Sentinel
The star above you
Follows you all day
You would be jealous
If you knew about the view
The rays shower you
Wash away the known
Space Songs
Listen and you will hear the Milky Way
The sounds of universe call from deep space
A tune that all the constellations play
Each string plays distant notes with no delay
The quiet melody calls you to this place.
Listen and you will hear the Milky Way
The music travels back from yesterday
Keys of dark energy increase the pace
A tune that all the constellations play
Mysterious lyrics what do they say
The chorus moves and cosmic vocals race.
Listen and you will hear the Milky Way
Songs conducted by a phantom deejay
The galaxies orchestra has no face
A tune that all the constellations play
The chords of gravity will not decay
Harmonies you can follow but not trace
Listen and you will hear the Milky Way
A tune that all the constellations play
Bionote
Denny E. Marshall has had art poetry and fiction published. One recent credit is poetry in Illumen Spring 2016 issue. See more at www.dennymarshall.com
Saturday, 5 November 2016
1 Poem by Robert Cooperman
Harmless
I’m about to pull out
of the Safeway parking lot,
when a young woman knocks
on my side window.
I’ve got the buck I keep
in the otherwise unused ashtray,
to hand her in her need.
“Can you give me a lift?” she asks
in a British-Hindu accent.
“I’m just a few streets away,”
then shows me her shopping bags.
“Sure,” I smile. Sighing
from no longer having to lug
her groceries, she collapses
into the shotgun seat.
“You’re very brave,” I tell her,
“to trust a stranger,” and recall
a friend who hippie-thumbed
cross-country, and was raped twice.
“You looked harmless,” she smiles,
then quickly amends that to,
“Kind, you’re most kind.”
At my age, I’ll take any compliment
I can get from a Bollywood-attractive
young woman; when we arrive,
she thanks me, and for a second I fear
she’ll kiss me on the cheek: payment
to a harmless uncle or grandpa.
Bionote
Robert Cooperman's latest collection is JUST DRIVE (Brick Road Poetry Press). IN THE COLORADO GOLD FEVER MOUNTAINS (Western Reflections Books) won the Colorado Book award for Poetry. Forthcoming from FutureCycle Press is DRAFT BOARD BLUES.
I’m about to pull out
of the Safeway parking lot,
when a young woman knocks
on my side window.
I’ve got the buck I keep
in the otherwise unused ashtray,
to hand her in her need.
“Can you give me a lift?” she asks
in a British-Hindu accent.
“I’m just a few streets away,”
then shows me her shopping bags.
“Sure,” I smile. Sighing
from no longer having to lug
her groceries, she collapses
into the shotgun seat.
“You’re very brave,” I tell her,
“to trust a stranger,” and recall
a friend who hippie-thumbed
cross-country, and was raped twice.
“You looked harmless,” she smiles,
then quickly amends that to,
“Kind, you’re most kind.”
At my age, I’ll take any compliment
I can get from a Bollywood-attractive
young woman; when we arrive,
she thanks me, and for a second I fear
she’ll kiss me on the cheek: payment
to a harmless uncle or grandpa.
Bionote
Robert Cooperman's latest collection is JUST DRIVE (Brick Road Poetry Press). IN THE COLORADO GOLD FEVER MOUNTAINS (Western Reflections Books) won the Colorado Book award for Poetry. Forthcoming from FutureCycle Press is DRAFT BOARD BLUES.
1 Poem by Michael Chin
WINTER NIGHT
The first I learned that starlight took thousands of years to reach us—that stars might have already burnt out when we see them. It felt like a revelation. I wondered what else might be over before we realize it. This thought revisited me over the years. The Christmas after my grandmother died, when I walked past her old house and singled out a star—past or present—to pray upon.
I think it’s the same star I look upon tonight out the window as my niece crawls over my body, a bit slower than her afternoon play, as she edges toward sleep. Her torso could fit in my hand last year. She is growing, living, aging, too young to think of fading and yet—
Tonight, she is burning hot against me. Too warm for her sweater. Bursting with light.
Bionote
Michael Chin was born and raised in Utica, New York and writes and teaches in Corvallis, Oregon. He won the 2014 Jim Knudsen Editor’s Prize for fiction from the University of New Orleans and has previously published fiction and poetry in over twenty journals including Bayou Magazine, The Rappahannock Review, and The Pacific Review. Find him online at miketchin.com and on Twitter @miketchin.
The first I learned that starlight took thousands of years to reach us—that stars might have already burnt out when we see them. It felt like a revelation. I wondered what else might be over before we realize it. This thought revisited me over the years. The Christmas after my grandmother died, when I walked past her old house and singled out a star—past or present—to pray upon.
I think it’s the same star I look upon tonight out the window as my niece crawls over my body, a bit slower than her afternoon play, as she edges toward sleep. Her torso could fit in my hand last year. She is growing, living, aging, too young to think of fading and yet—
Tonight, she is burning hot against me. Too warm for her sweater. Bursting with light.
Bionote
Michael Chin was born and raised in Utica, New York and writes and teaches in Corvallis, Oregon. He won the 2014 Jim Knudsen Editor’s Prize for fiction from the University of New Orleans and has previously published fiction and poetry in over twenty journals including Bayou Magazine, The Rappahannock Review, and The Pacific Review. Find him online at miketchin.com and on Twitter @miketchin.
1 Haiku by Cynthia Gallaher
Plow Pose ~ Halasana
plant a seed, dig,
reach roots,
unearth yourself.
Bionote
Cynthia Gallaher, a Chicago-based poet, playwright and nonfiction writer, is author of three full poetry collections, Earth Elegance, Swimmer’s Prayer and Night Ribbons. Her most recent chapbook is Omnivore Odes: Poems About Food Herbs and Spices. Gallaher is on the Chicago Public Library’s list of “Top Ten Requested Chicago Poets” and named one of “100 Women Making a Difference” by Today’s Chicago Woman Magazine. Most recently, she has been certified as an RYT 200 yoga instructor.
plant a seed, dig,
reach roots,
unearth yourself.
Bionote
Cynthia Gallaher, a Chicago-based poet, playwright and nonfiction writer, is author of three full poetry collections, Earth Elegance, Swimmer’s Prayer and Night Ribbons. Her most recent chapbook is Omnivore Odes: Poems About Food Herbs and Spices. Gallaher is on the Chicago Public Library’s list of “Top Ten Requested Chicago Poets” and named one of “100 Women Making a Difference” by Today’s Chicago Woman Magazine. Most recently, she has been certified as an RYT 200 yoga instructor.
1 Poem by JD DeHart
Benediction for the Land
goodbye, we sang
to the sad sullen land,
pouting like a small child.
when we discovered
the dotted tree landscape,
the forest was vast and much
was to be discovered.
then we strip-mined
and strip-malled until air
and hair grew thin.
Bionote
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available from RedDashboard.
goodbye, we sang
to the sad sullen land,
pouting like a small child.
when we discovered
the dotted tree landscape,
the forest was vast and much
was to be discovered.
then we strip-mined
and strip-malled until air
and hair grew thin.
Bionote
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available from RedDashboard.
1 Poem by Christopher Konrad
Storm
The breeze is gentle today
the tea soothes the Beatitudes forgive
If this is love then give me more in this New Year quiet and more
somehow elemental, this seat and nook
foraging, even if the gods have retired
and politicians recite poetry
What day is it? What nerve
weathered and somewhat beaten gloom-aired
but still and never-the-less
in the atmosphere of disquietude
a storm awaits its tea cup of you and I
Bionote
Chris is a Western Australian writer. He has co-authored several poetry books, including Sandfire (2012) published by Sunline Press, with other WA poets. He has poems and short stories published in many journals and online including Westerly, Regime, Page Seventeen, Wet Ink, Creatrix, Swamp, Axon, Island, Cordite. Tamba, Southerly. Along with many other awards he received First Prize for the Tom Collins Poetry Award (2009) and the Todhunter Literary Award (2012) for a short story. He is published in Best Australian Poems 2013. He completed his doctorate in creative writing (2012) at Edith Cowan University. His book, Letters to Mark, was published by Regime Books in 2014.
The breeze is gentle today
the tea soothes the Beatitudes forgive
If this is love then give me more in this New Year quiet and more
somehow elemental, this seat and nook
foraging, even if the gods have retired
and politicians recite poetry
What day is it? What nerve
weathered and somewhat beaten gloom-aired
but still and never-the-less
in the atmosphere of disquietude
a storm awaits its tea cup of you and I
Bionote
Chris is a Western Australian writer. He has co-authored several poetry books, including Sandfire (2012) published by Sunline Press, with other WA poets. He has poems and short stories published in many journals and online including Westerly, Regime, Page Seventeen, Wet Ink, Creatrix, Swamp, Axon, Island, Cordite. Tamba, Southerly. Along with many other awards he received First Prize for the Tom Collins Poetry Award (2009) and the Todhunter Literary Award (2012) for a short story. He is published in Best Australian Poems 2013. He completed his doctorate in creative writing (2012) at Edith Cowan University. His book, Letters to Mark, was published by Regime Books in 2014.
2 Poems by Sudeep Adhikari
The Cosmos is the Great Attractor
Spaced far apart
through galactic voids
Now I have a piece of you
in the form of ripples
of your gravitational waves
and few packets of gravitons
I send you some.
In my universe
nothing is on its own
abide,
only relations and ripples.
the reciprocal fields
of our own atoms
swarm us, Now Science says
and I always knew
we are the inter-penetrating shapes,
mapped by a singular soul.
The cosmos is the great attractor
the quark that goes
into making my cell
also gravitates the entire universe,
there is no "I",
alone and self-existent
in this relational manifold
of matter and mind.
The World as a Dubstep Gig
A door of gossamer glass, separates
my engineered sound with the rest of the world
a dragonfly rests on the electric-cable,
bending like a Möbius strip
buzzes, and fans a distant rhododendron.
Relations are real,
they are as concrete as global warming
and smart-phone selfies.
a hyperlinked network, for a world
I live in, a Shangri-La of sonic entanglements.
more than we see the world, we hear it more
we have just gone unconscious
of the primal bass-drop, lost in a glissando slide.
the cosmic soundscape,
weaves the screams of supernovas
with the barking stray-dogs, ringing cell-phones
Skrillex's LPs and the molecular hums.
I hear, therefore I am
connected
or maybe, the world is just a Dubstep gig.
Bionote
Sudeep Adhikari, from Kathmandu Nepal, is professionally a PhD in Structural-Engineering. He lives in Kathmandu with his wife and family and works as an Engineering-Consultant and part-time lecturer His works have recently been featured in Verse-Virtual, Arlington Literary Journal, Zombie Logic Review, DEAD SNAKES, UFO Gigolo, Literary Yard, The Peregrine Muse, Soul-Lit Magazine, Novelmasters, Kyoto Journal and Misfit Magazine.
Spaced far apart
through galactic voids
Now I have a piece of you
in the form of ripples
of your gravitational waves
and few packets of gravitons
I send you some.
In my universe
nothing is on its own
abide,
only relations and ripples.
the reciprocal fields
of our own atoms
swarm us, Now Science says
and I always knew
we are the inter-penetrating shapes,
mapped by a singular soul.
The cosmos is the great attractor
the quark that goes
into making my cell
also gravitates the entire universe,
there is no "I",
alone and self-existent
in this relational manifold
of matter and mind.
The World as a Dubstep Gig
A door of gossamer glass, separates
my engineered sound with the rest of the world
a dragonfly rests on the electric-cable,
bending like a Möbius strip
buzzes, and fans a distant rhododendron.
Relations are real,
they are as concrete as global warming
and smart-phone selfies.
a hyperlinked network, for a world
I live in, a Shangri-La of sonic entanglements.
more than we see the world, we hear it more
we have just gone unconscious
of the primal bass-drop, lost in a glissando slide.
the cosmic soundscape,
weaves the screams of supernovas
with the barking stray-dogs, ringing cell-phones
Skrillex's LPs and the molecular hums.
I hear, therefore I am
connected
or maybe, the world is just a Dubstep gig.
Bionote
Sudeep Adhikari, from Kathmandu Nepal, is professionally a PhD in Structural-Engineering. He lives in Kathmandu with his wife and family and works as an Engineering-Consultant and part-time lecturer His works have recently been featured in Verse-Virtual, Arlington Literary Journal, Zombie Logic Review, DEAD SNAKES, UFO Gigolo, Literary Yard, The Peregrine Muse, Soul-Lit Magazine, Novelmasters, Kyoto Journal and Misfit Magazine.
2 Poems by Mary Bone
Moisture Runs Deep
My tears ran in rivulets
And joined with the rain,
Becoming torrents, washing out the pain.
All moisture returned to the sea,
Combining forces, the rain and me.
Flooding endlessly-
From deep within the heart of me.
Skyfire
I was in awe looking
At the aurora borealis,
I was so fascinated by the auroral corona.
There was glory all around me
And I was in the midst of many brilliant colors.
There was a display of green, red, blue, pink and purple.
What a skyfire in the heavens!
Bionote
Mary Bone of Wilson, Oklahoma, has been writing poetry since the age of twelve. She graduated from Southeastern Oklahoma State University in Durant, Oklahoma, with a Bachelor of General Studies Degree in 2006. Mary has had two books of poetry published and has been published in magazines, journals, newspapers and online blogs. Her poem, “Other Warriors”, has been accepted by The Oklahoma Today Magazine for the July/August issue. Mary enjoys painting and drawing in her spare time.
My tears ran in rivulets
And joined with the rain,
Becoming torrents, washing out the pain.
All moisture returned to the sea,
Combining forces, the rain and me.
Flooding endlessly-
From deep within the heart of me.
Skyfire
I was in awe looking
At the aurora borealis,
I was so fascinated by the auroral corona.
There was glory all around me
And I was in the midst of many brilliant colors.
There was a display of green, red, blue, pink and purple.
What a skyfire in the heavens!
Bionote
Mary Bone of Wilson, Oklahoma, has been writing poetry since the age of twelve. She graduated from Southeastern Oklahoma State University in Durant, Oklahoma, with a Bachelor of General Studies Degree in 2006. Mary has had two books of poetry published and has been published in magazines, journals, newspapers and online blogs. Her poem, “Other Warriors”, has been accepted by The Oklahoma Today Magazine for the July/August issue. Mary enjoys painting and drawing in her spare time.
1 Poem by Pearse Murrray
The Timbre of That
The plonk of water on water
The crack of a birch tree falling
The slash of a machete through cane
The plink of rain on a tin roof
The crunch of walking on snow
The swift swoop of swallows
The pluck of a gut string
The crash of ash on a hurling field
And the swill swash through sand grains
The pop of cork from a wine bottle
The ping of the mason’s trowel
The chinkle of loose change
The swoosh of leaves in a forest
The ricochet from a bullet
And the soft fall of leaf-drift
And the soft fall of snow as
The soft fall of a child’s whispering secrets
Amd the soft fall of this music which
Enters softly and softly thrums
the soundless soul’s fullness of attentiveness.
Bionote
Pearse Murray is a native of Dublin and lives in upstate New York. He has published poems and short stories in a wide variety of review journals, anthologies in print and on-line.
The plonk of water on water
The crack of a birch tree falling
The slash of a machete through cane
The plink of rain on a tin roof
The crunch of walking on snow
The swift swoop of swallows
The pluck of a gut string
The crash of ash on a hurling field
And the swill swash through sand grains
The pop of cork from a wine bottle
The ping of the mason’s trowel
The chinkle of loose change
The swoosh of leaves in a forest
The ricochet from a bullet
And the soft fall of leaf-drift
And the soft fall of snow as
The soft fall of a child’s whispering secrets
Amd the soft fall of this music which
Enters softly and softly thrums
the soundless soul’s fullness of attentiveness.
Bionote
Pearse Murray is a native of Dublin and lives in upstate New York. He has published poems and short stories in a wide variety of review journals, anthologies in print and on-line.
1 Poem by Ross Jackson
Tribute
in the master’s
pavilion
green tea
from celadon cups
his gentle voice
unfolds our journey
out of pine forest fog
to somewhere else
Bionote
Ross Jackson is a retired school teacher and long term resident of Perth, Western Australia. He has had poems in many Australian literary journals and his work has appeared in New Zealand, Ireland and now Canada. He writes about the experience of aloneness in the suburbs, about aging, the companionship of dogs, visual art and many other topics.
Ross has led an unexceptional life which explains why he almost never writes memory poems.
in the master’s
pavilion
green tea
from celadon cups
his gentle voice
unfolds our journey
out of pine forest fog
to somewhere else
Bionote
Ross Jackson is a retired school teacher and long term resident of Perth, Western Australia. He has had poems in many Australian literary journals and his work has appeared in New Zealand, Ireland and now Canada. He writes about the experience of aloneness in the suburbs, about aging, the companionship of dogs, visual art and many other topics.
Ross has led an unexceptional life which explains why he almost never writes memory poems.
1 Poem by Mark Murphy
Snow Dream
In your absence snow has drifted into the woods
where we might have camped,
only I don’t see you in a tent in the snow.
I saw you last night in some strangers’ house
miles from any campsite, bound
by feral cats, hell bent on their ferocity.
All love is change. You tell me to love another,
but I’m stubborn, refusing to give you up.
You’re sure we will meet again, at least once
more, before dying. Your words bring tears
to my eyes, I’ve little strength
without you, no sense of carrying on alone.
Let’s go to that campsite now, see the dome tent
pitched in the snow. Let’s walk
in each other’s footprints through the deep drifts
where no government could bother our secret lay.
In your absence snow has drifted
all over the Pennine hills, all over old England.
In your absence snow has drifted into the woods
where we might have camped,
only I don’t see you in a tent in the snow.
I saw you last night in some strangers’ house
miles from any campsite, bound
by feral cats, hell bent on their ferocity.
All love is change. You tell me to love another,
but I’m stubborn, refusing to give you up.
You’re sure we will meet again, at least once
more, before dying. Your words bring tears
to my eyes, I’ve little strength
without you, no sense of carrying on alone.
Let’s go to that campsite now, see the dome tent
pitched in the snow. Let’s walk
in each other’s footprints through the deep drifts
where no government could bother our secret lay.
In your absence snow has drifted
all over the Pennine hills, all over old England.
1 Poem by Valery V. Petrovskiy
The old record
As I wished
to forget your voice,
I started
my favorite
gramophone
record.
Whenever
I was trying
to recollect
your image,
I opened a softback
with some poetry…
But one day
I had no bookmark
with your name
left in
and found the disc
broken.
Should I
start reading
the book afresh
not to lose you
for good…
РАЗБИТАЯ ПЛАСТИНКА
Как только я хочу припомнить образ
Моей прежней любимой,
Я открываю давнюю книжку
На заложенной странице...
Когда я мечтал забыть твой голос,
Я ставил любимую пластинку...
Но однажды она разбилась,
А я вытянул закладку из потрепанной книжки.
Неужели, чтобы не потерять тебя совсем,
Я должен начать книгу сначала?
Bionote
Valery V. Petrovskiy is an international author from the Chuvashia region of Russia. His prose has appeared in journals from around the world, and he is a Pushcart Prize nominee and a finalist to the 2012 Open Russia Literary Contest. He is the author of short story collection “Tomcat Tale” (Editura StudIS) and eBook “Into the Blue on New Year’s Eve” (Hammer and Anvil Books). He has his poems published in Blue Lyra Review, The Missing Slate, Fine Flu Journal. Valery lives in Russia in a remote village by the Volga River.
As I wished
to forget your voice,
I started
my favorite
gramophone
record.
Whenever
I was trying
to recollect
your image,
I opened a softback
with some poetry…
But one day
I had no bookmark
with your name
left in
and found the disc
broken.
Should I
start reading
the book afresh
not to lose you
for good…
РАЗБИТАЯ ПЛАСТИНКА
Как только я хочу припомнить образ
Моей прежней любимой,
Я открываю давнюю книжку
На заложенной странице...
Когда я мечтал забыть твой голос,
Я ставил любимую пластинку...
Но однажды она разбилась,
А я вытянул закладку из потрепанной книжки.
Неужели, чтобы не потерять тебя совсем,
Я должен начать книгу сначала?
Valery V. Petrovskiy is an international author from the Chuvashia region of Russia. His prose has appeared in journals from around the world, and he is a Pushcart Prize nominee and a finalist to the 2012 Open Russia Literary Contest. He is the author of short story collection “Tomcat Tale” (Editura StudIS) and eBook “Into the Blue on New Year’s Eve” (Hammer and Anvil Books). He has his poems published in Blue Lyra Review, The Missing Slate, Fine Flu Journal. Valery lives in Russia in a remote village by the Volga River.
2 Poems by Dane Cobain
Shooting Pikachu in its smug little face
It’s all overwhelming
and life is a thing
too big to think about,
which is why we walk around
with our eyes closed.
The truth of it is,
I don’t like other people;
sometimes I wish they weren’t real
so I could sit in a dark room
for days on end
with the curtains closed,
or literally just shut myself down
like a personal computer.
I remember being seventeen
and it wasn’t easy,
but I wish I’d known
it doesn’t get any easier,
like running away from home
and running back again,
when the rain starts.
And now I think
I’m like a car alarm,
when it goes off at 2 AM
and no-one cares what’s going on,
and so they bury their heads
beneath the pillows.
They’re all too busy
playing Pokemon;
let ‘em play,
it’s not like other things
are more important.
Besides,
I never liked Pikachu;
I prefer to play
with ammunition.
Cats and Dogs
Cats and dogs get stressed
my friend
you’re not the only one.
There are fireworks
on the Fourth of July
or men with strange scents,
smells like leather
as they slide your post
through the letterbox.
Sometimes they’re afraid
of the wind and rain,
and sometimes they bark
in the night-time.
Sometimes they break the peace
with a growl and a kiss,
purring, “Please, Mr. Food Man,
let meowt again.”
Sometimes they stretch
with their paws on their heads,
following yoga steps
like a downward-facing dog.
Sometimes they’re scared
when the light goes out;
it’s a primal thing
that we still feel
in the evening.
Cats and dogs get stressed
my friend
but not as much as goldfish;
they remember six seconds
and forget themselves,
then get themselves stressed
all over again;
it’s no surprise
you want to be
a lion.
Bionote
Dane Cobain (High Wycombe, Buckinghamshire, UK) is an independent poet, musician and storyteller with a passion for language and learning. When he’s not in front of a screen writing stories and poetry, he can be found working on his book review blog or developing his website, www.danecobain.com . His first collection of poetry, Eyes Like Lighthouses When the Boats Come Home , was released by Booktrope Editions in March of 2016.
It’s all overwhelming
and life is a thing
too big to think about,
which is why we walk around
with our eyes closed.
The truth of it is,
I don’t like other people;
sometimes I wish they weren’t real
so I could sit in a dark room
for days on end
with the curtains closed,
or literally just shut myself down
like a personal computer.
I remember being seventeen
and it wasn’t easy,
but I wish I’d known
it doesn’t get any easier,
like running away from home
and running back again,
when the rain starts.
And now I think
I’m like a car alarm,
when it goes off at 2 AM
and no-one cares what’s going on,
and so they bury their heads
beneath the pillows.
They’re all too busy
playing Pokemon;
let ‘em play,
it’s not like other things
are more important.
Besides,
I never liked Pikachu;
I prefer to play
with ammunition.
Cats and Dogs
Cats and dogs get stressed
my friend
you’re not the only one.
There are fireworks
on the Fourth of July
or men with strange scents,
smells like leather
as they slide your post
through the letterbox.
Sometimes they’re afraid
of the wind and rain,
and sometimes they bark
in the night-time.
Sometimes they break the peace
with a growl and a kiss,
purring, “Please, Mr. Food Man,
let meowt again.”
Sometimes they stretch
with their paws on their heads,
following yoga steps
like a downward-facing dog.
Sometimes they’re scared
when the light goes out;
it’s a primal thing
that we still feel
in the evening.
Cats and dogs get stressed
my friend
but not as much as goldfish;
they remember six seconds
and forget themselves,
then get themselves stressed
all over again;
it’s no surprise
you want to be
a lion.
Bionote
Dane Cobain (High Wycombe, Buckinghamshire, UK) is an independent poet, musician and storyteller with a passion for language and learning. When he’s not in front of a screen writing stories and poetry, he can be found working on his book review blog or developing his website, www.danecobain.com . His first collection of poetry, Eyes Like Lighthouses When the Boats Come Home , was released by Booktrope Editions in March of 2016.
2 Poems by Michael Pendragon
OLD FRIENDS
Looks that recall fond lies, forgotten dreams
Voices that ape the gaiety of youth
The smoky air that held grandiose schemes
Washed in a stream of Bourbon and Vermouth
Old friends like echoes in an empty hall
Reverberate, resound, and sweetly fade
Return in whispers too vague to recall
Or phantom faces on a window shade
They're gone. And as I watch the quiet street
I can't remember why we'd thought it fun
To blunder through the night on careless feet
Or lie for hours 'neath the August sun
Oblivious to years that slipped between
Our sunburned toes like so much summer sand
We rolled the dice -- and moved a tiny pace
And watched as youth and hope slipped through our hand
Beside the future we'd forgot to chase
LUNAR KISSES
Germinal confluences separate, converge;
redefine spatio-temporal confines of
your half-expectant face.
Husky auguries, corpulent demitasse of
autumn spice,
spills like convivial egg sacs,
bandy-legged harvestmen whisper-web
transverse the amber moonscape of your smile.
Murmuring … murmuring …
Bionote
Michael Pendragon is an American writer, poet, editor, and publisher currently residing in upstate New York. He is best known for having published a pair of literary magazines: "Penny Dreadful" and "Songs of Innocence & Experience" (1996-2005). His published works include: "Much of Madness" - a novel; "Into the Night" - collected poetic works (1980-2010). His writings have appeared in "The Scarlet Literary Magazine," "Forge," "The Hypertexts," "The Raintown Review," "The Roswell Review," "The Horror Zene," "The Romantics Quarterly," and over 200 others.
Looks that recall fond lies, forgotten dreams
Voices that ape the gaiety of youth
The smoky air that held grandiose schemes
Washed in a stream of Bourbon and Vermouth
Old friends like echoes in an empty hall
Reverberate, resound, and sweetly fade
Return in whispers too vague to recall
Or phantom faces on a window shade
They're gone. And as I watch the quiet street
I can't remember why we'd thought it fun
To blunder through the night on careless feet
Or lie for hours 'neath the August sun
Oblivious to years that slipped between
Our sunburned toes like so much summer sand
We rolled the dice -- and moved a tiny pace
And watched as youth and hope slipped through our hand
Beside the future we'd forgot to chase
LUNAR KISSES
Germinal confluences separate, converge;
redefine spatio-temporal confines of
your half-expectant face.
Husky auguries, corpulent demitasse of
autumn spice,
spills like convivial egg sacs,
bandy-legged harvestmen whisper-web
transverse the amber moonscape of your smile.
Murmuring … murmuring …
Bionote
Michael Pendragon is an American writer, poet, editor, and publisher currently residing in upstate New York. He is best known for having published a pair of literary magazines: "Penny Dreadful" and "Songs of Innocence & Experience" (1996-2005). His published works include: "Much of Madness" - a novel; "Into the Night" - collected poetic works (1980-2010). His writings have appeared in "The Scarlet Literary Magazine," "Forge," "The Hypertexts," "The Raintown Review," "The Roswell Review," "The Horror Zene," "The Romantics Quarterly," and over 200 others.
2 Poems by Victor Clevenger
My Monster
Once again, she
ripped and clawed her way
through the
tough layers
of
I'll never love you again
and I let her.
I’m a weak man in my nightmares.
Arson
It's birth. It's death.
It's that crooked
little bitch-faced
grin of satisfaction that
he will display once there
is a fire devouring
inside his guts, and
inside his eyes . . .
stoked by cardiac
heaves of commingled
emotions, saturated
and lit ablaze by a
touch.
It's fingers. It's lips.
It's cocks. It's cunts.
It's LOVE,
or the act of love
that brings the birth
to provide the death,
and the fires lit inside while
he waits just happen —
one day he, you, we and they
will all smear this world with
nothing but ashes and hope;
I hope.
Once again, she
ripped and clawed her way
through the
tough layers
of
I'll never love you again
and I let her.
I’m a weak man in my nightmares.
Arson
It's birth. It's death.
It's that crooked
little bitch-faced
grin of satisfaction that
he will display once there
is a fire devouring
inside his guts, and
inside his eyes . . .
stoked by cardiac
heaves of commingled
emotions, saturated
and lit ablaze by a
touch.
It's fingers. It's lips.
It's cocks. It's cunts.
It's LOVE,
or the act of love
that brings the birth
to provide the death,
and the fires lit inside while
he waits just happen —
one day he, you, we and they
will all smear this world with
nothing but ashes and hope;
I hope.
4 Photos by Pat St.Pierre
 |
| october pumpkins |
 |
| the sugar house |
 |
| the teacher |
 |
| the musicians |
Bionote
I am a freelance writer for both adults and children in fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. My third poetry book "Full Circle" was published by Kelsay Books. My work can be viewed in Kids Imagination Train, Whisperings, ProQuest, The Camel Saloon, Hearth Magazine. I am also a freelance photographer whose photos have been on covers and included both online and in print. Some of my photos can be viewed at: Touch, a Journal of Healing, Our Day's Encounter, Sediments, Gravel, Southern Women's Review, Boston, Literary, etc. My blog is www.pstpierre.wordpress.com.
1 Poem by Thom Young
The Blackbird
the sound
the blackbird makes
the
end
comes
thinking about you
and
the ghost
we had
once
called
love.
Bionote
Thom Young is a writer from Texas. His work has been in The Commonline Journal, 3am magazine, Crack the Spine, Word Riot, 48th Street Press, and many other places.
the sound
the blackbird makes
the
end
comes
thinking about you
and
the ghost
we had
once
called
love.
Bionote
Thom Young is a writer from Texas. His work has been in The Commonline Journal, 3am magazine, Crack the Spine, Word Riot, 48th Street Press, and many other places.
2 Poems by Angelica Fuse
Succumb
I will not succumb
to your images
of what it means
to be a Woman
I will not allow myself
to bend and flow
with your definition's
structure
what it means
what I am
will step into being
with grace
and venom.
Falling Down
she fell down
a spinning star
after her long dance
only to be picked up
he selected
her from the table
a delicacy
until she became
the death of him
traveling up his veins.
Bionote
Angelica Fuse is an unquiet voice who reads by an imaginary fire. Her poems can be found at Outlaw Poetry and I Am Not A Silent Poet, among other places.
I will not succumb
to your images
of what it means
to be a Woman
I will not allow myself
to bend and flow
with your definition's
structure
what it means
what I am
will step into being
with grace
and venom.
Falling Down
she fell down
a spinning star
after her long dance
only to be picked up
he selected
her from the table
a delicacy
until she became
the death of him
traveling up his veins.
Bionote
Angelica Fuse is an unquiet voice who reads by an imaginary fire. Her poems can be found at Outlaw Poetry and I Am Not A Silent Poet, among other places.
1 Poem by Patrick Musgrave-Losey
Scars of the Past
It was there, under a blooming apple tree
That’s where I found myself.
I had scars laced
All throughout my mind.
Scars like the names of lovers
Etched into an old dying oak.
I stood alone,
Among many broken bones.
Most of which were my own.
But now, an old craftsman appears
Delicate is his hand,
Sharp is thine mind.
Weaving together a suit for me
A suit of the broken bones
Shall I wear it now? Or never?
Then he reveals the cause of these broken bones.
“Ye have much to learn,” He spoke slowly.
“For those who laid them scars upon you,
Are far gone and you are here. In the now.”
He spoke before disappearing into the shadows.
Now laid down before was a bone suit.
Carefully, I pick it up, feeling it’s weight
A perfect fit, for they are my bones.
And I take my damaged body
Treading this old dusty road.
Where it takes me, well I actually do know.
It takes me to myself, to the real me.
Back under that apple tree.
Bionote
Patrick Musgrave-Losey is an undergraduate student in the B.F.A Creative Writing program at Johnson State College. He writes both short fiction and poetry. He currently has no published work.
It was there, under a blooming apple tree
That’s where I found myself.
I had scars laced
All throughout my mind.
Scars like the names of lovers
Etched into an old dying oak.
I stood alone,
Among many broken bones.
Most of which were my own.
But now, an old craftsman appears
Delicate is his hand,
Sharp is thine mind.
Weaving together a suit for me
A suit of the broken bones
Shall I wear it now? Or never?
Then he reveals the cause of these broken bones.
“Ye have much to learn,” He spoke slowly.
“For those who laid them scars upon you,
Are far gone and you are here. In the now.”
He spoke before disappearing into the shadows.
Now laid down before was a bone suit.
Carefully, I pick it up, feeling it’s weight
A perfect fit, for they are my bones.
And I take my damaged body
Treading this old dusty road.
Where it takes me, well I actually do know.
It takes me to myself, to the real me.
Back under that apple tree.
Bionote
Patrick Musgrave-Losey is an undergraduate student in the B.F.A Creative Writing program at Johnson State College. He writes both short fiction and poetry. He currently has no published work.
1 Poem by Gordon Purkis
What thunder
A revolution doesn’t mean anything to me
unless it ends in your thighs spread apart
and back – far back
so I can dream in the beauty
that is your lustful face
succumb to your smiling
which is a joy – not a silly
but a serious laugh that says
what thunder, what rain, my love
I see only you?
Bionote
Gordon Purkis lives in the Atlanta, GA area where he writes, plays music, sings and edits at Shoe Music Press, as well as owns a home improvement business. He is a honest, loyal and hard-working person. Visit www.gordonpurkis.com for more information.
A revolution doesn’t mean anything to me
unless it ends in your thighs spread apart
and back – far back
so I can dream in the beauty
that is your lustful face
succumb to your smiling
which is a joy – not a silly
but a serious laugh that says
what thunder, what rain, my love
I see only you?
Bionote
Gordon Purkis lives in the Atlanta, GA area where he writes, plays music, sings and edits at Shoe Music Press, as well as owns a home improvement business. He is a honest, loyal and hard-working person. Visit www.gordonpurkis.com for more information.
1 Poem by Mark J. Mitchell
VERBAL
Tense as the past
he balances on a fence
pretending there’s
a future present.
He sits, perfect
in his enormous chair
just as if
he was going somewhere.
Bionote
Mark J. Mitchell studied writing at UC Santa Cruz under Raymond Carver, George Hitchcock and Barbara Hull. His work has appeared in various periodicals over the last thirty five years, as well as the anthologies Good Poems, American Places, Hunger Enough, Retail Woes and Line Drives. It has also been nominated for both Pushcart Prizes and The Best of the Net. He is the author of two full-length collections, Lent 1999 (Leaf Garden Press) and Soren Kierkegaard Witnesses an Execution (Local Gems) and two chapbooks, Three Visitors (Negative Capability Press) and Artifacts and Relics, (Folded Word). His novel, Knight Prisoner, is available from Vagabondage Press and two more novels are forthcoming: A Book of Lost Songs (Wild Child Publishing) and The Magic War (Loose Leaves). He lives in San Francisco with his wife, the documentarian and filmmaker Joan Juster.
Tense as the past
he balances on a fence
pretending there’s
a future present.
He sits, perfect
in his enormous chair
just as if
he was going somewhere.
Bionote
Mark J. Mitchell studied writing at UC Santa Cruz under Raymond Carver, George Hitchcock and Barbara Hull. His work has appeared in various periodicals over the last thirty five years, as well as the anthologies Good Poems, American Places, Hunger Enough, Retail Woes and Line Drives. It has also been nominated for both Pushcart Prizes and The Best of the Net. He is the author of two full-length collections, Lent 1999 (Leaf Garden Press) and Soren Kierkegaard Witnesses an Execution (Local Gems) and two chapbooks, Three Visitors (Negative Capability Press) and Artifacts and Relics, (Folded Word). His novel, Knight Prisoner, is available from Vagabondage Press and two more novels are forthcoming: A Book of Lost Songs (Wild Child Publishing) and The Magic War (Loose Leaves). He lives in San Francisco with his wife, the documentarian and filmmaker Joan Juster.
1 Poem by M. J. Iuppa
Something, which is
I am not like the sycamore, willing
to disrobe in the dead of winter.
My mottled skin shields me from
the streetlight’s dreary buzz.
I am out of practice, like
the sky’s inability to shake snow
from its sleeves; yet, my footsteps
disappear in thin air—
I am set loose upon the world.
To go the right way would take
advantage of happiness. And why not?
This quirky thought, without design.
M.J.Iuppa
Bionote
M.J. Iuppa lives on Red Rooster Farm near the shores of Lake Ontario. Most recent poems, lyric essays and fictions have appeared in the following journals: Poppy Road Review, Black Poppy Review, Digging to the Roots, 2015 Calendar, Ealain, Poetry Pacific Review, Grey Sparrow Press: Snow Jewel Anthology, 100 Word Story, Avocet, Eunoia Review, Festival Writer, Silver Birch Press: Where I Live Anthology, Turtle Island Quarterly, Wild Quarterly, Boyne Berries Magazine (Ireland), The Lake, (U.K.), Punchnel’s, Camroc Review, Tar River Poetry, Corvus Review, Clementine Poetry, Postcard Poetry & Prose, and Brief Encounters: A Collection of Contemporary Nonfiction, edited by Judith Kitchen and Dinah Lenney(Norton), among others. She is the Director of the Visual and Performing Arts Minor Program at St. John Fisher College.
I am not like the sycamore, willing
to disrobe in the dead of winter.
My mottled skin shields me from
the streetlight’s dreary buzz.
I am out of practice, like
the sky’s inability to shake snow
from its sleeves; yet, my footsteps
disappear in thin air—
I am set loose upon the world.
To go the right way would take
advantage of happiness. And why not?
This quirky thought, without design.
M.J.Iuppa
Bionote
M.J. Iuppa lives on Red Rooster Farm near the shores of Lake Ontario. Most recent poems, lyric essays and fictions have appeared in the following journals: Poppy Road Review, Black Poppy Review, Digging to the Roots, 2015 Calendar, Ealain, Poetry Pacific Review, Grey Sparrow Press: Snow Jewel Anthology, 100 Word Story, Avocet, Eunoia Review, Festival Writer, Silver Birch Press: Where I Live Anthology, Turtle Island Quarterly, Wild Quarterly, Boyne Berries Magazine (Ireland), The Lake, (U.K.), Punchnel’s, Camroc Review, Tar River Poetry, Corvus Review, Clementine Poetry, Postcard Poetry & Prose, and Brief Encounters: A Collection of Contemporary Nonfiction, edited by Judith Kitchen and Dinah Lenney(Norton), among others. She is the Director of the Visual and Performing Arts Minor Program at St. John Fisher College.
2 Poems by Steven Wittenberg Gordon
Narwhals
When the rains began we laughed and played
Splashing in the puddles formed
And when the puddles coalesced to pools
And then to ponds we swam about
Tossing our manes flicking our tails
Never thinking that the ponds
Would become lakes and raging rivers.
Much later when the ship had sailed
And water covered all the earth
Our cavorting turned to sorrow
And our tears added to the Flood
Ironically as we treaded water
Desperate to stay alive
Yet knowing we were doomed.
We cried out to the Lord to save us
But finally we sank too tired to go on
The horns that made us unique
Among the equine order last to slip below
Then we felt ourselves transforming
Of the glorious creatures we once were
Only our horns remained to remind us.
Photon
I am a particle
I am a wave
But now that you see me
I am so much more.
Bionote
Poet, writer, editor, physician, and gentleman songster, Steven Wittenberg Gordon, MD was raised in what was once 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.
When the rains began we laughed and played
Splashing in the puddles formed
And when the puddles coalesced to pools
And then to ponds we swam about
Tossing our manes flicking our tails
Never thinking that the ponds
Would become lakes and raging rivers.
Much later when the ship had sailed
And water covered all the earth
Our cavorting turned to sorrow
And our tears added to the Flood
Ironically as we treaded water
Desperate to stay alive
Yet knowing we were doomed.
We cried out to the Lord to save us
But finally we sank too tired to go on
The horns that made us unique
Among the equine order last to slip below
Then we felt ourselves transforming
Of the glorious creatures we once were
Only our horns remained to remind us.
Photon
I am a particle
I am a wave
But now that you see me
I am so much more.
Bionote
Poet, writer, editor, physician, and gentleman songster, Steven Wittenberg Gordon, MD was raised in what was once 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.
1 Poem by Jake Tringali
invisible ink
it is not widely known but
god has a tattoo
she got it when she was a young anarchist
and bored of the endless
the tattoo started as one elegant equation
that transformed into a candle,
bloomed into a colorful zoo of particles,
and coalesced into droplets of universes
once the tattoo was finished,
it was unchangeable
inevitably, it faded
god’s interests went elsewhere
Bionote
Born in Boston. Lived up and down the East Coast, and then up and down the West Coast, and currently in Los Angeles. Runs rad restaurants. Thrives in a habitat of bars, punk rock shows, and a sprinkling of burlesque performers. Throughout 2015, publications include Catch & Release, Boston Poetry Magazine, Indiana Voice Journal, and twelve other fine journals.
it is not widely known but
god has a tattoo
she got it when she was a young anarchist
and bored of the endless
the tattoo started as one elegant equation
that transformed into a candle,
bloomed into a colorful zoo of particles,
and coalesced into droplets of universes
once the tattoo was finished,
it was unchangeable
inevitably, it faded
god’s interests went elsewhere
Bionote
Born in Boston. Lived up and down the East Coast, and then up and down the West Coast, and currently in Los Angeles. Runs rad restaurants. Thrives in a habitat of bars, punk rock shows, and a sprinkling of burlesque performers. Throughout 2015, publications include Catch & Release, Boston Poetry Magazine, Indiana Voice Journal, and twelve other fine journals.
2 Poems by Sanjeev Sethi
SELFHOOD
In a lawn outside the loggia
scuddy trees seek your trust.
Overthrow and allurement?
Beauty of burls? Or, is it
sierras in sepia?
When the odor of osmosis
blends with your breath,
when the norm is nails as
long as your nose, you’re
a solemnizer of selfdom.
OBITER
As age accelerates on speedometer of existence
peers begin to show one last time usually with
a flattering photograph in the bulldog edition.
Ritual of repose is the new coffee klatch. Friends,
former lovers and the like gather and grieve. The
dumpster of death does not wait for weekends.
Anamnesis in sables is warmer than perceptions.
Bionote
Sanjeev Sethi has published three books of poetry. This Summer and That Summer (Bloomsbury, 2015) is his latest. His poems have found a home in Off the Coast Literary Journal, Literary Orphans, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Café Dissensus Everyday, Section 8 Magazine, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Jawline Review, Right Hand Pointing, Revolution John, Futures Trading, The Aerogram, Thirteen Myna Birds, Creative Talents Unleashed, Chronogram, The Corner Club Press,The London Magazine, The Fortnightly Review, Ink Sweat and Tears, SentinelLiterary Quarterly, New English Review, The Galway Review, A New Ulster, In Between Hangovers, Otoliths, and elsewhere. He lives in Mumbai, India.
In a lawn outside the loggia
scuddy trees seek your trust.
Overthrow and allurement?
Beauty of burls? Or, is it
sierras in sepia?
When the odor of osmosis
blends with your breath,
when the norm is nails as
long as your nose, you’re
a solemnizer of selfdom.
OBITER
As age accelerates on speedometer of existence
peers begin to show one last time usually with
a flattering photograph in the bulldog edition.
Ritual of repose is the new coffee klatch. Friends,
former lovers and the like gather and grieve. The
dumpster of death does not wait for weekends.
Anamnesis in sables is warmer than perceptions.
Bionote
Sanjeev Sethi has published three books of poetry. This Summer and That Summer (Bloomsbury, 2015) is his latest. His poems have found a home in Off the Coast Literary Journal, Literary Orphans, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Café Dissensus Everyday, Section 8 Magazine, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Jawline Review, Right Hand Pointing, Revolution John, Futures Trading, The Aerogram, Thirteen Myna Birds, Creative Talents Unleashed, Chronogram, The Corner Club Press,The London Magazine, The Fortnightly Review, Ink Sweat and Tears, SentinelLiterary Quarterly, New English Review, The Galway Review, A New Ulster, In Between Hangovers, Otoliths, and elsewhere. He lives in Mumbai, India.
1 Poem by Samantha Fisch
Yours Truly, Exclusion
I like to keep you outside my window.
Watching through a looking glass
As you are ostracized in silence.
I do not leave you stranded,
On a remote island
With no map and no help,
Nor have I locked you away
In a cage in my basement
With no light and no escape,
No. I have chosen to keep you
Near in my sight but out of mind
Like the last leaf on a barren tree
Forced to stare at his peers
Mingle in the pile below
So I can pluck you off
And become your only companion.
Bionote
My name is Samantha Fisch, I am a third year Psychobiology and premed student at UCLA. I grew up in San Ramon, California, a quiet suburban city in Northern California. I've been writing poetry since grade school, but have written in private as an outlet and source of introspection and self reflection. I grew up in a warm loving home with an older brother with chronic medical problems, which encouraged me to look within myself to what I have, what I don't have, and which of these things I should focus on changing.
I like to keep you outside my window.
Watching through a looking glass
As you are ostracized in silence.
I do not leave you stranded,
On a remote island
With no map and no help,
Nor have I locked you away
In a cage in my basement
With no light and no escape,
No. I have chosen to keep you
Near in my sight but out of mind
Like the last leaf on a barren tree
Forced to stare at his peers
Mingle in the pile below
So I can pluck you off
And become your only companion.
Bionote
My name is Samantha Fisch, I am a third year Psychobiology and premed student at UCLA. I grew up in San Ramon, California, a quiet suburban city in Northern California. I've been writing poetry since grade school, but have written in private as an outlet and source of introspection and self reflection. I grew up in a warm loving home with an older brother with chronic medical problems, which encouraged me to look within myself to what I have, what I don't have, and which of these things I should focus on changing.
1 Poem by Gregg Dotoli
unto this child love rained
While 1950s scientists, outguessed each other
an external ripple of beauty
an Iconic truth fell without call
forging in me a powerful atomic love
That dwarfed the black hole smashup
That ripped space time
Blessed with love/truth
blessed doubtless
The great smile of life
Given, with pure crystal love
radiates forever
Bionote
Gregg Dotoli has studied English at Seton Hall University and Computer Programming at NYU. He is a White Hat Hacker and works , keeping organizations safe. His first love is the Arts and he enjoys the rich culture of NYC. There is nothing more moving than a poem, for it let's the reader create
the picture and spawns inner dialog.
While 1950s scientists, outguessed each other
an external ripple of beauty
an Iconic truth fell without call
forging in me a powerful atomic love
That dwarfed the black hole smashup
That ripped space time
Blessed with love/truth
blessed doubtless
The great smile of life
Given, with pure crystal love
radiates forever
Bionote
Gregg Dotoli has studied English at Seton Hall University and Computer Programming at NYU. He is a White Hat Hacker and works , keeping organizations safe. His first love is the Arts and he enjoys the rich culture of NYC. There is nothing more moving than a poem, for it let's the reader create
the picture and spawns inner dialog.
1 Poem by Ken Jones
Random Walk
You will ask me
where did this come from
and I will say,
of course,
that I have no idea
and that will be the
truth
today.
I set my soul
on a random walk
a lifetime ago
and I washed up here
wrapped up
in these
few words.
Bionote
Ken Jones has been writing poetry in fits and starts since 1969. He moved to Ventura, California from England in 2012 and is a teacher of mainly Juniors and Seniors in a High School. In England his work has been published in the Anthology "Southern Voices" and in the magazine "Mosaic"; he has yet to be published in North America. He lives in Ventura with his wife and dog and enjoys beach walking and happy hour, but not necessarily in that order!
You will ask me
where did this come from
and I will say,
of course,
that I have no idea
and that will be the
truth
today.
I set my soul
on a random walk
a lifetime ago
and I washed up here
wrapped up
in these
few words.
Bionote
Ken Jones has been writing poetry in fits and starts since 1969. He moved to Ventura, California from England in 2012 and is a teacher of mainly Juniors and Seniors in a High School. In England his work has been published in the Anthology "Southern Voices" and in the magazine "Mosaic"; he has yet to be published in North America. He lives in Ventura with his wife and dog and enjoys beach walking and happy hour, but not necessarily in that order!
1 Poem by Adam Levon Brown
Imprisoned
Pain sealed in shut
with iron bars
and left with bread scraps.
Dank prison of
spiritual growth;
the water gives
an impression of
drowning.
Peripheral flashes
of leprosy embroidered
skin.
Putrid stench of
waste brings
reality to the forefront;
Third eye perception
summons a cacophony
from hell.
Bionote
Adam Levon Brown is a poet, student, and activist residing in Eugene, Oregon. He enjoys playing with cats, the outdoors, and meeting new people. He has been published in a few dozen places including Burningword Literary Journal and Yellow Chair Review. He can be contacted via his website at www,AdamLevonBrown.org, where he offers free poetry resources.
Pain sealed in shut
with iron bars
and left with bread scraps.
Dank prison of
spiritual growth;
the water gives
an impression of
drowning.
Peripheral flashes
of leprosy embroidered
skin.
Putrid stench of
waste brings
reality to the forefront;
Third eye perception
summons a cacophony
from hell.
Bionote
Adam Levon Brown is a poet, student, and activist residing in Eugene, Oregon. He enjoys playing with cats, the outdoors, and meeting new people. He has been published in a few dozen places including Burningword Literary Journal and Yellow Chair Review. He can be contacted via his website at www,AdamLevonBrown.org, where he offers free poetry resources.
1 Tanka by Andrew M. Bowen
TANKA 45
We rehearse Shakespeare
i’ the park, speaking old words
in modern clothes, a
bird pecking grass the only
audience. We poor players.
Bionote
Andrew M. Bowen works as a insurance salesman in Bloomington, IN. He has published 56 poems and recently submitted his first two novels for publication. He is also an actor who has has appeared in eight independent films, seven stage productions, and two radio teleplays.
We rehearse Shakespeare
i’ the park, speaking old words
in modern clothes, a
bird pecking grass the only
audience. We poor players.
Bionote
Andrew M. Bowen works as a insurance salesman in Bloomington, IN. He has published 56 poems and recently submitted his first two novels for publication. He is also an actor who has has appeared in eight independent films, seven stage productions, and two radio teleplays.
3 Poems by Richa Gupta
Snowflake
A sparkle
fell from the
sky, sun-kissed,
lightly falling on
a peak--enveloped
in a sheer layer of
snowy dots. Miniature.
indistinguishable--for how
can a snowflake be seen in
a hilltop of snow? By rolling
into motion, like how ideas can
escape obscurity by aspiring to
become realities. So the snowflake
charts a course down the mountain,
gathering shimmering slivers and dots
of honeydew-hued snow. Ideas are seen
around us, in little ways, without us even
noticing their silent presence. The snowy
sphere enlarges, a powerful entity, defeating
all in its path; obstacles fail to hinder the growth
of the idea. It reaches the bottom--a gargantuan,
glistening orb of snowy wonder, which emerged
from an imperceptible speck of crystallised water.
The idea, once a speck in a vague tangle of memories,
establishes itself in the world, destined to be prime, great,
a rugged, turbulent journey upward having sealed its fate.
Skyscrapers
They hurtle towards the sky, towards the stars,
faster than the speed of thought. Embedding their tips
into the pellucid marshmallow of clouds,
piercing a hole, letting in shafts of golden sun,
allowing light to spill onto the earth.
They allow entire streets to darken; they deny visibility
to those unfortunate people facing away from the sun.
Their metal shards overpower everything else
in humanity's vicinity--they can create the sensation of night,
simply by existing.
They conjure the bliss of warmth, of protection,
by shielding the chilled folk from the glacial breeze
that emanates from the poles of the earth.
They block, confidently and with poise,
the swirls of wind that people strive to avoid.
They magnify the gentle murmurs
of an innocent squall--to twice, thrice in magnitude.
They warp the perception of hearing by forming
a tunnel--through which once innocuous winds
whoosh, dropping the climate by several degrees.
And who creates these formidable creatures? Only that
she will be the most powerful of them all, miles above
the pedestrian, above those dallying on the streets.
She will perch on the summit, the pinnacle
of the city, watch as the ants of people scurry about--
unimportant, inconsequential. She keeps rising, physically
and figuratively, as she climbs up the mountain.
Once she ascends the skyscraper, she stops.
Gazes around, and smiles--knowing that she reduced
humanity to pinpricks. Such is her power,
the power of an architect.
Clamor
They sat at a round table, tense, waiting,
hovering, intangible and pellucid
surrounded by golden clouds and pinking skies
while rain pattered below,
drizzles rumbled as the sky cried.
It rarely rains at this time of the year, over
the Indian subcontinent;
the time of the year when the fumes choke the air,
rising up in menacing swirls, asphyxiating;
golden flares glare at the heavens, blinding,
dotted with softer hues that die in the blaze.
It was a round table, there is no head,
but the leader stood up, edged to the edge of the clouds,
looked down; smiled for a second, waved a silvery arm,
basked in the silence that accompanied the rains,
smiled as the only noise that emanated from the ground
was the wind.
The others applauded, casting admiring glances
at her perspicacity.
But then her smile waned; as if a bomb had burst,
which it had, firecrackers illuminated the chilly night,
curls of smoke embraced the air, the freeze dissipated
as the fire danced in mesmerizing explosions
shaking the fragile clouds, unsettling her balance.
Tears in her eyes, she gripped the edge of the clouds.
The night was blinking mischievously, radiant with energy,
abounding with clamor, delighting in rebellion.
Inconspicuously wiping her eyes, so that the others wouldn't see,
she prayed that the earth would survive this new onslaught,
that she would aspire to preserve her precious life.
Bionote
Richa is a junior at The International School Bangalore, India. An avid poet and writer, Richa has been published in several literary journals, such as New Plains Review, Poetry Quarterly, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine and Tower Journal. She also enjoys being on the editorial board for Glass Kite Anthology, Siblini Arts and Literature Journal, and Polyphony H.S. Richa likes indulging in ice-cream on rainy days and can generally be seen biting a pencil while working on a challenging math problem.
A sparkle
fell from the
sky, sun-kissed,
lightly falling on
a peak--enveloped
in a sheer layer of
snowy dots. Miniature.
indistinguishable--for how
can a snowflake be seen in
a hilltop of snow? By rolling
into motion, like how ideas can
escape obscurity by aspiring to
become realities. So the snowflake
charts a course down the mountain,
gathering shimmering slivers and dots
of honeydew-hued snow. Ideas are seen
around us, in little ways, without us even
noticing their silent presence. The snowy
sphere enlarges, a powerful entity, defeating
all in its path; obstacles fail to hinder the growth
of the idea. It reaches the bottom--a gargantuan,
glistening orb of snowy wonder, which emerged
from an imperceptible speck of crystallised water.
The idea, once a speck in a vague tangle of memories,
establishes itself in the world, destined to be prime, great,
a rugged, turbulent journey upward having sealed its fate.
Skyscrapers
They hurtle towards the sky, towards the stars,
faster than the speed of thought. Embedding their tips
into the pellucid marshmallow of clouds,
piercing a hole, letting in shafts of golden sun,
allowing light to spill onto the earth.
They allow entire streets to darken; they deny visibility
to those unfortunate people facing away from the sun.
Their metal shards overpower everything else
in humanity's vicinity--they can create the sensation of night,
simply by existing.
They conjure the bliss of warmth, of protection,
by shielding the chilled folk from the glacial breeze
that emanates from the poles of the earth.
They block, confidently and with poise,
the swirls of wind that people strive to avoid.
They magnify the gentle murmurs
of an innocent squall--to twice, thrice in magnitude.
They warp the perception of hearing by forming
a tunnel--through which once innocuous winds
whoosh, dropping the climate by several degrees.
And who creates these formidable creatures? Only that
she will be the most powerful of them all, miles above
the pedestrian, above those dallying on the streets.
She will perch on the summit, the pinnacle
of the city, watch as the ants of people scurry about--
unimportant, inconsequential. She keeps rising, physically
and figuratively, as she climbs up the mountain.
Once she ascends the skyscraper, she stops.
Gazes around, and smiles--knowing that she reduced
humanity to pinpricks. Such is her power,
the power of an architect.
Clamor
They sat at a round table, tense, waiting,
hovering, intangible and pellucid
surrounded by golden clouds and pinking skies
while rain pattered below,
drizzles rumbled as the sky cried.
It rarely rains at this time of the year, over
the Indian subcontinent;
the time of the year when the fumes choke the air,
rising up in menacing swirls, asphyxiating;
golden flares glare at the heavens, blinding,
dotted with softer hues that die in the blaze.
It was a round table, there is no head,
but the leader stood up, edged to the edge of the clouds,
looked down; smiled for a second, waved a silvery arm,
basked in the silence that accompanied the rains,
smiled as the only noise that emanated from the ground
was the wind.
The others applauded, casting admiring glances
at her perspicacity.
But then her smile waned; as if a bomb had burst,
which it had, firecrackers illuminated the chilly night,
curls of smoke embraced the air, the freeze dissipated
as the fire danced in mesmerizing explosions
shaking the fragile clouds, unsettling her balance.
Tears in her eyes, she gripped the edge of the clouds.
The night was blinking mischievously, radiant with energy,
abounding with clamor, delighting in rebellion.
Inconspicuously wiping her eyes, so that the others wouldn't see,
she prayed that the earth would survive this new onslaught,
that she would aspire to preserve her precious life.
Bionote
Richa is a junior at The International School Bangalore, India. An avid poet and writer, Richa has been published in several literary journals, such as New Plains Review, Poetry Quarterly, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine and Tower Journal. She also enjoys being on the editorial board for Glass Kite Anthology, Siblini Arts and Literature Journal, and Polyphony H.S. Richa likes indulging in ice-cream on rainy days and can generally be seen biting a pencil while working on a challenging math problem.
2 Poems by Rhonda C. Poynter
LATELY, I HAVE BEEN DREAMING OF VAN GOGH'S LAST PAINTINGS
The wheat fields and sky and
Thunderstorms: the churches and empty
Chairs and
Still life - now, when I fall asleep
There are tables and bottles, and perfect
Oranges.
I have been dreaming about
Sandstone cottages and
Women adorned in red ribbons:
They call me by my name, to come
Bend to the roots and the
Soil beneath morning, the
Sun a halo.
LULLABYE
for River
"What I love is near at hand/Always, in/Earth and air." - Theodore Roethke
You're a foreign star or a
Small round stone;
A letter that never made it home,
You're half-hitched bones pale as
Shells,
A fragile birch, a soundless bell.
You're a haunted house in a
Summer storm;
Another bankrupt Indiana farm
And a handful of words,
A secret rhyme.
You're a clock that had no use for time -
Love, you're more than blonde and
Still blue eyes;
Immaculate, you're
Forever mine.
Bionote
Rhonda C. Poynter has lived in 45 states and three countries, but remains partial to her Chicago roots. She has been a freelance writer for over twenty years with credits including Wascana Review, Frontiers, The Lake, Sleet, vox poetica, Triggerfish, Fox Cry, Freshwater, Red Fez, Blue Bear Review, Minnetonka Review and other publications. Her second collection of poetry, "Borrowed Time" has a tentative print date of Autumn, 2016. She and her son Gannon Blue live in California for medical care, and because being able to see the ocean on a daily basis can only make everything all right.
The wheat fields and sky and
Thunderstorms: the churches and empty
Chairs and
Still life - now, when I fall asleep
There are tables and bottles, and perfect
Oranges.
I have been dreaming about
Sandstone cottages and
Women adorned in red ribbons:
They call me by my name, to come
Bend to the roots and the
Soil beneath morning, the
Sun a halo.
LULLABYE
for River
"What I love is near at hand/Always, in/Earth and air." - Theodore Roethke
You're a foreign star or a
Small round stone;
A letter that never made it home,
You're half-hitched bones pale as
Shells,
A fragile birch, a soundless bell.
You're a haunted house in a
Summer storm;
Another bankrupt Indiana farm
And a handful of words,
A secret rhyme.
You're a clock that had no use for time -
Love, you're more than blonde and
Still blue eyes;
Immaculate, you're
Forever mine.
Bionote
Rhonda C. Poynter has lived in 45 states and three countries, but remains partial to her Chicago roots. She has been a freelance writer for over twenty years with credits including Wascana Review, Frontiers, The Lake, Sleet, vox poetica, Triggerfish, Fox Cry, Freshwater, Red Fez, Blue Bear Review, Minnetonka Review and other publications. Her second collection of poetry, "Borrowed Time" has a tentative print date of Autumn, 2016. She and her son Gannon Blue live in California for medical care, and because being able to see the ocean on a daily basis can only make everything all right.
1 Haiku by Anna Banasiak
The Door
I enter reality
touch emptiness
in the chaos of time
Bionote
Anna Banasiak is a poet and literary critic living in Lodz, Poland. She studied Polish philology, philosophy and culture studies at the University of Warsaw. Her poems have been published in New York, London, Berkeley, Paris, Pennsylvania, Nevada, Texas, Surrey, Lebanon and South Africa. She is interested in art and psychology.
I enter reality
touch emptiness
in the chaos of time
Bionote
Anna Banasiak is a poet and literary critic living in Lodz, Poland. She studied Polish philology, philosophy and culture studies at the University of Warsaw. Her poems have been published in New York, London, Berkeley, Paris, Pennsylvania, Nevada, Texas, Surrey, Lebanon and South Africa. She is interested in art and psychology.
2 Poems by Michael Lee Johnson
Jesus in the Snow (V2)
I find your footprints here in snow, fresh and broken.
Will your lawyer fragment me, talk to Jesus private tonight.
Will belief set me out of chains, battery acid, free?
Life here is a urinal.
Search moon-eye in lonely sea feel swim of exile, sandpaper spots on skin, do not torture me.
Even devil in hell has his standard, private harvest, his jukebox baby.
Jesus suffers with the poor feels lonely in distant planets shares visions of the moon.
Let me drive you home truck tracks, then you left footprints in snow.
Do you hear sounds on the radio, jukebox baby?
I copy over, print remains, over footprints in snow.
Lilly, Lonely Trailer Prostitute
Paint your face with cosmetic smiles.
Toss your breast around with synthetic plastic.
Don’t leak single secrets to strangers-
locked in your trailer 8 foot wide by 50 foot long
with twisted carrots, cucumbers, weak batteries,
and colorful dildos-you’ve even give them names:
Adams’s pleasure skin, big Ben on the raise, Rasputin:
the Mad Monk-oh no, no, no.
Your legs hang with the signed signatures
of playboys and drifters ink.
The lot rent went up again this year.
Paint your face with cosmetic smiles.
Bionote
Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. He is a Canadian and USA citizen. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. He has been published in more than 880 small press magazines in 27 countries, and he edits 10 poetry sites. Author's website http://poetryman.mysite.com/. Michael is the author of The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom (136 page book) ISBN: 978-0-595-46091-5, several chapbooks of poetry, including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems. He also has over 84 poetry videos on YouTube as of 2015: https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL. nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards for poetry 2015.
I find your footprints here in snow, fresh and broken.
Will your lawyer fragment me, talk to Jesus private tonight.
Will belief set me out of chains, battery acid, free?
Life here is a urinal.
Search moon-eye in lonely sea feel swim of exile, sandpaper spots on skin, do not torture me.
Even devil in hell has his standard, private harvest, his jukebox baby.
Jesus suffers with the poor feels lonely in distant planets shares visions of the moon.
Let me drive you home truck tracks, then you left footprints in snow.
Do you hear sounds on the radio, jukebox baby?
I copy over, print remains, over footprints in snow.
Lilly, Lonely Trailer Prostitute
Paint your face with cosmetic smiles.
Toss your breast around with synthetic plastic.
Don’t leak single secrets to strangers-
locked in your trailer 8 foot wide by 50 foot long
with twisted carrots, cucumbers, weak batteries,
and colorful dildos-you’ve even give them names:
Adams’s pleasure skin, big Ben on the raise, Rasputin:
the Mad Monk-oh no, no, no.
Your legs hang with the signed signatures
of playboys and drifters ink.
The lot rent went up again this year.
Paint your face with cosmetic smiles.
Bionote
Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. He is a Canadian and USA citizen. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. He has been published in more than 880 small press magazines in 27 countries, and he edits 10 poetry sites. Author's website http://poetryman.mysite.com/. Michael is the author of The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom (136 page book) ISBN: 978-0-595-46091-5, several chapbooks of poetry, including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems. He also has over 84 poetry videos on YouTube as of 2015: https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL. nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards for poetry 2015.
1 Poem by Bradford Middleton
LI PO, RIMBAUD & BUKOWSKI
I got as drunk as Li Po and deranged my senses just like young Rimbaud
I went as far as I could in a bid to forget all the tragedies and afflictions this life has caused
And very briefly, last weekend, I almost went as the maddest of mad men
That went all the way just like the old dead Bukowski would have wanted
But I pulled back and sit here now, knee aching but mind feeling as if it couldn’t take anymore
So you know what, I just got to stop and be happy with the me you see and read.
Bionote
Bradford Middleton lives in Brighton on England’s south coast. He has a couple of poetry chapbooks currently available, one via Crisis Chronicles Press called Drink Drank Drunk whilst the one from Holy & Intoxicated Press is entitled A Life Like This Ain't For The Faint Hearted. He tweets occasionally @beatnikbraduk.
I got as drunk as Li Po and deranged my senses just like young Rimbaud
I went as far as I could in a bid to forget all the tragedies and afflictions this life has caused
And very briefly, last weekend, I almost went as the maddest of mad men
That went all the way just like the old dead Bukowski would have wanted
But I pulled back and sit here now, knee aching but mind feeling as if it couldn’t take anymore
So you know what, I just got to stop and be happy with the me you see and read.
Bionote
Bradford Middleton lives in Brighton on England’s south coast. He has a couple of poetry chapbooks currently available, one via Crisis Chronicles Press called Drink Drank Drunk whilst the one from Holy & Intoxicated Press is entitled A Life Like This Ain't For The Faint Hearted. He tweets occasionally @beatnikbraduk.
1 Poem by Richard Stokes
Matter of Opinion
Coal-black against falling snow, ravens
roam the grocery lot. Probing and pecking
at what could be food, they waddle about
and with oft-blinking eyes they scan
parked cars for lunch eaters who might toss scraps.
As I make an entry into my journal
one bold bird flutters to the hood of my car
and struts closer to see what my hands may hold.
He cocks his head, blinks his eyes twice,
rules out any value in my scribbling and
flaps away to check out the bed of a pickup truck.
Bionote
A retiree of the Alaska Department of Environmental Conservation and a Juneau, Alaska resident of 44 years, Richard works seasonally as a Gastineau Guiding naturalist in Juneau. He writes often about nature which he loves and aging which he is doing. His wife, Jane, is a Juneau artist.
Coal-black against falling snow, ravens
roam the grocery lot. Probing and pecking
at what could be food, they waddle about
and with oft-blinking eyes they scan
parked cars for lunch eaters who might toss scraps.
As I make an entry into my journal
one bold bird flutters to the hood of my car
and struts closer to see what my hands may hold.
He cocks his head, blinks his eyes twice,
rules out any value in my scribbling and
flaps away to check out the bed of a pickup truck.
Bionote
A retiree of the Alaska Department of Environmental Conservation and a Juneau, Alaska resident of 44 years, Richard works seasonally as a Gastineau Guiding naturalist in Juneau. He writes often about nature which he loves and aging which he is doing. His wife, Jane, is a Juneau artist.
1 Poem by George Gad Economou
a hot summer dream
the deep blue sea
expanding vastly.
calm waters,
no waves, no wind.
only an endless dark blue;
under the surface
all the monsters swim,
creatures free and unhindered,
obeying no rules,
not caring about the world of the dry land.
in the bottom
countless wrecks lie idly,
protected by the sharks,
hiding their secrets and treasures
away from all eyes,
forever.
and the monsters swim
despite the sudden breeze,
and they are still alive,
despite the violent storm erupting.
it's always the same for them,
swimming free, unburdened of all rules.
a single smile
from faraway,
the mermaid of fairytales old
waves and pleas.
another victim claimed,
yet another soul
searching for the absolute freedom
in the darkest pits.
Bionote
George Gad Economou, born in 1990 in Athens, Greece, is currently a Master's student at Aarhus University, working on his thesis on social epistemology and preparing to return back to Athens and unemployment.
George Gad Economou, born in 1990 in Athens, Greece, is currently a Master's student at Aarhus University, working on his thesis on social epistemology and preparing to return back to Athens and unemployment.
1 Poem by Natalie Crick
No Surprise
There was no rain
Through the sky sagged and slumped,
An old coat cradling the lane,
Wearing thin with empty pockets.
You are inclined to believe the latter; luminous purple, ashen green.
And you are wrong because I remember that part
But, I forget where we were. Does it matter?
For poignancy is often personified when we are lost.
We swallowed the road with great swooping gulps,
Bounding with confidence, as very small cars often do.
The moon ran with us, I noticed,
Which was thoughtful, because we were all alone.
The forest mob loomed up on the left,
Hurling hostile tremors from her core.
We bravely edged onward
Though our faceless friends were engulfed in her silent roar.
We tore through the black
And he followed.
In a soundless haze, the hooves vaulted upward,
Clearing us with space to spare.
Bionote
Natalie Crick has found delight in writing all of her life and first began writing when she was a very young girl. Her poetry is influenced by melancholic confessional Women's poetry . Her poetry has been published in a range of journals and magazines including Cannons Mouth, Cyphers, Ariadne's Thread, Carillon and National Poetry Anthology 2013.
1 Poem by Andrew Petrucci
Ode to a Blank Canvas
The point of departure
is a brushstroke
against
the horizon.
It’s not
topographical
or geological—
it’s sentimental;
like a fish out of
water.
Truth is:
If I knew
how to swim,
I’d meet you
half way
& wade.
If I knew
what to whisper
maybe you’d
consider
coming back
across
these crags.
Bionote
Andrew Petrucci is an ex-pat, English language instructor, and part-time poet. Currently living in Abu Dhabi, he is a contributor to the local poetry scene (Rooftop Rhythms) and has been previously published in Vallum.
The point of departure
is a brushstroke
against
the horizon.
It’s not
topographical
or geological—
it’s sentimental;
like a fish out of
water.
Truth is:
If I knew
how to swim,
I’d meet you
half way
& wade.
If I knew
what to whisper
maybe you’d
consider
coming back
across
these crags.
Bionote
Andrew Petrucci is an ex-pat, English language instructor, and part-time poet. Currently living in Abu Dhabi, he is a contributor to the local poetry scene (Rooftop Rhythms) and has been previously published in Vallum.
2 Poems by Xu Xing
我无法拒绝你手指的对抗
就象镰刀 放倒自己心爱的女人
磁性的月光穿过午夜 化着水 化成雾
唤醒了林中沉睡的鸟鸣
你是一株麦子 在我的麦田里
等待收割又害怕收割 你熟透的心
与麦香一样熟透的身体
害怕成为太阳的断章和祭品
我不是一个浪子 所以
开镰之前就修好了爱情的粮仓
和责任的堤坝 那扇水泼不进的大门
就是我们一生的守望……
The harvest season of wheat
I can't resist your fingers.
Just as the scythe put down his beloved woman
The magnetic moonlight through the midnight watering into the mist
Woke up the sleeping birds in the forest
You are a grain of wheat in my field
Waiting for but also afraid of harvesting, your mature heart
And your body as flavor as the ripe wheat grain
Both fear to turn into the sun’s fragments and offerings
I am not a prodigal, so
Before the harvest I would have repaired the granary of love
And the responsibility of the dam, the door keeping water from pouring into
Namely is the watch of our whole life......
◎父亲和鸟
独坐于黄昏 我看见忧伤在父亲的额头叹息
他打满老茧的手上 落日正一点点滴落和苍老
找不到归巢的鸟儿咽咽地望着他
期待被树枝切割的月光在午夜的琴声里取暖或者歌唱
而村口那眼旺盛了几代人的老井正在奄奄一息
复垦的机器如醉酒的镰刀割去了大山的满头黑发和庄稼人的希望
那一排排倒下的树枝象地震又象余震
砸在父亲的心里很疼很痛
鸟儿在父亲的头上盘旋了几圈然后不忍地飞走了
它长长的悲鸣算是与父亲作最后的道别
虽然眼含残疾 但父亲发誓
一定要找一个医术高明的医生来医治大山的疾病
101能让光头变森林 当然也可以让大山回春
父亲向村口走去 转过一道弯就是山外
朦朦的夜色里留下他星星点点的汗烟和绿色的影子……
Father and the bird
Sitting alone in the dusk I saw sadness on his forehead sigh mutely
He’s got calluses on his hands, and the sun is setting and getting pale little by little
The bird could not find the homing looking at him sadly
Expecting the moonlight cut to pieces by branches to keep warm at midnight sound or singing
But the old well at the entrance of the village which has been exuberant for several generations is dying
Reclamation machines such as a drunken sickle cut out the hill’s black hair and the hopes of the farmers
The rows of trees fell down like earthquakes and aftershocks
Hitting Father in the heart so painfully and sorrowfully
The bird circled over Father's head and then it didn’t have the heart to fly away
At last with its long sighing cry left to say goodbye to Father
Although Father had a disability in the eye but he swore
He must find a good doctor to cure the disease hill
101 could make the bareheaded hairy of course it could also make hills in spring rejuvenation
Father walked to the entrance of the village, rounding a bend and going outside the hill
At the dim light of night there left the tiny spots of Chinese tobacco and his green shadow behind......
英译/王光娟 Translated by Wang Guangjuan
作者简介：许星，男，1962年11月生于四川绵阳，媒体记者。世界汉诗协会、中国诗歌学会、四川省作家协会会员。有作品在《人民日报》《人民文学》《诗刊》《解放军文艺》《北京文学》《四川文学》《星星诗刊》《文学界》《山西文学》《山东文学》《边疆文学》《天津文学》《西部》《Prosopisia》《Eastlit》等国内外130多家报刊发表并多次获奖，著有诗集《虚掩的村庄》。现居四川绵阳。
Bionote
Xu Xing, born in November 1962 in mianyang, sichuan, is a media reporter and member of The world Association of Chinese poetry, Chinese Poetry Academy, and The Writers' Association of Sichuan Province. His works has appeared in the People's Daily, People's Literature, Poetry, PLA Literature, Prosopisia, Eastlit and 130 other publications. He has won awards both at home and abroad. Now he lives in mianyang in sichuan.
1 Poem by Joanna M. Weston
THE DIFFERENCE BEING
other girls’
fathers
stayed alive
mine went to war
and came back
dead
he is a name
spoken rarely
in our house
he is letters
secreted
in a cupboard
Bionote
JOANNA M. WESTON: Married; has one cat, multiple spiders, a herd of deer, and two derelict hen-houses. Her middle-reader, ‘Frame and The McGuire', published by Tradewind Books 2015; and poetry, ‘A Bedroom of Searchlights’, published by Inanna Publications, 2016. Her eBooks found at her blog: http://www.1960willowtree.wordpress.com/
other girls’
fathers
stayed alive
mine went to war
and came back
dead
he is a name
spoken rarely
in our house
he is letters
secreted
in a cupboard
Bionote
JOANNA M. WESTON: Married; has one cat, multiple spiders, a herd of deer, and two derelict hen-houses. Her middle-reader, ‘Frame and The McGuire', published by Tradewind Books 2015; and poetry, ‘A Bedroom of Searchlights’, published by Inanna Publications, 2016. Her eBooks found at her blog: http://www.1960willowtree.wordpress.com/
1 Poem by Dana Mele
Catch 22
His father told him "she's a catch."
Anyone who could love her a real kind of love
would love a lady in white,
a not quite there,
a ghost.
Never sure if he was there,
or she,
if they were crossing planes
or sharing time.
Anyone who loved her
would love the lady vanishing,
wanting to stay,
but brightening and fading.
Heart in the right place,
and the rest decaying.
Bionote
Dana Mele is a freelance writer and attorney based in the Catskills. Her short stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Jersey Devil Press, Typehouse Literary Magazine, Lunch Ticket, Right Hand Pointing, Vine Leaves Literary Journal, Bird’s Thumb, Mad Scientist Journal, and elsewhere.
His father told him "she's a catch."
Anyone who could love her a real kind of love
would love a lady in white,
a not quite there,
a ghost.
Never sure if he was there,
or she,
if they were crossing planes
or sharing time.
Anyone who loved her
would love the lady vanishing,
wanting to stay,
but brightening and fading.
Heart in the right place,
and the rest decaying.
Bionote
Dana Mele is a freelance writer and attorney based in the Catskills. Her short stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Jersey Devil Press, Typehouse Literary Magazine, Lunch Ticket, Right Hand Pointing, Vine Leaves Literary Journal, Bird’s Thumb, Mad Scientist Journal, and elsewhere.
PP's Call for Submissions
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
[revised]
WARRANTY & AGREEMENT
By submitting to PP, 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 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 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.
* 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;
* Multiple and simultaneous submissions, as well as previously published work,
are all equally welcome insofar as you still hold the copy/publishing rights;
* We wish to pay our poets and buy certain rights from them,
but there is no money exchange involved,
except a genuine shared love for art and wisdom;
* Please send up to 5 of your best shorter poems each time
by pasting them all together with a brief 3rd person bio note
within the body of your email
within the body of your email
to editors.pp@gmail.com,
or visual artworks as individually separate attachments.
Before acceptance, we will NOT open any attachments/files
for virus/spam-related concerns, but we may ask you
to send the accepted work as an attachment;
* Please feel welcome to send us a query if, for instance,
your accepted work does not appear as scheduled;
or other networking vehicles for promotional purposes;
* Our response-time is 6-8 weeks at latest, usually shorter than 4 weeks:
since we never give anyone any 'rejection notice,' please feel free
to do whatever you want to with your submission
if you do not get any response/acceptance from PP within two months
after you send it over to us. In other words:
only those accepted will get a reply.
Once accepted by PP, please allow at least one year
before submitting new work to us again
- Many thanks for your kind support of PP & Gooooodluuuuck!
Once accepted by PP, please allow at least one year
before submitting new work to us again
- Many thanks for your kind support of PP & Gooooodluuuuck!
---------------------------------------------------------------------
closed to manuscript submissions until further notice
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
(REVISED)
(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
____________________________________________________
* 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!
* 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!
______________________________________________
Wednesday, 20 April 2016
Editorial Notes
dear PP Friends,
before leaving for beijing on a medical trip, we hope the earlier-than-usual release of this issue finds you all well and happy!
to all submitters in particuar: there are two important changes we are introducing to our revised submission guidelines:
1. when submitting to PP, please paste up to 5 poems together with a brief 3rd person bio note in the body of an email to us - this will help reduce our computer time;
2. for those who have work accepted, please wait at least one year after publication in PP to submit new work again - this will allow us to feature more authors.
in addition, please be reminded: we prefer shorter truly lyrical poems...
in this issue, we are honoured to feature 2 visual artists and 73 poetry creators.
happy reading!
-PP editorial team
before leaving for beijing on a medical trip, we hope the earlier-than-usual release of this issue finds you all well and happy!
to all submitters in particuar: there are two important changes we are introducing to our revised submission guidelines:
1. when submitting to PP, please paste up to 5 poems together with a brief 3rd person bio note in the body of an email to us - this will help reduce our computer time;
2. for those who have work accepted, please wait at least one year after publication in PP to submit new work again - this will allow us to feature more authors.
in addition, please be reminded: we prefer shorter truly lyrical poems...
in this issue, we are honoured to feature 2 visual artists and 73 poetry creators.
happy reading!
-PP editorial team
Cover photo by Rowan Blair Colver
bionote
I am an English writer and creative artist, author of many varied books and contributor to several blogs and magazines. Having established a back catalogue of written material already, my focus now is upon encouraging others to try art for themselves. This has taken form of my company, Alternative Fruit Creative Arts which aims to provide inspiration and resource to the international creative arts community. This is a new project for me and so far I am very happy with progress. My poetry continues and I write most days, either poetic stories, small ditties, or versed escapism. My work mostly touches on the emotive side of life, exploring feeling, philosophy, psychology and the human condition as a whole. Creative arts is yet another doorway to this landscape of my work, and I hope many walk through it to discover their own passion along the way.
http://rowanblaircolver.com
http://alternativefruit.com
http://rowanblaircolver.com
http://alternativefruit.com
5 poems by rob mclennan
The little nothings,
The words are already there, you just have to read them
Lesley Yalen, the beginnings in
Lesley Yalen, the beginnings in
Numerically, thin. A coral silence. We spring up, formidable. Snow-fell, fall. Equilibrium. Love, a poison. Daffodil. Landscape, postures. Light slants, disappoints the stones. Geometry was fashioned to be lonely. Lacunae, swish. Such analytical capacity. A mark of stairwells, kings. The rains came. I work hard at this. All likeness disappears. Depreciates. My tongue grew pebble-strength. The neighbour skunks: made for the underside, foundations.
Our endless, numbered days
what touches in what language
Rob Budde, Dreamland Theatre
Rob Budde, Dreamland Theatre
About to go broke, home. Faint circles through our head. At birth, the sacred brain. To summarize a platitude. Cut off from the world. An echo, beauty. Winter, spring: unwinds. An autumn purge. Laughter. Sings, blue. Demands, unbroken sentence. Bordering the colours, wind. Enticements. You would not be neutral. A legend in youth. This ghost on fire. Seven dwarves. Carved out from a future time. Clouds flex muscles, take a head count. The car ice-coating. Frozen down to asphalt. Fractured. An authority we can’t justify. Fear of falling, opens. Empties into lungs.
Acceptance Speech:
I love the ology of clouds
Mary Ruefle, Trances of the Blast
Mary Ruefle, Trances of the Blast
Disorient, a shape. Cohere. What matters would be, antibodies. Truth. I want this, ambivalence. Branches: allusions wrestle, wing. Says one: forbid, thoroughly. What would have been excluded. Coiled, hammer, anvil. Reluctant patterns, boundary. Says one: we dismantle, endlessly thorough. Biopsy: linguistic. I am not ambition: all my roads repeat, interior, repeat. Winning. Snow-branch weight a study, low to ground. This brutal, excessive heat.
The opposite of harm,
Pain’s absence, like a footprint in snow
but the iron had eaten into my flesh
there was nothing, nothing to record
Hillary Gravendyck, Harm
but the iron had eaten into my flesh
there was nothing, nothing to record
Hillary Gravendyck, Harm
Choraled, breathless. Bleach, and honey. Mirror-flat, unspooled. Or simply, pulses. Last. What worries me is this. If you could breathe. Medicinal. The underside, of linen coolness. Bright lights. Blade, a scalpel. Thorned. Reenergize, the empty cells. A stuttered brightness, braille. What sky of onion skin. Bedazzled. Soup. I want what, she. This lettered calm. A perilous scene of contact, right this second. Listen, wind. If you could breathe. Words cut excess, list. Into the lungs, absorbed. A cradle. Deep exhale, rust-red. If you could breathe. Grey-crumpled ash, a smear. Estrange. This bandaged, battered montage.
A study in silver
Here I saw blue. Accordingly, sank. Like a hole in the ground. A tremendous intention. Through what sparks can’t penetrate. Determined, and framed. A lifetime might pass. I moved very quickly. Showered prose into interior. Walls shored up to buttress. Declared, and pushed back. How shallow the dead breathe; how quickly. The light caught the furrows. Protected. The beauty of style, and braids. Plural. Rearranged, into. We knew not what. Meaning was short lived, slick, and without fixed dimensions. Of absolute discretion. Pure. Devoured on the spot. Intermittent. We are of the present. Abandoned, by years. Skeletal, the story matters. Follow scattered directions. Step forth, and create. From this day, the firmament.
Bionote
Born in Ottawa, Canada’s glorious capital city, rob mclennan currently lives in Ottawa. The author of nearly thirty trade books of poetry, fiction and non-fiction, he won the John Newlove Poetry Award in 2010, the Council for the Arts in Ottawa Mid-Career Award in 2014, and was longlisted for the CBC Poetry Prize in 2012. His most recent titles include notes and dispatches: essays (Insomniac press, 2014) and The Uncertainty Principle: stories, (Chaudiere Books, 2014), as well as the forthcoming poetry collection If suppose we are a fragment (BuschekBooks, 2014). An editor and publisher, he runs above/ground press, Chaudiere Books, The Garneau Review ( ottawater.com/garneaureview ), seventeen seconds: a journal of poetry and poetics ( ottawater.com/seventeenseconds ), Touch the Donkey ( touchthedonkey.blogspot.com ) and the Ottawa poetry pdf annual ottawater ( ottawater.com ). He spent the 2007-8 academic year in Edmonton as writer-in-residence at the University of Alberta, and regularly posts reviews, essays, interviews and other notices at robmclennan.blogspot.com
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