodiment of God, I am gift
to peasants and plebeians.  Temples should honor
my existence.  I am pillar of prosperity,
intellect unmatched.  I command silence
and servitude.  Chisel my thoughts into wall,
my words deserve to become governing law.

V.                Lust

Intensely motivating, I am desire. I burn
without restriction, raging, consuming
every waking thought.  I am arousal,
the force behind the movement.  Longing,
yearning, craving,   I am rawest need.
I am haunting
hunger, the distracting drive to possess.

VI.             Envy

Green witch of resentment, I am bitter.  Coveting
everything around me, I am hatred, human
bile bubbling.  I am cauldron of misery.
Everything stirs me.  I am stick, retracted,
poised for retribution.  I need to feed my enemies
malicious doses of my own misfortune.

VII.          Gluttony

Omnivorous, I believe my mouth is the gateway
to heaven.  I consume everything
I need, and everything I do not.  I am excessive.
My mind does not comprehend the term
enough.  Fingers dripping with waste, I am burgeoning
extravagance.  Keep your distance, I will not stop
until I explode.


Bionote

A.J. Huffman has published eleven solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. Her new poetry collection, Another Blood Jet, is now available from Eldritch Press.  She has three more poetry collections forthcoming: A Few Bullets Short of Home from mgv2>publishing, Degeneration from Pink Girl Ink, and A Bizarre Burning of Bees from Transcendent Zero Press.  She is a Multiple Pushcart Prize nominee, and has published over 2200 poems in various national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, and Kritya. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com

1 Poem by Kaitlyn Frazier

Guide Me

Drunken stupor, fading light
Guide me, guide me thro’ the night
Soul foreboding, enticing sprite,
Guides me, guides me to the light.
Sizzling spirit, wistful Wight,
Fills me, fills me, full with fright.
Host of Heav’n clutches tight
Mournful, mournful so contrite.
Fading fast, losing sight,
Help me, help me put this right.
Weakening swiftly, afraid to fight,
Lord, dear Lord, enhance my might.

If I lived before I sleep,
I pray the Devil’s heart to weep.


Bionote

Kaitlyn Frazier is a nineteen-year-old freshman at North-West Shoals Community College where she is aspiring to be an English major. She was born and raised in Florence, Alabama and graduated from Central High School. Reading and writing both have been a passion of hers since the day that was she capable. Her senior year, she was awarded an honorable mention in the North Alabama Renaissance Sonnet Writing Contest for her poem, ‘Old One,’ and this same poem was published in the Lauderdale County literary magazine Sweet Inspirations. She has four other published poems: ‘A Girl and a Mirror’ and ‘Sin,’ of the Belle Reve Literary Journal, ‘A Riddle Called Time,’ of Belleville Park Pages, and ‘Art of Humanity,’ of the Corner Club Press.

5 Haiku by Angelee Deodhar

1/
out of  the fog
a crow's cracked caw
drips into silence

2/
grace abundant
the magnolias’ sweet scent
after the mizzle

3/
winter bare tree
ice crystals sculpt
an abandoned nest

4/
Buddha’s shadow -
the silhouette on my wall
from a tiny candle

5/
Tai Chi-
a blue heron takes up
the master's stance


Bionote

An eye surgeon by profession, she is a haiku poet,translator and artist from India. She considers haiku to be a medium for international friendship and peace.

2 Poems by B.Z. Niditch

SUNFLOWERS

Entangled by sun rising words
and metaphors
in a divine parachute
and wounded umbrellas
amid a translated Spanish rain
among sister's wild roses
you wave by the South seas
nodding to adolescence
among the presence
of grinning sunflowers
foraging for a glimpse
of sailboats in a  day
fleeing the greenhouses
by back roads of bees
you dream and tremble
for simple things
like butterflies
in the mountains
escaping bitter troubles,
no memory holds you back
among gardens
of scattered ashes
against the quiet river's mouth
by the docks at twilight.


LANDSCAPES OF TURNER

Invincible paint
of sky blue haze
with patches of hilly light
splashed on my eyes
still dripping
in my admiring gestures
at the museum's portraits
and now on film
with students surrounding us
at close distance
with questions,
but who can answer
the uncovering of genius.

Bionote

BZ Niditch's new collection will be EVERYTHING, EVERYWHERE, Penhead Press;his "Expressionist Poems" appear in a chapbook in Minataur #73, Port Townsend Press.

2 Poems by Fizza Abbas

I Discovered God!

Spending a sad day and battling with the night,
Losing my insight but undaunted and upright.
Accepting the miseries and welcoming the gloom,
Diverting the path of merry and bloom.
Marking the journey with horror and haunts,
Lamenting my decisions with lots of taunts.
Aggravating the life with dogmas and fears,
Leaving behind all my beloveds and dears.
Turning my life into a grayish mode,
Trapping between the junction and node.
Smiling blissfully, He looked at me,
A signing elation, happiness or glee.
Looking at Him, my heart skipped a beat,
Purifying my soul so clean and neat.
Feeling His presence was a great joy,
Presenting myself in a bucket of lie.
Asking Him the cause of my dismays,
Pointing His fingers, He says,
“Desiring to make you strong willed,
Doing all to make you polished and a-pilled.
Directing you towards serene,
Coloring your life from black to green.
Making you courageous and strong,
Stop thinking that I’ve done anything wrong!
Directing the victories on your way,
Showing you a new directive ray.
But believing me has never been your desire,
Loving you heartily is not for the sake of praise or admire.”


From Abert to Einstein

Your forked soul and tasseled persona,
Penetrated through the orifice of anomaly;
Intelligible; Marked by an insane cognition,
Quadrangle of engrossment preceded by revolutions.


Bionote

Fizza Abbas has recently completed her intermediate. Her poems have been published in Yellowroot and Revolution Flame. She is currently working as a content writer.

1 Poem by Doug Draime

Always

Before there
was
anything,
there had
to be
everything.
Before there
was
everything,
there had
to be
always.
Before there
was
always
there had
to be
now.


Bionote

Doug Draime's latest book is More Than The Alley, a full-length poetry collection from Interior Noise Press. Also available are three chapbooks: Los Angeles Terminal: Poems 1971-1980 (Covert Press), In The Back of Madam Wong’s (Tree Killer Inc),  Rock ’ n Roll Jizz (Propaganda Press), and an online chap, Speed of Light (Right Hand Pointing). A poet, short story writer, and playwright, Draime emerged as a presence in the literary 'underground' in Los Angeles in the late 1960's. Awarded PEN grants in 1987, 1991, and 1992. During the last few years he has been nominated for several Pushcart Prizes. He currently lives in Medford, Oregon.

1 Poem by Cherise Wyneken

Noise Pollution

A gaggle of geese
waddle toward the pond
shattering the day
with clatter.
One lags behind
pecking at crumbs
beneath the picnic table.

The Goodyear Blimp
hovers overhead
droning home
from a Dolphins’ game.
Tires squeal, sirens blare.
I long to lag behind
peck at crumbs.


Bionote

Cherise Wyneken’s prose and poetry have appeared in a variety of publications, two full collections of poetry, two poetry chapbooks, a spiritual memoir, a novel, a children’s book, a children’s audiocassette, plus a collection of stories from her life. Archives from her poetry column for the Oakland Examiner’s online issue can be found at:  www.examiner.com/poetry-in-oakland/cherise-wyneken and her poem, “Re-borne,” from “Turning a Train of Thought Upside Down” Scarlet Tanager Books, edited by Andrena Zawinsky, was nominated for the 2012 Poetry Pushcart Prize.

1 Poem by Poornima Laxmeshwar

Melancholy 

From my window
I see the orange circle
Escape in a blue quilt
Quietly without leaving any traces of its existence

In the frameless sky the group of parakeets shriek
Converse in haste
In those scarlet beaks
They gather the dust of the restless city
With those tiny emerald wings
They move like a floating cloud

Fly to where they belong
As the night gets ready for the performance
With make-up of neon lights, blaring music, endless pegs of vodka
I sit staring from my window
Looking at the reflection
Of my lonely night
Darkness, the flowing river
Shallow as my being

There is no conversation
No sense of belonging
Just the same I
And this unread book of your poetry


Bionote

Poornima Laxmeshwar resides in the garden city Bangalore and works as a content writer for a living. Her poems have appeared in Vayavya, Reading Hour, Writers Asylum, The Aerogram, Stockholm literary review, and are forthcoming in Northeast review and Brown Critique. Her haiku have found space in several magazines like Frogpond, Hundred gourds, BottleRocket, Under the Basho and others.

2 Poems by Liza Wolff-Francis

Run

If you start off running
from the swirly slide at Garrison park,
right when you hear the train whistle,
run through the low tunnel of trees,
run past the sweat stained
guys playing basketball,
run down the gravelly
dirt path with the occasional root sticking out,
you might be able to see the train going by.
When my two-year old hears the whistle,
he always wants to see it pass,
but sometimes, he forgets to run
and with his short legs, the trees look tall
and he dawdles, not understanding
that the train will go on without us.
So it happens that we get all the way
down the trail only to catch a quick glimpse
of the last freight car speeding
by through the opening in the city forest.
I want him to understand
you have to run for what you
want, or you might miss it,
but he’s only two.
Every now and then we get lucky.
The last time, when we heard
the whistle far in the distance
and we ran hard, burning, all out of breath,
we got there in time to see it.
I counted 102 cars on that train
and the only legible graffiti I saw
was a three word phrase:
Die and Sleep.
The only thought I had was
instead, they should have graffitied
one simple word:
run.


Amazonia

A nation of warriors, tribes of women,
daughters of daughers
and one they called Laira
who carried two knives at her waist,
sword in hand.
Whose battle cry was the howl of wolves,
creep creeping toward any hidden enemy,
blocking all who might invade.
A slaughter of all humans in her way,
the campfires at night,
the crackle song of their embers.
Her wife, her comrades,
her children asleep in huts,
blanketed by the woven wool of lambs.
Ribbons plaited into the braids of her hair,
night after night she kept quiet guard
of the free minds of thousands
of the blossoming bodies and voices
and imaginings of all the world might be
and all they might be in the world
her sword turning, turning
toward unknown sounds of night.


Bionote

Liza Wolff-Francis is a poet and writer with an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Goddard College. She was co-director for the 2014 Austin International Poetry Festival and a member of the 2008 Albuquerque Poetry Slam Team. She has a poem posted in Austin’s Blanton Art Museum by El Anatsui’s sculpture “Seepage” and her work has most recently appeared in Edge, Twenty, unseenfiction.com, Border Senses, and on various blogs. Every day she eats both popcorn and dark chocolate, and when she can, she loves riding trains with her son. She currently lives in Albuquerque, NM.

5 Poems by Yuan Changming

[botanical irony]

You long to be a Douglas fir
Tall, straight, almost immortal
But you stand like a Peking willow
Prone to cankers, full of twisted twigs

Worse still, you are not so resistant
As the authentic willow that can bend gracefully
Shake off all its unwanted leaves in autumn
When there is a wind blowing even from nowhere

No matter how much sunshine you receive
During the summer, you have nothing but scars
To show off against winter storms
The scars that you can never shake off


[yabakoola]

While all my fellow humans hope to
Enter heaven after they die, I am alone
Living in paradise already:

An earthly realm I have built myself
With the light from Lapland, where the setting sun
Shines with the morning glows above golden snow

The air from Shangri-la, where the yin
And yang are in pure and perfect balance with
Each other in every grass, every cloud

The water from Waterton Lakes, which
Reflect the mountain of trees as clearly
As the mountain reflects upon the clear water

That’s all my spirit needs, not the fragments
Of the meaning about Eden long lost
But the whole backyard within my solitary heart


[y]

yummy yummy, you have
become so addicted
to this juicy alphabet
you can readily get high
high within your hairless skin
as yellowish as the banks
of the Huanghe River
less sleek than a china crane
but more fragrant than a young yucca
while its pronunciation can lead you
to the very truth you are pursuing, its shape
can grow from an unknown sprout
into a huge Yggdrasil, where your soul
can perch on an evergreen twig, cawing glaringly
towards the autumn setting sun


[don't miss me, son, ever after i die] 

Don’t miss me, Son, ever after I die
For as a son I know how you will sigh
With mixed feelings when you recall
The spot where I showed you the first sugar cane
The moment when I took you to DLG Elementary
The first time we hiked in Cypress Mt Park
The first sightseeing tour we had (to Zhangjiajie)
The cozy restaurant where we ate in Beijing
The short poem I bribed you to write in grade ten
The lectures I gave you about the dynamic
Rebalancing of yin and yang… No, don’t

Don’t miss me, Son, not ever after I die
For I know how you will be getting high
With sadness that can engulf and suffocate
Your entire inner being when you recollect
The broken pieces of my image, but think
More about your son, about how you two
Can enjoy being together at each supper time
Eating dumplings, talking aloud, joking
And laughing while you are still well and alive

Don’t, just don’t miss me after I die, Son
But keep thinking about your own son’s son
While all of you are so very much well alive


[there is no life without ‘if’ in it: 39 word idioms]

No ass without passion
No art without startle
No belief without a lie
No business without sin
No character without an act
No coffee without a fee
No courage without rage
No culture without a cult
No entrance without a trance
No epicenter without an epic
No Europe without a rope
No freedom without a reed
No friendship without an end
No fundamentalism without mental fun
No heritage without a tag
No glove without love
No ghost without a host
No groom without a room
No infancy without fancy
No malady without a lady
No manifestation without man
No mason without a son
No millionaire without a lion
No nirvana without a van
No passage without a sage
No pharmacy without harm
No plant without a plan
No prevention without an event
No product without a duct
No recovery without something over
No restaurant without rest or rant
No sight without a sigh
No slaughter without laughter
No splurge without urge
No spring without a ring
No substance without a stance
No think without ink
No truth without a rut


Bionote

Yuan Changming is an eight-time Pushcart nominee and author of 5 chapbooks, including Kinship (Seattle: Goldfish Press) and the Origin of Letters (Chicago: Beard of Bees Press), both released in 2015. The most widely published poetry author who speaks Mandarin but writes English, Yuan grew up in a remote Chinese village, started to learn the English alphabet in Shanghai at 19, and published monographs on translation before moving to Canada. Since mid-2005,  he has had poetry appear  in Best Canadian Poetry (2009, 12, 14),  BestNewPoemsOnline, Threepenny Review and 1069 other literary journals/anthologies across 36 countries.  With a PhD in English from the University of Saskatchewan, Yuan currently edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Qing Yuan and runs Poetry Pacific Press in Vancouver.

PP's Call for Poetry Submissions

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s/he alone has created the work s/he is submitting and that 

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whatever their nature, resulting directly or indirectly 

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* All poetic and photographic works are carefully read/viewed 

year round on a rolling basis for PP's spring or autumn issue, 

to be released respectively on 5 May/November;

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are all equally welcome insofar as you still hold the copy/publishing rights;

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except a genuine shared love for art and wisdom;

* Please send up to 5 of your best shorter poems each time 

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---------------------------------------------------------------------

 open call for manuscript submissions

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
(REVISED)

WARRANTY & AGREEMENT

By submitting to Poetry Pacific Press (PP Press),

the submitter warrants that s/he alone 

has created the work s/he is submitting and

 that s/he owns all rights to it. The submitter will indemnify 

and hold PP Press and its staff harmless from and 

against any and all loss, damage, costs and other expenses

arising out of claims, whatever their nature, resulting directly

 or indirectly from breach of this warranty. 

At the same time, the submitter/contributor agrees that 

PP Press can use part or all of his/her accepted material, 

including responses to PP's interview questions, on its Facebook 

and/or other similar social networking vehicles for promotional purposes.

        ____________________________________________________

* We read poetry manuscripts year round on a rolling basis;

* Simultaneous submissions are welcome insofar as you give us notification when your manuscript is accepted elsewhere;

* For full-length collections, we normally print 80 - 120 pages of poetry; for short collections, 50 - 79 pages of poetry; for chapbooks, 30 - 49 pages of poetry;

* Once accepted, it is the author's responsibility to solicit blurbs, proofread/copy-edit the manuscript, and make it print-ready, with the coverart, the 'Table of Contents,' the 'Acknowledgment,' and/or the 'Introduction,' if any, although we may try to help in the process;

* Our response-time is 3 - 6 months: since we never give anyone any 'rejection notice,' please feel free to do whatever you want to do with your submission if you do not get any response/acceptance from PP Press within 6 months after you send it over to us. In other words: only those accepted will get a reply;

* By publishing your work, we buy certain rights;

* Royalty and/or support plan will be discussed and agreed upon on an individual basis;

* Neither inquiry nor proposal is necessary - please send your manuscript together with your literary cv (or professional bionote) to this email address:: editors.pp@gmail.com

* Many thanks for your interest in and support of PP Press & Gooooodluuuuck!

______________________________________________

POETRY PACIFIC (4.2): BACK COVER

POETRY PACIFIC

[autumn issue 2015]

Y: the Natural Variations of an Alphabetic Poem by Yuan Changming;
photo taken at China's UNESCO-designated Natural Park Zhangjiajie in the summer of 2007

POETRY PACIFIC (4.1): COVER PAGE

POETRY PACIFIC

[Spring  Issue 2015]

Cover Photo: Zhijian Tao

Editorial Notes

hi dear all PP Friends,

while we hope spring is treating every one of you well, there are several house items to note here:

beginning from this spring issue, we will change our e.journal from a quarterly publication to a biannual one; that is, after each spring issue, we will have an autumn issue only for the rest of every year. the launch dates for the two issues remain the same, one on 5 may; the other on 5 november. as always, we welcome and enjoy reading poetry submissions all year round on a rolling basis.

also, from now on, we will have an isbn number assigned to each issue: the isbn number for Poetry Pacific (4.1) is 978-0-9919298-4-9.

as of this moment, our Site has had 110020 hits. statistically, this means that our Poetry Pacific has, since the release of its first quarterly issue exactly two years ago (on 5 may 2013), outperformed most of other literary outlets of its standing in terms of pageviews. more interestingly perhaps, while our pageviewers come from everywhere on earth, the top 10 source countries/territories of audience are as follows:

United States	54186
Germany	6548
Ukraine	5166
France	5156
Canada	4861
Russia	3827
China	2000
United Kingdom	1868
Taiwan	1430
India	1186

in this issue, we are honoured to feature 2 visual artists and 73 poetry writers.

many thanks for your continuing interest, and happy reading!

with warmest regards from vancouver -- the earthly paradise,

-PP editorial team

3 Poems by Michael Anthony Ingram

WHEN I DREAM OF PARIS 

When I dream of Paris, the sky is filled with expatriate desires.
Desires that meld like Dali landscapes across the horizon.
I walk briskly along the Champ Elysees,
stopping only to drink coffee at a small café near the river’s edge.
Yet, I must drink quickly because expatriate desires don’t linger long
when you live in small-town, North Carolina.
A place where Dali is better known
as the name of the melancholy schoolgirl,
who lived fast and died young. 

Ah, but when I dream of Paris,
my nostrils fill with transporting fragrances.
Smells, which lures and enchant like the City of Light itself.
I inhale the beauty of La Sacre Coeur, Montmartre, and Montparnasse
and sniff delicately the flowers in Les Jardin du Luxembourg.
Yet, I must exhale slowly because transporting fragrances don’t linger long
when they are bundled up in the sacks of dirty clothes
that your mama washes for neighboring white families,
and it’s your turn to sort through them. 

Ah, but when I dream of Paris,
the night is filled with the music of Josephine Baker.
I eavesdrop as her siren song carves the twilight with “J’ai Deux Amours.”
Yet, I must listen intently because the voice that I hear is not that of la femme Josephine.
No, it is the gentle hum of Miss Mary Alice Grayson,
an old woman that my family visits each Sunday at the Greater Peace Nursing Home.
In her room, in her private world, she sways and shimmies all day
to the rhythm of the music she alone hears as she smiles and curtsies
to the men she knew when she knew no loss or pain.
Breathless from antiquated memories,
she clutches her tattered purse and fingers the red silk rose that is still pinned to her dress. 

Ah, but when I dream of Paris . . . 

Eleusis: Birthplace of Aeschylus 

            My life has fallen apart
grief comforts me as I lay amongst the pieces
            and gently cleave to the remains of my existence
            now like forgotten ruins, they rest beside me
            too fragile to reassure me of my worth.
            I suffer the coldness in the air
No warm coffin to serve as my blanket. 

Dog Obit 

It was an inauspicious day
when he decided to unloosen life’s leash.
His leash had become too tight;
collaring his neck with no regard for feelings
or words bottled up in his throat.
He couldn’t scream or ask for release
to romp, to play or run free. 

He couldn't pull and lunge at everything
or heaven forbid speak to Miss June Jackson, 

the beaten down young woman
who often blushed in his presence.
So he packed up belongings
in a brown paper stained bag,
opened his unguarded gate
and ran away. 

Bionote 

Dr. Michael Anthony Ingram is the Executive Director of the DC Poetry Project  (http://www.meetup.com/DC- Poetry-Project ). He is committed to raising awareness about issues related to equity, power relations, and/or institutionalized oppression through the art and craft of poetry. Dr. Ingram, also known as the counseling poet ( www.thecounselingpoet.com ) has gained an international reputation as a performance poet. His interest in poetry has led him to research this art form as a viable means of therapeutic self-expression. He travels extensively reciting his works and conducting workshops on building cultural competency and empathy skills through imagery, symbolism, and metaphor.