Camouflage
The secret to not being seen
isn’t disappearing from sight.
Day to day, being invisible
turns on itself, stirring the curtains
when everyone’s looking. Once
they’re seen, patterns of flatness
give us away. I’m not suggesting
reflective masking. This is when meaning
rests on the space between words. Extra
ordinary. Think blending in to the point
of irrelevance. Anyone watching will barely
notice, as if you’d been tumbled or blown.
Once Around
No one else disturbs the lake.
My neighbor, the skier, carves the bay
one-handed, creasing the surface outside
the wake. Bringing him back, before it arcs
away, the boat dips its nose toward shore
and my neighbor, being slung, begins his countdown,
trusting his body’s barely conscious grasp
of centrifugal math, holding the bar till it’s 2-1-go.
Knowing and acting in the same moment. This
is always how I picture it, gravity centered, force
accounted for. Clear and simple. One thing left.
Countdown expires and he opens his hand.
Bionote
Scott Davidson lives with his wife in Missoula, MT. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Bright Bones: Contemporary Montana Writing, Potomac Review, and the Permanent Press anthology, Crossing the River: Poets of the Western United States.
Saturday, 5 May 2018
1 Poem by Ezra Miles
The
Whole
The
man climbs down
from
a ladder
back
to earth–
just
a phrase, just
a
phrase singing
through
his ears
and
music is
such
a gift, wherever
It
occurs.
He
remembers
little
of what
he
saw out
over
the sky. How
could
he? When
he
was away
he
became
a
diamond
that
shone as water
in
a glass
like
water in the sea
as
though he was
heat.
He stepped
back
to the earth
with
both feet.
Bionote
Ezra Miles is a poet and filmmaker living in London. He studied Moving Image at The University of Brighton. He is interested in the subconscious mind and the hidden violence of the family unit. His work will appear in Allegro Poetry later this year.
Whole
The
man climbs down
from
a ladder
back
to earth–
just
a phrase, just
a
phrase singing
through
his ears
and
music is
such
a gift, wherever
It
occurs.
He
remembers
little
of what
he
saw out
over
the sky. How
could
he? When
he
was away
he
became
a
diamond
that
shone as water
in
a glass
like
water in the sea
as
though he was
heat.
He stepped
back
to the earth
with
both feet.
Bionote
Ezra Miles is a poet and filmmaker living in London. He studied Moving Image at The University of Brighton. He is interested in the subconscious mind and the hidden violence of the family unit. His work will appear in Allegro Poetry later this year.
1 Poem by Alinda Dickinson Wasner
Too Much Love (Detroit Reverie)
Sun on grass and new day
Dance across the lawn together
Bee-hum in Granny’s lilacs
Patient, patient
Old song, ancient, like Jamaica, little Haiti
And nextdoor neighbor
Radio on a window ledge
Sing Whenever I See Your Smiling Face;
As we girls chase boys
All in and out of
Foch Elementary, sun on window panes
All gold-gleam clouds
That whisper little white lies
Bionote
Alinda Dickinson Wasner is the author of 4 collections of poetry, the most recent being, When You Don't Know Who You Are by Crisis Chronicles Press. Winner of several US poetry prizes and an international prize, her work can be found in numerous print and online journals. Called "one of Detroit's best poets" by poet laureate, ML Liebler, Wasner is currently at work on a new collection, Too Much Love: Detroit Poems, she lives in metro Detroit.
Sun on grass and new day
Dance across the lawn together
Bee-hum in Granny’s lilacs
Patient, patient
Old song, ancient, like Jamaica, little Haiti
And nextdoor neighbor
Radio on a window ledge
Sing Whenever I See Your Smiling Face;
As we girls chase boys
All in and out of
Foch Elementary, sun on window panes
All gold-gleam clouds
That whisper little white lies
Bionote
Alinda Dickinson Wasner is the author of 4 collections of poetry, the most recent being, When You Don't Know Who You Are by Crisis Chronicles Press. Winner of several US poetry prizes and an international prize, her work can be found in numerous print and online journals. Called "one of Detroit's best poets" by poet laureate, ML Liebler, Wasner is currently at work on a new collection, Too Much Love: Detroit Poems, she lives in metro Detroit.
5 Haiku & 8 Artworks by Lorette C. Luzajic
Joseph Cornell Haiku
light tripping over
apothecary glasses
blue, gold, a butterfly wing
Orange Truck Haiku
shiny and new
orange truck
a crimson gash in the snow
Grief Haiku
hope is the thing with feathers,
but grief is the thing
with the dark hungry maw
Gratitude Haiku
I am thankful for
strawberries in March, for
pink sugar from soil
Champagne Haiku
jolly rancher, apricot
clear and sweet and soft
oh, zinfandel
Artist Statement
Every technical and philosophical facet of my art is committed to the application of mixed media, redefining the term to include concepts and ideas as well as tangible physical materials. This cross-genre pasticcio is born from and dependent on collage, which naturally experiments with subliminality, intercontextuality and the unexpected narratives that emerge from both playful and planned juxtapositions.
Each work is assembled from an unlimited assortment of tools, themes, genres, and inspirations. A work may be created from acrylic paint, gouache, found papers, chalk pastels, oil sticks, wax crayons, graphite, spray paint, poetry, overheard dialogue, religious ritual, music, mythology, television, and etymology.
My expression springs from my insatiable curiousity, bent humour, the intersection of the sacred and inane, and enchantment with the fruits of human innovation and creativity. To this end, an ongoing lifelong study of visual art history, the arts, and the humanities, is essential to my work.
From serene, minimalist abstractions to frantic pentimenti imbroglio, my work embraces appropriation and challenges constructs of genre, colour orthodoxy and technical craftsmanship. But the traditional importance of beauty in millennia of art history is a conviction I share. To obtain beauty in every work, I strive to evoke emotion, achieve mastery of composition, and discover new ways of seeing and defining what is beautiful.
Bionote
Lorette C. Luzajic is an artist and writer in Toronto, Canada. She is the author of four collections of poetry, and editor of The Ekphrastic Review (www.ekphrastic.net.) Her mixed media collage paintings have been exhibited in Toronto, Vancouver, Los Angeles, Edinburgh, Tunis, Mexico, India and more. Visit her at www.mixedupmedia.ca.
light tripping over
apothecary glasses
blue, gold, a butterfly wing
Orange Truck Haiku
shiny and new
orange truck
a crimson gash in the snow
Grief Haiku
hope is the thing with feathers,
but grief is the thing
with the dark hungry maw
Gratitude Haiku
I am thankful for
strawberries in March, for
pink sugar from soil
Champagne Haiku
jolly rancher, apricot
clear and sweet and soft
oh, zinfandel
 |
| all lies and jest |
 |
| dance faster |
 |
| dreamers learn to steer by stars |
 |
| free your mind |
 |
| i've forgotten what it was i was so desperate to tell you |
 |
| majolica |
 |
| most wanted |
 |
| you are amazed by how fleeting it all was |
 |
| you've got to know when to hold em |
Artist Statement
Every technical and philosophical facet of my art is committed to the application of mixed media, redefining the term to include concepts and ideas as well as tangible physical materials. This cross-genre pasticcio is born from and dependent on collage, which naturally experiments with subliminality, intercontextuality and the unexpected narratives that emerge from both playful and planned juxtapositions.
Each work is assembled from an unlimited assortment of tools, themes, genres, and inspirations. A work may be created from acrylic paint, gouache, found papers, chalk pastels, oil sticks, wax crayons, graphite, spray paint, poetry, overheard dialogue, religious ritual, music, mythology, television, and etymology.
My expression springs from my insatiable curiousity, bent humour, the intersection of the sacred and inane, and enchantment with the fruits of human innovation and creativity. To this end, an ongoing lifelong study of visual art history, the arts, and the humanities, is essential to my work.
From serene, minimalist abstractions to frantic pentimenti imbroglio, my work embraces appropriation and challenges constructs of genre, colour orthodoxy and technical craftsmanship. But the traditional importance of beauty in millennia of art history is a conviction I share. To obtain beauty in every work, I strive to evoke emotion, achieve mastery of composition, and discover new ways of seeing and defining what is beautiful.
Bionote
Lorette C. Luzajic is an artist and writer in Toronto, Canada. She is the author of four collections of poetry, and editor of The Ekphrastic Review (www.ekphrastic.net.) Her mixed media collage paintings have been exhibited in Toronto, Vancouver, Los Angeles, Edinburgh, Tunis, Mexico, India and more. Visit her at www.mixedupmedia.ca.
1 Poem by Gale Acuff
Lost and Found
Father's lost his wallet, and almost his
mind--to Alzheimer's; still, there's enough Dad
left to become angry--at me, the son
who bears his name; and of bewildered boy
to cry. We've looked everywhere in his room,
where I'd swear he last had it, but the thing
possesses him now. I've found everything
else he's hoarded--chocolate, soda pop, mints,
toaster pastries, half-eaten apples, nuts,
batteries, light bulbs, crossword-puzzle books,
candles, cigarettes (mine--he doesn't smoke),
pencils, pens, erasers, paper clips, twist
-ties . . . . I could cry myself. In his billfold
is petty cash, a Blue Cross card, a non
-driver's identification, and God
knows what else. I telephone a sister:
Oh, it'll turn up, she says--promises.
Look in all his trouser pockets. Search his
coats. Examine every dresser drawer.
Look under his bed, inside his pillows,
between sheets, underneath the mattresses.
In his garbage can. In Mother's things. (She's
dead). I give up. I've spent the day searching
and all I've gotten for it is weaker.
Tomorrow I'll play detective again
but I don't have much left, am beginning
to feel that if there is Divine Justice,
finding his wallet will be tantamount
to regaining his mind--his billfold is
his identity, his soul, in dimpled
leather. I wish I could locate it: I'd
hold it in triumph before him, and say
Looky here what I found, Father--have you
been missing this? And his face would flush light
and beam on me, as many years ago it did,
when I did something that made him damned proud
it almost broke his heart, in the right way.
I'd give his identity back to him
and be the little man he said I was,
the boy who would go far, even father
than he did, and that would be going some.
As it is, he's sleeping now, perhaps dreaming
of where he lost it. If I get to sleep
tonight, perhaps I'll dream of a secret
place where it lies waiting, just waiting, to
be found again. And I'll find the damned thing
if it's the last thing I ever do and
the only miracle I'll ever know.
Besides Father, of course, out of his mind
but sharp as a spirit, wholly recovered.
Bionote
Gale Acuff has had poetry published in Ascent, Ohio Journal, Desca nt, Poem, Adirondack Review, Coe Review, Worcester Review, Mary land Poetry Review, Arkansas Review, Florida Review, South Carolina Review, Carolina Quarterly, South Dakota Review, Sequential Art Narrative in Education, and many other journals. He has authored three books of poetry: Buffalo Nickel (BrickHouse Press, 2004), The Weight of the World (BrickHouse, 2006), and The Story of My Lives (BrickHouse, 2008).
Father's lost his wallet, and almost his
mind--to Alzheimer's; still, there's enough Dad
left to become angry--at me, the son
who bears his name; and of bewildered boy
to cry. We've looked everywhere in his room,
where I'd swear he last had it, but the thing
possesses him now. I've found everything
else he's hoarded--chocolate, soda pop, mints,
toaster pastries, half-eaten apples, nuts,
batteries, light bulbs, crossword-puzzle books,
candles, cigarettes (mine--he doesn't smoke),
pencils, pens, erasers, paper clips, twist
-ties . . . . I could cry myself. In his billfold
is petty cash, a Blue Cross card, a non
-driver's identification, and God
knows what else. I telephone a sister:
Oh, it'll turn up, she says--promises.
Look in all his trouser pockets. Search his
coats. Examine every dresser drawer.
Look under his bed, inside his pillows,
between sheets, underneath the mattresses.
In his garbage can. In Mother's things. (She's
dead). I give up. I've spent the day searching
and all I've gotten for it is weaker.
Tomorrow I'll play detective again
but I don't have much left, am beginning
to feel that if there is Divine Justice,
finding his wallet will be tantamount
to regaining his mind--his billfold is
his identity, his soul, in dimpled
leather. I wish I could locate it: I'd
hold it in triumph before him, and say
Looky here what I found, Father--have you
been missing this? And his face would flush light
and beam on me, as many years ago it did,
when I did something that made him damned proud
it almost broke his heart, in the right way.
I'd give his identity back to him
and be the little man he said I was,
the boy who would go far, even father
than he did, and that would be going some.
As it is, he's sleeping now, perhaps dreaming
of where he lost it. If I get to sleep
tonight, perhaps I'll dream of a secret
place where it lies waiting, just waiting, to
be found again. And I'll find the damned thing
if it's the last thing I ever do and
the only miracle I'll ever know.
Besides Father, of course, out of his mind
but sharp as a spirit, wholly recovered.
Bionote
Gale Acuff has had poetry published in Ascent, Ohio Journal, Desca nt, Poem, Adirondack Review, Coe Review, Worcester Review, Mary land Poetry Review, Arkansas Review, Florida Review, South Carolina Review, Carolina Quarterly, South Dakota Review, Sequential Art Narrative in Education, and many other journals. He has authored three books of poetry: Buffalo Nickel (BrickHouse Press, 2004), The Weight of the World (BrickHouse, 2006), and The Story of My Lives (BrickHouse, 2008).
1 Poem by Holly Day
In the End
the descendants of laboratory rats
of humanity, crude pumped from Arlington Cemetery
compared to the oil the dinosaurs left behind
the waste will seem limitless
even to environmentalists.
Bionote
Holly Day has taught writing classes at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis, Minnesota, since 2000. Her poetry has recently appeared in Tampa Review, SLAB, and Gargoyle, while her newest nonfiction book, Tattoos FAQ, is coming out from Backbeat Books in early 2018.
the descendants of laboratory rats
of humanity, crude pumped from Arlington Cemetery
compared to the oil the dinosaurs left behind
the waste will seem limitless
even to environmentalists.
Bionote
Holly Day has taught writing classes at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis, Minnesota, since 2000. Her poetry has recently appeared in Tampa Review, SLAB, and Gargoyle, while her newest nonfiction book, Tattoos FAQ, is coming out from Backbeat Books in early 2018.
1 Poem by Bridget Malley
Serenade
Lover, come over, come under my weather. The storm’s blown over (I am the storm).
And you, your weather, the color you paint your mirror to hide confined reflections -
oh lover! Come over! We’ll weather these shoulders, cold as the rows
of clouds hanging over us. The fluorescent light hanging over us.
You touch, I flinch, then sink into a steadiness I was never used to.
Mama grew gardens, you say. Papa taught us to pray for rain. We wore holes
in our jeans; summer storms for the growing things. I never met one as good as you.
Oh, lover. It’s over. I’m a tsunami that has broken here on this porch.
How can rain love the sun that breaks over waves of grain?
Call me a disaster, dear, and I’ll tell you my name.
Bionote
Bridget Malley is a writer and poet from the suburbs of Pittsburgh. Her work has appeared in Main Street Rag, Uppagus, Rune, and The Loyalhanna Review, among others. Visit her on Twitter: @theMalleykid
Lover, come over, come under my weather. The storm’s blown over (I am the storm).
And you, your weather, the color you paint your mirror to hide confined reflections -
oh lover! Come over! We’ll weather these shoulders, cold as the rows
of clouds hanging over us. The fluorescent light hanging over us.
You touch, I flinch, then sink into a steadiness I was never used to.
Mama grew gardens, you say. Papa taught us to pray for rain. We wore holes
in our jeans; summer storms for the growing things. I never met one as good as you.
Oh, lover. It’s over. I’m a tsunami that has broken here on this porch.
How can rain love the sun that breaks over waves of grain?
Call me a disaster, dear, and I’ll tell you my name.
Bionote
Bridget Malley is a writer and poet from the suburbs of Pittsburgh. Her work has appeared in Main Street Rag, Uppagus, Rune, and The Loyalhanna Review, among others. Visit her on Twitter: @theMalleykid
1 Poem by Dmitry Blizniuk
Fetishist
The birthmark on your neck is amusing.
It looks like a tiny fly.
I want to touch it, to play with it,
to see if the spider comes running to the call of the skin.
I want to bite your neck like a vampire,
to infect you with my own world,
to leave in the reeds of your subconsciousness
a few tadpoles.
You're holding my heart, and little by little,
you pare it with scissors,
waiting when it becomes
as small as
a scout badge,
but anyway, I'll be the first to get at your spine.
We are together, you and me. It's evening.
It's raining outside.
Someone plays Chopin's nocturnes
with long oily fingers;
the oily golden streetlights loom and shimmer,
and I'm looking at your neck – it's as refreshing as to look
at a waterfall or at a young branch.
You say that I'm a fetishist,
That I look at you with a deranged greediness
like a neighbor kid who swallowed spiders, on a bet.
It's because, my love, that I have
so much free time,
that I've missed all the trains in the world,
and I loaf about the railway station,
writing down no man's poetry lines
no one's searching for.
(translated by Sergey Gerasimov from Russian)
The birthmark on your neck is amusing.
It looks like a tiny fly.
I want to touch it, to play with it,
to see if the spider comes running to the call of the skin.
I want to bite your neck like a vampire,
to infect you with my own world,
to leave in the reeds of your subconsciousness
a few tadpoles.
You're holding my heart, and little by little,
you pare it with scissors,
waiting when it becomes
as small as
a scout badge,
but anyway, I'll be the first to get at your spine.
We are together, you and me. It's evening.
It's raining outside.
Someone plays Chopin's nocturnes
with long oily fingers;
the oily golden streetlights loom and shimmer,
and I'm looking at your neck – it's as refreshing as to look
at a waterfall or at a young branch.
You say that I'm a fetishist,
That I look at you with a deranged greediness
like a neighbor kid who swallowed spiders, on a bet.
It's because, my love, that I have
so much free time,
that I've missed all the trains in the world,
and I loaf about the railway station,
writing down no man's poetry lines
no one's searching for.
(translated by Sergey Gerasimov from Russian)
1 Poem by Lidia Chiarelli
Twilight
(Sunset on the hills)
This bread I break was once the oat,
This wine upon a foreign tree
Plunged in its fruit;
Man in the day or wine at night
Laid the crops low, broke the grape's joy…
Dylan Thomas: from “ This bread I break”
Stripes
of red and purple
(marks left by the hand
of an invisible painter)
light up
the vineyards on the hills
on this
long
summer evening.
Only the touch of the wind
rustles every leaf
in a magical dance.
And I
(like an unfinished canvas
or a blank page)
unable to listen to
those soft sounds of another time
will stay and wait
in silence
for the enveloping embrace
of the night.
Bionote
Lidia Chiarelli (Torino, Italy). Artist and poet, co-founder, with Aeronwy Thomas, of the art-literary Movement Immagine & Poesia.
(Sunset on the hills)
This bread I break was once the oat,
This wine upon a foreign tree
Plunged in its fruit;
Man in the day or wine at night
Laid the crops low, broke the grape's joy…
Dylan Thomas: from “ This bread I break”
Stripes
of red and purple
(marks left by the hand
of an invisible painter)
light up
the vineyards on the hills
on this
long
summer evening.
Only the touch of the wind
rustles every leaf
in a magical dance.
And I
(like an unfinished canvas
or a blank page)
unable to listen to
those soft sounds of another time
will stay and wait
in silence
for the enveloping embrace
of the night.
Bionote
Lidia Chiarelli (Torino, Italy). Artist and poet, co-founder, with Aeronwy Thomas, of the art-literary Movement Immagine & Poesia.
2 Poems by Joe Albanese
Sunday’s Songbird
I forget every
mistake
of fortune
to cut man-made disasters
in my flesh
Damned be the Lord of Light
should my eyes
not adjust
come inevitable dark
Move over, humble soldier,
as I trek
the mountain of
my destruction
At summit’s eternal sunrise,
heal each morning’s songbird
with my
predator
of vain delight
Each day is a song
that only a lucky few
may sing
Today is not my day.
Retrace, Repeat, Retrace
Suppose a now when the old
days were new, before paint’s
drip deluged
over that canvas
of tomorrow. Sidesteps and
sidetracks, minus the wanderings.
Before you found out
our hopeful hare’s leaps don’t
compete with the incessant
tortoise’s crawl.
Before see-you-laters became
goodbyes and a nice-to-meet-you’s
passing shackled you there. When
what could be became what never
was. Those steady silent years,
when each rise fell slowly to its
repetition. And now looking back
is a 360 degree turn. We’re
all just treading the waters of
second chance somedays.
Bionote
Joe Albanese is a writer from South Jersey. His poetry can be found in 2017 issues of Calliope, Concho River Review, Glove, Lowestoft Chronicle, Sunset Liminal, and other publications. His first novel, "Caina," will be published in 2018 (Mockingbird Lane Press).
I forget every
mistake
of fortune
to cut man-made disasters
in my flesh
Damned be the Lord of Light
should my eyes
not adjust
come inevitable dark
Move over, humble soldier,
as I trek
the mountain of
my destruction
At summit’s eternal sunrise,
heal each morning’s songbird
with my
predator
of vain delight
Each day is a song
that only a lucky few
may sing
Today is not my day.
Retrace, Repeat, Retrace
Suppose a now when the old
days were new, before paint’s
drip deluged
over that canvas
of tomorrow. Sidesteps and
sidetracks, minus the wanderings.
Before you found out
our hopeful hare’s leaps don’t
compete with the incessant
tortoise’s crawl.
Before see-you-laters became
goodbyes and a nice-to-meet-you’s
passing shackled you there. When
what could be became what never
was. Those steady silent years,
when each rise fell slowly to its
repetition. And now looking back
is a 360 degree turn. We’re
all just treading the waters of
second chance somedays.
Bionote
Joe Albanese is a writer from South Jersey. His poetry can be found in 2017 issues of Calliope, Concho River Review, Glove, Lowestoft Chronicle, Sunset Liminal, and other publications. His first novel, "Caina," will be published in 2018 (Mockingbird Lane Press).
1 Poem by Valery Petrovskiy
Midday sun
It’s so hot
a bird wings’
shadow
on the gate
was threatening
to slit
its plane
Bionote
Valery Petrovskiy is an acclaimed author from the Chuvashia region of Russia. His prose has appeared in journals from around the world, and he is a Pushcart Prize nominee. As for poetry, he has his poems published in Blue Lyra Review, Fine Flu Journal, The Missing Slate, Poetry Pacific, BRICKrhetoric.
It’s so hot
a bird wings’
shadow
on the gate
was threatening
to slit
its plane
Bionote
Valery Petrovskiy is an acclaimed author from the Chuvashia region of Russia. His prose has appeared in journals from around the world, and he is a Pushcart Prize nominee. As for poetry, he has his poems published in Blue Lyra Review, Fine Flu Journal, The Missing Slate, Poetry Pacific, BRICKrhetoric.
1 Poem by David Subacchi
OPEN WINDOWS
Tonight we open windows,
Listen to the church clock
A mile away.
These late moments
Of stillness
Are summer’s leftovers.
Soon it will be cold
And winter will slam
The glass shut,
Wind will whistle
Through cracks
Disturbing curtains
And rain will wash
Moss from rooftops
Clogging gutters.
But for now
The cat's call
And the purr of tyres,
The ticking engines
Of unloading taxis
With whispered farewells,
The laboured breath
Of a slumbering town,
The gentle helicopter snore.
Bionote
David Subacchi lives in Wales where he was born of Italian roots. He studied at the University
of Liverpool and he has 4 published collections of his English Language poetry First Cut (2012),
Hiding in Shadows (2014), Not Really a Stranger (2016) and A Terrible Beauty (2016).
He also writes in Welsh and Italian.
You can find out more about David and his work at
https://www.writeoutloud.net/profiles/davidsubacchi
Tonight we open windows,
Listen to the church clock
A mile away.
These late moments
Of stillness
Are summer’s leftovers.
Soon it will be cold
And winter will slam
The glass shut,
Wind will whistle
Through cracks
Disturbing curtains
And rain will wash
Moss from rooftops
Clogging gutters.
But for now
The cat's call
And the purr of tyres,
The ticking engines
Of unloading taxis
With whispered farewells,
The laboured breath
Of a slumbering town,
The gentle helicopter snore.
Bionote
David Subacchi lives in Wales where he was born of Italian roots. He studied at the University
of Liverpool and he has 4 published collections of his English Language poetry First Cut (2012),
Hiding in Shadows (2014), Not Really a Stranger (2016) and A Terrible Beauty (2016).
He also writes in Welsh and Italian.
You can find out more about David and his work at
https://www.writeoutloud.net/profiles/davidsubacchi
1 Poem by Allegra Jostad Silberstein
Quantum Entanglement
When I first heard these words
first heard the vague explanation
of particles entangled
I thought to myself, of course,
the heart knew it all along:
the enchanted evening syndrome
where you see someone across the
crowded room and know you’re
connected...
I understood
this without naming it
the first time your eyes met mine
...some particle of my body
a part of you...
through years and centuries
we have evolved...
who knows what split particles
have entered...who knows
the unknown
quantum entanglements
that teach
the strumming of the heart
Bionote
Allegra grew up on a farm in Wisconsin but has lived in California since 1963. Her love of poetry began as a child when her mother would recite poems as she worked. In addition to three chapbooks and one book, she is widely published in journals. In 2010 she became the first Poet Laureate of Davis. Allegra also performs with the The Third Stage dance company.
When I first heard these words
first heard the vague explanation
of particles entangled
I thought to myself, of course,
the heart knew it all along:
the enchanted evening syndrome
where you see someone across the
crowded room and know you’re
connected...
I understood
this without naming it
the first time your eyes met mine
...some particle of my body
a part of you...
through years and centuries
we have evolved...
who knows what split particles
have entered...who knows
the unknown
quantum entanglements
that teach
the strumming of the heart
Bionote
Allegra grew up on a farm in Wisconsin but has lived in California since 1963. Her love of poetry began as a child when her mother would recite poems as she worked. In addition to three chapbooks and one book, she is widely published in journals. In 2010 she became the first Poet Laureate of Davis. Allegra also performs with the The Third Stage dance company.
1 Poem by Maureen Daniels
Seth’s Pond, Martha’s Vineyard
The sand splashed road curves
around the handmade wooden fence,
bright with beach towels
threaded through the bleached,
splintering, slats. Earfuls of children’s
laughter beneath the single cloud
that roams over the island.
A small plane roars a flock of black
birds from out of the circle of trees
where the sunlight is beginning
to fade behind the moon’s skeleton.
Bionote
Maureen Daniels teaches English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln, where she is also a doctoral fellow in creative writing. She is an editorial assistant for Prairie Schooner and Western American Literature. Her work has recently been published in Sinister Wisdom, Neologism Poetry Journal, Gertrude Press, Third Wednesday and the South Florida Poetry Review.
The sand splashed road curves
around the handmade wooden fence,
bright with beach towels
threaded through the bleached,
splintering, slats. Earfuls of children’s
laughter beneath the single cloud
that roams over the island.
A small plane roars a flock of black
birds from out of the circle of trees
where the sunlight is beginning
to fade behind the moon’s skeleton.
Bionote
Maureen Daniels teaches English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln, where she is also a doctoral fellow in creative writing. She is an editorial assistant for Prairie Schooner and Western American Literature. Her work has recently been published in Sinister Wisdom, Neologism Poetry Journal, Gertrude Press, Third Wednesday and the South Florida Poetry Review.
1 Poem by G. Louis Heath
Death Of A Soldier
The little pieces of brain departed his skull
At the behest of a bullet from a rifle in the
Jungle canopy. They landed in a rice paddy
To think their final little thoughts away from
The cranium they called home lo these 24
Years. What does an exploded brain think in
Its last microseconds? Does it feel the impact
Like muscles? Just how does a bullet feel to a
Brain in dissolution pursuant to forcible entry?
Did the soldier know his fate at all? He re-upped
Last month to make a career of service. Cerebral
Pieces once his brain never saw death coming.
Yet he always knew deep in his gray matter it
Could. A body bag is coming to carry him home,
Minus tiny brain fragments glistening in the paddy.
Bionote
G. Louis Heath, Ph.D., Berkeley, 1969, is Emeritus Professor, Ashford University. Clinton, Iowa. He enjoys reading his poems at open mics. He often hikes along the Mississippi River, stopping to work on a poem he pulls from his back pocket, weather permitting. His books include Leaves Of Maple, Long Dark River Casino, and Redbird Prof: Poems Of A Normal U, 1969-1981. He has published poems in a wide array of journals, including Eunoia, Episteme, Black Poppy Review, Lunaris Review, Indiana Voice Review, Whispers, Dead Snakes, Raw Dog Press, Weird Reader, Literary Yard, and Houseboat Literary Magazine.
The little pieces of brain departed his skull
At the behest of a bullet from a rifle in the
Jungle canopy. They landed in a rice paddy
To think their final little thoughts away from
The cranium they called home lo these 24
Years. What does an exploded brain think in
Its last microseconds? Does it feel the impact
Like muscles? Just how does a bullet feel to a
Brain in dissolution pursuant to forcible entry?
Did the soldier know his fate at all? He re-upped
Last month to make a career of service. Cerebral
Pieces once his brain never saw death coming.
Yet he always knew deep in his gray matter it
Could. A body bag is coming to carry him home,
Minus tiny brain fragments glistening in the paddy.
Bionote
G. Louis Heath, Ph.D., Berkeley, 1969, is Emeritus Professor, Ashford University. Clinton, Iowa. He enjoys reading his poems at open mics. He often hikes along the Mississippi River, stopping to work on a poem he pulls from his back pocket, weather permitting. His books include Leaves Of Maple, Long Dark River Casino, and Redbird Prof: Poems Of A Normal U, 1969-1981. He has published poems in a wide array of journals, including Eunoia, Episteme, Black Poppy Review, Lunaris Review, Indiana Voice Review, Whispers, Dead Snakes, Raw Dog Press, Weird Reader, Literary Yard, and Houseboat Literary Magazine.
2 Poems by Bruce Levine
Times Remembered
Times remembered
Now repeating
Now receding
Vacant mem’ries
Hollow entries
Long abandoned
Empty journeys
Once remembered
Twice forgotten
Open highways
Never travelled
Dreams forsaken
Faded glories
Full of promise
Now depleted
Long lost treasures
Stolen chances
Dissipating
Silent voices
Empty spaces
Past erases
Times remembered
Now repeating
Now receding
The End of April
Varying shades of green
Leaves unfurling
From buds in the trees
Yellow, orange, gold and red
Colors of fall given over
Washed away by rain and snow
Shadows of tree limbs
Playing in the grass
Ever changing
Holding the future
Retracing destiny
Of life and love
The sap of trees
Rising through its veins
As birds take wing
And flowers bloom
Secrets revealed
Through knotted pines
That, ever green, remain
The forecast of spring
Bionote
Bruce Levine is a native Manhattanite who lives with his wife, actress Lydia Franklin, and their dog Daisy. He’s spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and a music and theatre professional. His shows have been produced in New York and around the country and his writings have been published widely including in Brimfield Publications, Heuer Publishing, Rodale Press, Visitant, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Friday Flash Fiction, Every Writer, Grey Sparrow Journal, WestWard Quarterly, Leaves of Ink, Eskimo Pie, Flash Fiction Magazine, The Bookends Review, Poetry Quarterly, 50 Haikus, Haiku Journal, Three Line Poetry, Dual Coast Magazine, Mused Literary Review and Literally Stories. Bruce's novellas, Reinvented and An Accidental Journey are available from Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble and iBooks. www.brucelevine.com
Times remembered
Now repeating
Now receding
Vacant mem’ries
Hollow entries
Long abandoned
Empty journeys
Once remembered
Twice forgotten
Open highways
Never travelled
Dreams forsaken
Faded glories
Full of promise
Now depleted
Long lost treasures
Stolen chances
Dissipating
Silent voices
Empty spaces
Past erases
Times remembered
Now repeating
Now receding
The End of April
Varying shades of green
Leaves unfurling
From buds in the trees
Yellow, orange, gold and red
Colors of fall given over
Washed away by rain and snow
Shadows of tree limbs
Playing in the grass
Ever changing
Holding the future
Retracing destiny
Of life and love
The sap of trees
Rising through its veins
As birds take wing
And flowers bloom
Secrets revealed
Through knotted pines
That, ever green, remain
The forecast of spring
Bionote
Bruce Levine is a native Manhattanite who lives with his wife, actress Lydia Franklin, and their dog Daisy. He’s spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and a music and theatre professional. His shows have been produced in New York and around the country and his writings have been published widely including in Brimfield Publications, Heuer Publishing, Rodale Press, Visitant, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Friday Flash Fiction, Every Writer, Grey Sparrow Journal, WestWard Quarterly, Leaves of Ink, Eskimo Pie, Flash Fiction Magazine, The Bookends Review, Poetry Quarterly, 50 Haikus, Haiku Journal, Three Line Poetry, Dual Coast Magazine, Mused Literary Review and Literally Stories. Bruce's novellas, Reinvented and An Accidental Journey are available from Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble and iBooks. www.brucelevine.com
2 Poems by Shasta Hatter
Grandson
Blue shoes on brown trunk
arms around hanging branches
orange shirt in orange leaves
your father calls you away
I recall him in that tree
In Our Blood
Pen
sits
in hand
images ache
to spill on paper.
Precise words are our bandages.
First published in Poems on Poems and Poets, Setting Forth, 2016
Bionote
Shasta Hatter lives in Gresham, Oregon. She has recently been published in Setting Forth, Fair Family News, Haiku Journal, 50 Haikus, Three Line Poetry, and Eos: The Creative Context. She has a poetry corner in her company newsletter, Rose City Review.
Blue shoes on brown trunk
arms around hanging branches
orange shirt in orange leaves
your father calls you away
I recall him in that tree
In Our Blood
Pen
sits
in hand
images ache
to spill on paper.
Precise words are our bandages.
First published in Poems on Poems and Poets, Setting Forth, 2016
Bionote
Shasta Hatter lives in Gresham, Oregon. She has recently been published in Setting Forth, Fair Family News, Haiku Journal, 50 Haikus, Three Line Poetry, and Eos: The Creative Context. She has a poetry corner in her company newsletter, Rose City Review.
1 Poem by Jenn Powers
A Thousand Miles
highway wind against fingertips
tractor trailers on interstate 80
tornadoes across the plains
a stranger at a rest stop
gas station coffee
chrome orange detours
solitaire on the hood of a car
cherry slushee at midnight
overnight floods
lonely motel pools plastic chairs cement
the freeway—white—with moonlight
t-shirts and jeans and chucks
petty and springsteen on the radio
obama on breakfast nook t.v.
security abandoned to the city, lust
to come on the avenue
the cowboy bars
with tattooed roughnecks
pounding
jack daniels
my back crashing against stall doors
hungry tongues of ash and Guinness
hikers move across deserts mountains dunes
coffee shops & pot brownies & flip flops
thompson & kerouac & ginsberg
the rockies with their snow and light
bighorn sheep
boulder kissing the east coast
letting each other drown in wet snow
by the blue light of dusk
everyone hurting loving leaving
the road a gift
love a curse
the mountains infinite immortal
i resurrect to hen eggs and pepper bacon
an ache, a fruition, a dream
a goodbye
i’m here and not here i fall
to my knees at your kitchen sink
need need need need need
how painful you are
how painful you are
Bionote
Jenn Powers is a writer and photographer from New England. She is currently writing a CNF memoir and her most recent work is published or forthcoming in Hayden's Ferry Review, Jabberwock Review, The Pinch, Gulf Stream Lit Mag, and Raven Chronicles, among others. Please visit www.jennpowers.com.
highway wind against fingertips
tractor trailers on interstate 80
tornadoes across the plains
a stranger at a rest stop
gas station coffee
chrome orange detours
solitaire on the hood of a car
cherry slushee at midnight
overnight floods
lonely motel pools plastic chairs cement
the freeway—white—with moonlight
t-shirts and jeans and chucks
petty and springsteen on the radio
obama on breakfast nook t.v.
security abandoned to the city, lust
to come on the avenue
the cowboy bars
with tattooed roughnecks
pounding
jack daniels
my back crashing against stall doors
hungry tongues of ash and Guinness
hikers move across deserts mountains dunes
coffee shops & pot brownies & flip flops
thompson & kerouac & ginsberg
the rockies with their snow and light
bighorn sheep
boulder kissing the east coast
letting each other drown in wet snow
by the blue light of dusk
everyone hurting loving leaving
the road a gift
love a curse
the mountains infinite immortal
i resurrect to hen eggs and pepper bacon
an ache, a fruition, a dream
a goodbye
i’m here and not here i fall
to my knees at your kitchen sink
need need need need need
how painful you are
how painful you are
Bionote
Jenn Powers is a writer and photographer from New England. She is currently writing a CNF memoir and her most recent work is published or forthcoming in Hayden's Ferry Review, Jabberwock Review, The Pinch, Gulf Stream Lit Mag, and Raven Chronicles, among others. Please visit www.jennpowers.com.
3 Poems by Edward Lee
AFTER MORNING COMES DAY
The fly on his back
on the windowsill
is pedalling an invisible bicycle,
or he is dying,
frantically dying,
in the morning sunlight,
as I watch,
sipping my tea
and wondering if I should dress today.
BLISS
Floating, eyes closed,
I let the current take me,
like a shy lover,
into the moonless night.
TOGETHER
They say
we are made of stardust
and all those tired and true
cliches of such,
when the truth is so much simpler:
we have moulded ourselves
and each other;
I am made of you,
and you are made of me,
nothing else.
Bionote
Edward Lee's poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen and Smiths Knoll. His debut poetry collection "Playing Poohsticks On Ha'Penny Bridge" was published in 2010. He is currently working towards a second collection.
The fly on his back
on the windowsill
is pedalling an invisible bicycle,
or he is dying,
frantically dying,
in the morning sunlight,
as I watch,
sipping my tea
and wondering if I should dress today.
BLISS
Floating, eyes closed,
I let the current take me,
like a shy lover,
into the moonless night.
TOGETHER
They say
we are made of stardust
and all those tired and true
cliches of such,
when the truth is so much simpler:
we have moulded ourselves
and each other;
I am made of you,
and you are made of me,
nothing else.
Bionote
Edward Lee's poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen and Smiths Knoll. His debut poetry collection "Playing Poohsticks On Ha'Penny Bridge" was published in 2010. He is currently working towards a second collection.
2 Poems by Patrick Hurley
[3]
a third coast opens up
in the middle of dry land
percussion of chthonic mallets
mingles elemental forces
the earth’s dull monarchy
gives way to an anarchy
of brilliant light and water
both contain charged particles
whose energies pulse
through bathers’ bodies
electric skin and shifting curves
meld into a new landscape
where all the senses are
merged into one super faculty
rows and columns collapse
into a single cell
the hammer blow of
instantaneous knowledge falls
[5]
floating in the earth’s diseased embryo
the illusionary ground shifts
but we walk
the molars of false reality
grind truth into a fine dust
and the digestive juices of
rationality transform beauty
into clear odorless excrement
Bionote
Patrick Hurley taught writing and literature at various colleges for many years until he discovered bartenders make more than adjunct faculty and don’t have to grade papers. Now he makes poems. He is obsessed with a long project called walking.
a third coast opens up
in the middle of dry land
percussion of chthonic mallets
mingles elemental forces
the earth’s dull monarchy
gives way to an anarchy
of brilliant light and water
both contain charged particles
whose energies pulse
through bathers’ bodies
electric skin and shifting curves
meld into a new landscape
where all the senses are
merged into one super faculty
rows and columns collapse
into a single cell
the hammer blow of
instantaneous knowledge falls
[5]
floating in the earth’s diseased embryo
the illusionary ground shifts
but we walk
the molars of false reality
grind truth into a fine dust
and the digestive juices of
rationality transform beauty
into clear odorless excrement
Bionote
Patrick Hurley taught writing and literature at various colleges for many years until he discovered bartenders make more than adjunct faculty and don’t have to grade papers. Now he makes poems. He is obsessed with a long project called walking.
1 Poem by Eira Needham
Seasonal Languor
My husband offered me pomegranate seeds
from the supermarket shelf; I wonder
when Hades tempted you. Now four months of
each year you dwell in the depths with him
while I endure, this suffocating darkness,
exhaustion, craving carbs and sugared tea.
I ache for sunshine’s vitamin D –
and your return with flaming torch.
Demeter’s sorrow is shared, but I detest her
fruitless spread, so slump beneath my quilt
with no desire to surface and get dressed;
warmth coddles all my frigid bones.
I scrutinize the sky for scythe-like wings
returning from overheated realms,
yearn for apodidae, screaming parties
careening madly round rooftops.
As crocus’ wake beneath catkin arms,
you glimmer through the shadows, enfold
me in promises, scythes slash through cirrus
- and I spring into your radiance.
Bionote
Eira Needham is a retired teacher, living in Birmingham UK. Her poetry is eclectic and has been published in print and online. Some of her publications are in The Linnet’s Wings, Black Poppy Review and Green Silk Journal. She has also been Featured Writer in WestWard Quarterly.
My husband offered me pomegranate seeds
from the supermarket shelf; I wonder
when Hades tempted you. Now four months of
each year you dwell in the depths with him
while I endure, this suffocating darkness,
exhaustion, craving carbs and sugared tea.
I ache for sunshine’s vitamin D –
and your return with flaming torch.
Demeter’s sorrow is shared, but I detest her
fruitless spread, so slump beneath my quilt
with no desire to surface and get dressed;
warmth coddles all my frigid bones.
I scrutinize the sky for scythe-like wings
returning from overheated realms,
yearn for apodidae, screaming parties
careening madly round rooftops.
As crocus’ wake beneath catkin arms,
you glimmer through the shadows, enfold
me in promises, scythes slash through cirrus
- and I spring into your radiance.
Bionote
Eira Needham is a retired teacher, living in Birmingham UK. Her poetry is eclectic and has been published in print and online. Some of her publications are in The Linnet’s Wings, Black Poppy Review and Green Silk Journal. She has also been Featured Writer in WestWard Quarterly.
2 Poems by Geoffrey Heptonstall
AN ISLAND IN THE MIND
High winds are coming down the coast
with bitter rain that falls as snow
in the vicinity of Sacramento.
We know where the cause lies
among favours to friends
in unelected affinities
that ravage the earth for gold.
We see the work of the worst,
whether or not we know why
the world is changing by the hour.
The time is to walk down
an avenue of optimism,
seeking the signs of harmony
among rumours of the future.
We find behind the hidden door
an island in the mind,
the city that lives within
those who follow the sound
of the rivers that flow
from the days of rage and love.
Never will the world be gone
while what we imagine moves
in our opening mind.
And a new moon risen
not yet trespassed
in dreaming reality
of a lyre in the wind,
of a page turning,
of the final chapter,
the one that is unending.
LISTENING FOR HIS SONG
The leaves on the tree are shaken in the wind.
Soon they will fall with the season,
to scatter with the ice-wind storms
of an oncoming winter.
How at this hour may we write
an authentic English style
when there are so many empires
so variously textured in voices
straining to speak their lives
encircling the world with words?
Some names inscribed are fading
as the stone itself darkens
in the autumn light of time.
All that was summer has found
the slow descent of mortality
suited to the mood of memorial.
One name remains
floating in the air,
leaf-like and silent
where there was song.
Bionote
My novel, Heaven's Invention, now available in revised paperback. Recent short fiction in Scarlet Leaf Review. Recent poetry in Penwood Review. Recent essay [on Picasso's Guernica] in the Global Dispatches.
High winds are coming down the coast
with bitter rain that falls as snow
in the vicinity of Sacramento.
We know where the cause lies
among favours to friends
in unelected affinities
that ravage the earth for gold.
We see the work of the worst,
whether or not we know why
the world is changing by the hour.
The time is to walk down
an avenue of optimism,
seeking the signs of harmony
among rumours of the future.
We find behind the hidden door
an island in the mind,
the city that lives within
those who follow the sound
of the rivers that flow
from the days of rage and love.
Never will the world be gone
while what we imagine moves
in our opening mind.
And a new moon risen
not yet trespassed
in dreaming reality
of a lyre in the wind,
of a page turning,
of the final chapter,
the one that is unending.
LISTENING FOR HIS SONG
The leaves on the tree are shaken in the wind.
Soon they will fall with the season,
to scatter with the ice-wind storms
of an oncoming winter.
How at this hour may we write
an authentic English style
when there are so many empires
so variously textured in voices
straining to speak their lives
encircling the world with words?
Some names inscribed are fading
as the stone itself darkens
in the autumn light of time.
All that was summer has found
the slow descent of mortality
suited to the mood of memorial.
One name remains
floating in the air,
leaf-like and silent
where there was song.
Bionote
My novel, Heaven's Invention, now available in revised paperback. Recent short fiction in Scarlet Leaf Review. Recent poetry in Penwood Review. Recent essay [on Picasso's Guernica] in the Global Dispatches.
3 Poems by Marjorie Sadin
Summer
Summer is fraught with desire
like burrs that cling to your socks.
I grow up a weed,
become characters I could never hope to be
like Lara or the French Lieutenant’s Woman.
My best friend fills me in about sex. My hand trembles
when I get a crush.
Heat Lightning
I was a child with a child’s awe.
I will be old and dying.
As a child, August heat lightning was like a bonfire in the sky.
Old age will be like coals glowing after a fire.
Death pours water on my consuming life.
Desire could come suddenly like a downpour of rain,
linger like a wet wash cloth.
When love dies, the survivors
are outraged.
Caught in Torrent
The river quivers.
Before the storm, I am wary as a worm.
I have been here before.
The wind is gentle as a girl’s skirt,
still and ominous. There is a moment
when I am no longer me.
The morning gift wraps the sun in haze.
Then there is a sprinkle of rain
like the spray from the bow of a boat.
I am anxious the storm will follow.
What am I afraid of? Next the rain will be
like Chinese ink brush on water.
The river stirs, a green leviathan.
Afterwards, my feet are soaked.
Summer is fraught with desire
like burrs that cling to your socks.
I grow up a weed,
become characters I could never hope to be
like Lara or the French Lieutenant’s Woman.
My best friend fills me in about sex. My hand trembles
when I get a crush.
Heat Lightning
I was a child with a child’s awe.
I will be old and dying.
As a child, August heat lightning was like a bonfire in the sky.
Old age will be like coals glowing after a fire.
Death pours water on my consuming life.
Desire could come suddenly like a downpour of rain,
linger like a wet wash cloth.
When love dies, the survivors
are outraged.
Caught in Torrent
The river quivers.
Before the storm, I am wary as a worm.
I have been here before.
The wind is gentle as a girl’s skirt,
still and ominous. There is a moment
when I am no longer me.
The morning gift wraps the sun in haze.
Then there is a sprinkle of rain
like the spray from the bow of a boat.
I am anxious the storm will follow.
What am I afraid of? Next the rain will be
like Chinese ink brush on water.
The river stirs, a green leviathan.
Afterwards, my feet are soaked.
2 Prose Poems by Keikki Huotari
THE COMMON CAKE
The cake we have in common has a given name and in its time and place may be both seen and heard. There may be many other days of cakes but they're commemorating less significant occasions, each to at least one of us unknown. If everything were backwards we would be left handed, we would be each others' mirror images. When we are twisted into pretzels by opposing laws of nature we can always choose to laugh at sacrifice and say it's what we wanted all along.
CHARGE
Nothing is about to happen. Patiently I may not wait. I may just do my old-man dance and then arrange my plate. When we were overtones in outer space we had a common multiple. When signals came our way we sent then back. Our levers were not long enough to move the earth, thank God. So don't do with me what you won't – I'll turn my thirst for knowledge off and on. Your mass is critical and I have secondary faults so we should get along.
Bionote
Heikki Huotari is a retired professor of mathematics. In a past century, he attended a one-room country school and spent summers on a forest-fire lookout tower. His poems appear in numerous journals, recently in The Journal and The Penn Review, he's the winner of the 2016 Gambling the Aisle chapbook contest. Forthcoming books will be published by Lynx House, Willow Springs and After The Pause.
The cake we have in common has a given name and in its time and place may be both seen and heard. There may be many other days of cakes but they're commemorating less significant occasions, each to at least one of us unknown. If everything were backwards we would be left handed, we would be each others' mirror images. When we are twisted into pretzels by opposing laws of nature we can always choose to laugh at sacrifice and say it's what we wanted all along.
CHARGE
Nothing is about to happen. Patiently I may not wait. I may just do my old-man dance and then arrange my plate. When we were overtones in outer space we had a common multiple. When signals came our way we sent then back. Our levers were not long enough to move the earth, thank God. So don't do with me what you won't – I'll turn my thirst for knowledge off and on. Your mass is critical and I have secondary faults so we should get along.
Bionote
Heikki Huotari is a retired professor of mathematics. In a past century, he attended a one-room country school and spent summers on a forest-fire lookout tower. His poems appear in numerous journals, recently in The Journal and The Penn Review, he's the winner of the 2016 Gambling the Aisle chapbook contest. Forthcoming books will be published by Lynx House, Willow Springs and After The Pause.
1 Poem by Catherine McGuire
Arse Poetica
A poem, at least, is a mindful pause
watching for the hungry stir
of attention, feline playing
with the day.
Or sliding the silver moments in a stack
across the flat green of Now
placing all your bets on Red or Green
ink on a page – it is shutting away
that nag of a conscience in the mind’s broom closet
ignoring the din; easing the fear
of the wasted moment with the pen’s ingenuity.
It is drawing the map as you go (like Harold’s
purple crayon) creating the landscape
then moving on.
It is squeezing life’s lemons into something
you can offer to the world.
Bionote
Catherine McGuire is a writer and artist with a deep concern for our planet's future. She has four decades of published poetry, in publications including New Verse News, FutureCycle, Portland Lights, Fireweed, and on a bus for Poetry In Motion. She has four poetry chapbooks and a full-length poetry book, Elegy for the 21st Century (FutureCycle Press). A deindustrial science fiction novel Lifeline was just released by Founders House Publishing. Find her at www.cathymcguire.com.
A poem, at least, is a mindful pause
watching for the hungry stir
of attention, feline playing
with the day.
Or sliding the silver moments in a stack
across the flat green of Now
placing all your bets on Red or Green
ink on a page – it is shutting away
that nag of a conscience in the mind’s broom closet
ignoring the din; easing the fear
of the wasted moment with the pen’s ingenuity.
It is drawing the map as you go (like Harold’s
purple crayon) creating the landscape
then moving on.
It is squeezing life’s lemons into something
you can offer to the world.
Bionote
Catherine McGuire is a writer and artist with a deep concern for our planet's future. She has four decades of published poetry, in publications including New Verse News, FutureCycle, Portland Lights, Fireweed, and on a bus for Poetry In Motion. She has four poetry chapbooks and a full-length poetry book, Elegy for the 21st Century (FutureCycle Press). A deindustrial science fiction novel Lifeline was just released by Founders House Publishing. Find her at www.cathymcguire.com.
1 Poem by Terry Stolz
Into the Night
My face is full and fusty
My mind is on the blink
I’m burning up inside, I shiver into the night
Blankets pulled tightly under my neck
Let me rest until its light
A single tear flows down my cheek
I’m burning up inside, I shiver into the night
Blankets pulled tightly
Thoughts running rampant
Confusion is the conclusion
I’m burning up inside, crud in my eyes
I’m burning up inside, I shiver on into the night
Blankets tossed aside and my mind lies
What was I thinking? Wishful thoughts
Spring at the front door, winter at the back
Aspirations are squandered
Memories forgotten
The horizon nourishes a fool’s paradise
Creating an air castle bolstering my fancy
Bionote
Terry Stolz, is a graduate of the Masters of Written Communication Program at National Louis University. He is a member of the National Society of Leadership and Success, and a member of SALUTE Veterans National Honor Society. Terry’s folktale: “The Bear and The Hare” and his poem, “Blindman” were published in the Mosaic 2015 literary anthology. Terry’s memoir “A Son No More” was chosen for the 2016 Mosaic. Four of Terry's poems have been published in the Cowboy Chronicle Magazine. Terry’s poem “He Walks with Me” was published in The Write City Magazine. “Desert Goddess” and “Need for Another” were published in the Rockford Writes 2015 anthology. Mr. Stolz’s essay “Good Morning World” was included in the 2016 RWG’s Rockford Review. August 23,2017 my poem, “Stranger in Church” was published in Z Publishing’s book: Illinois’ Best Emerging Poets.
My face is full and fusty
My mind is on the blink
I’m burning up inside, I shiver into the night
Blankets pulled tightly under my neck
Let me rest until its light
A single tear flows down my cheek
I’m burning up inside, I shiver into the night
Blankets pulled tightly
Thoughts running rampant
Confusion is the conclusion
I’m burning up inside, crud in my eyes
I’m burning up inside, I shiver on into the night
Blankets tossed aside and my mind lies
What was I thinking? Wishful thoughts
Spring at the front door, winter at the back
Aspirations are squandered
Memories forgotten
The horizon nourishes a fool’s paradise
Creating an air castle bolstering my fancy
Bionote
Terry Stolz, is a graduate of the Masters of Written Communication Program at National Louis University. He is a member of the National Society of Leadership and Success, and a member of SALUTE Veterans National Honor Society. Terry’s folktale: “The Bear and The Hare” and his poem, “Blindman” were published in the Mosaic 2015 literary anthology. Terry’s memoir “A Son No More” was chosen for the 2016 Mosaic. Four of Terry's poems have been published in the Cowboy Chronicle Magazine. Terry’s poem “He Walks with Me” was published in The Write City Magazine. “Desert Goddess” and “Need for Another” were published in the Rockford Writes 2015 anthology. Mr. Stolz’s essay “Good Morning World” was included in the 2016 RWG’s Rockford Review. August 23,2017 my poem, “Stranger in Church” was published in Z Publishing’s book: Illinois’ Best Emerging Poets.
1 Poem by Mark Senkus
STORY
the slow pulse
of the universe
is a story
measured by the
movement of clouds
an ambulance down a thick road
of yellow screaming
has its own story to tell
but we do not listen for long
it is the story
of somewhere else
the story severed
at the tongue
the beginning
the ending
the bleeding taking place where
we will not go
the clouds white in air
have their own story
we gather them to
be counted
like a science
we take them with us
like stitches
like words talking across the sky
we take them with us
to where clouds go.
Bionote
Mark Senkus lives in Michigan's Upper Peninsula and works as a psychotherapist treating behavioral health disorders such as depression and anxiety. He holds a Master of Social Work degree. He writes in the evenings, the mornings and at work while he is on breaks.
the slow pulse
of the universe
is a story
measured by the
movement of clouds
an ambulance down a thick road
of yellow screaming
has its own story to tell
but we do not listen for long
it is the story
of somewhere else
the story severed
at the tongue
the beginning
the ending
the bleeding taking place where
we will not go
the clouds white in air
have their own story
we gather them to
be counted
like a science
we take them with us
like stitches
like words talking across the sky
we take them with us
to where clouds go.
Bionote
Mark Senkus lives in Michigan's Upper Peninsula and works as a psychotherapist treating behavioral health disorders such as depression and anxiety. He holds a Master of Social Work degree. He writes in the evenings, the mornings and at work while he is on breaks.
3 Poems by Cristina Deptula
Untitled
Eyes closed, hands clasped, breath in rhythm
questing inward to find truth, abandon attachment and ego
Time to yank up straw from arid fields
weave the strands into precious metals
and peer through the jewels of clarity
somehow crystallized from thin air.
Opening up in therapeutic conversation
my shaky feet fall through the water as I seek
to cross to the realm of inner understanding
and bring forth insight to feed thousands of hungry dilemmas
like making Stone Soup without the benefit of neighbors
placing myself in line at my own soup kitchen for the good of self and others
introspecting on a mat, on a chair, on a couch
finally doing what I'm told, confronting issues rather
than coping by window shopping for the ruby slippers
I know are beyond my budget
but whose heels I can simply click together
to find my own way home.
Inline image
I am from Hayward.
I am the person turned away from services when uptown nonprofits close early because the staff just learned at a retreat to make time for self care.
I am the person mocked, later, for being a fundamentalist religious fanatic and likely a Trump supporter, when I go to a local church instead to get the groceries I need.
And I am the person from whom Trump wants to make America safe again.
I am from Hayward.
I'm that bad rape survivor who won't report what happened because I can't have folks blaming me for being out at night. I need to work those long hours to feed my kids and don't need tension at home.
I'm the bad domestic violence survivor with their ex on speed dial. They're family, and I need their income after I got laid off for leaving work early to make it back to the shelter by curfew. And prison will only make them angrier.
I'm the bad environmentalist with a gas guzzling car I can't afford to replace, and no budget for organic food. Although I picked up trash by the creek and planted flowers.
I am from Hayward.
I'm the teenager in trouble with the law, failing school, needing to work to help support my family rather than preparing for jobs that no longer exist.
I'm the adult who had that job that no longer exists, when I was back in my country, but got turned away from minimum wage work here because of my shaky English.
And I am the senior citizen with wisdom to share who gets mocked as backward because I don't know the correct modern tech or social justice terms. And I am the family caregiver, tired of being asked when I will get a real job with a paycheck.
When you ask me to help your causes and fight for you, perhaps I will.
I'll lend my tired shoulders and worn out car and one more homemade casserole. Not because you asked, but because I choose to stand beside you.
I am from Hayward.
Spontaneous Grace
At this moment I experience the desire for spontaneous grace. For the rain that
holds off till ten minutes after your hike, for the extra five minutes a friend
waits until your arrival, for the extra twenty miles your car somehow runs until
the gas station.
For the soft edges on the too-metallic recliner, for the last three rays of the
sunset, for the directions you look up at the one coffeehouse where the public
computer actually gets Wi-Fi.
For the reason why some businesspeople stop and give change to a strange
homeless person, for the reason why a receptionist smiles and lets you in too
near closing time, for the reason why people share words of support and a few
bucks to folks online without asking for proof first.
For the mirror kind enough to break and shift your image in all the right ways,
for the dandelion in the cracks that escapes the neighbor's weed-whacker, for
the train that waits for you.
For the traffic cop who winks - just once - at the jaywalkers or the driver ten
or fifteen miles over the limit, for the single parent whose garage sale
customers tell him/her to keep the change, for the time your housemate who loves
angry talk radio actually switches on music.
For the gleam of a rainbow in the soap scum on your dishes, for the time when
your Mom actually doesn't open her mouth when there are still dirty dishes in
your room, for the reason I still do favors for a friend everyone says could do
more for herself.
For home, for love and memories, for the grace notes at the end of the symphony.
For the extras which get and keep us up in the morning. For spontaneous grace.
-- After the concept of 'Spontaneous Prose' and dedicated to Jack Kerouac, Neal
Cassady, Edie Kerouac, Gary Snyder, and Diane Di Prima.
Bionote
Cristina Deptula, poetry and prose writer from San Francisco's East Bay Area, literary publicist, former science and technology journalist, and fan of international literary fiction.
Eyes closed, hands clasped, breath in rhythm
questing inward to find truth, abandon attachment and ego
Time to yank up straw from arid fields
weave the strands into precious metals
and peer through the jewels of clarity
somehow crystallized from thin air.
Opening up in therapeutic conversation
my shaky feet fall through the water as I seek
to cross to the realm of inner understanding
and bring forth insight to feed thousands of hungry dilemmas
like making Stone Soup without the benefit of neighbors
placing myself in line at my own soup kitchen for the good of self and others
introspecting on a mat, on a chair, on a couch
finally doing what I'm told, confronting issues rather
than coping by window shopping for the ruby slippers
I know are beyond my budget
but whose heels I can simply click together
to find my own way home.
Inline image
I am from Hayward.
I am the person turned away from services when uptown nonprofits close early because the staff just learned at a retreat to make time for self care.
I am the person mocked, later, for being a fundamentalist religious fanatic and likely a Trump supporter, when I go to a local church instead to get the groceries I need.
And I am the person from whom Trump wants to make America safe again.
I am from Hayward.
I'm that bad rape survivor who won't report what happened because I can't have folks blaming me for being out at night. I need to work those long hours to feed my kids and don't need tension at home.
I'm the bad domestic violence survivor with their ex on speed dial. They're family, and I need their income after I got laid off for leaving work early to make it back to the shelter by curfew. And prison will only make them angrier.
I'm the bad environmentalist with a gas guzzling car I can't afford to replace, and no budget for organic food. Although I picked up trash by the creek and planted flowers.
I am from Hayward.
I'm the teenager in trouble with the law, failing school, needing to work to help support my family rather than preparing for jobs that no longer exist.
I'm the adult who had that job that no longer exists, when I was back in my country, but got turned away from minimum wage work here because of my shaky English.
And I am the senior citizen with wisdom to share who gets mocked as backward because I don't know the correct modern tech or social justice terms. And I am the family caregiver, tired of being asked when I will get a real job with a paycheck.
When you ask me to help your causes and fight for you, perhaps I will.
I'll lend my tired shoulders and worn out car and one more homemade casserole. Not because you asked, but because I choose to stand beside you.
I am from Hayward.
Spontaneous Grace
At this moment I experience the desire for spontaneous grace. For the rain that
holds off till ten minutes after your hike, for the extra five minutes a friend
waits until your arrival, for the extra twenty miles your car somehow runs until
the gas station.
For the soft edges on the too-metallic recliner, for the last three rays of the
sunset, for the directions you look up at the one coffeehouse where the public
computer actually gets Wi-Fi.
For the reason why some businesspeople stop and give change to a strange
homeless person, for the reason why a receptionist smiles and lets you in too
near closing time, for the reason why people share words of support and a few
bucks to folks online without asking for proof first.
For the mirror kind enough to break and shift your image in all the right ways,
for the dandelion in the cracks that escapes the neighbor's weed-whacker, for
the train that waits for you.
For the traffic cop who winks - just once - at the jaywalkers or the driver ten
or fifteen miles over the limit, for the single parent whose garage sale
customers tell him/her to keep the change, for the time your housemate who loves
angry talk radio actually switches on music.
For the gleam of a rainbow in the soap scum on your dishes, for the time when
your Mom actually doesn't open her mouth when there are still dirty dishes in
your room, for the reason I still do favors for a friend everyone says could do
more for herself.
For home, for love and memories, for the grace notes at the end of the symphony.
For the extras which get and keep us up in the morning. For spontaneous grace.
-- After the concept of 'Spontaneous Prose' and dedicated to Jack Kerouac, Neal
Cassady, Edie Kerouac, Gary Snyder, and Diane Di Prima.
Bionote
Cristina Deptula, poetry and prose writer from San Francisco's East Bay Area, literary publicist, former science and technology journalist, and fan of international literary fiction.
1 Poem by Alicja Maria Kuberska
Among Stars
I wait for the downpour of stars,
Maybe I have time to whisper a wish.
I look with hope to the Leonids.
I believe that I will see the falling sparks.
The dancing Pleiades stirred up a cloud of dust.
Jealous Orion will not overtake them
And Sirius will not find the seven nymphs.
Morpheus leads to the land of sleep
Somewhere on the edge of the River Styx.
My beloved knows the secrets of existence
And all the metamorphoses of the cosmos.
Every night he carries me in his arms
And gives to the possession of Apollo and the muses.
He plaits visions into prophetic premonitions.
Berenice sacrificed her golden braid to the heavens.
She explains sadly,
That she has not found happiness on Earth
Among the gods and among stars.
Bionote
Alicja Maria Kuberska – awarded Polish poetess, novelist, journalist, editor. In 2011 she published her first volume of poems entitled: “The Glass Reality”. Her second volume “ Analysis of Feelings”, was published in 2012. The third collection “ Moments” was published in English in 2014, both in Poland and in the USA. In 2014,she also published the novel - “ Virtual roses” and volume of poems “ On the border of dream”. Next year her volume entitled “ Girl in the Mirror” was published in the UK and “ Love me” , “ (Not )my poem” in the USA. In 2015 she also edited anthology entitled “The Other Side of the Screen”. In 2016 she edited two volumes: “ Taste of Love” ( USA), “Thief of Dreams” ( Poland) and international anthology entitled “ Love is like Air” (USA). She edits series of anthologies entitled “ Metaphor of Contemporary” ( Poland). Her poems have been published in numerous anthologies and magazines in Poland, Czech Republic, the USA, the UK, Belgium, Albania, Spain, Chile, Israel, Canada, India, Italy, Uzbekistan, South Korea and Australia. Alicja Kuberska is a member of the Polish Writers Associations in Warsaw, Poland and IWA Bogdani, Albania. She is also a member of directors’ board of Soflay Literature Foundation.
I wait for the downpour of stars,
Maybe I have time to whisper a wish.
I look with hope to the Leonids.
I believe that I will see the falling sparks.
The dancing Pleiades stirred up a cloud of dust.
Jealous Orion will not overtake them
And Sirius will not find the seven nymphs.
Morpheus leads to the land of sleep
Somewhere on the edge of the River Styx.
My beloved knows the secrets of existence
And all the metamorphoses of the cosmos.
Every night he carries me in his arms
And gives to the possession of Apollo and the muses.
He plaits visions into prophetic premonitions.
Berenice sacrificed her golden braid to the heavens.
She explains sadly,
That she has not found happiness on Earth
Among the gods and among stars.
Bionote
Alicja Maria Kuberska – awarded Polish poetess, novelist, journalist, editor. In 2011 she published her first volume of poems entitled: “The Glass Reality”. Her second volume “ Analysis of Feelings”, was published in 2012. The third collection “ Moments” was published in English in 2014, both in Poland and in the USA. In 2014,she also published the novel - “ Virtual roses” and volume of poems “ On the border of dream”. Next year her volume entitled “ Girl in the Mirror” was published in the UK and “ Love me” , “ (Not )my poem” in the USA. In 2015 she also edited anthology entitled “The Other Side of the Screen”. In 2016 she edited two volumes: “ Taste of Love” ( USA), “Thief of Dreams” ( Poland) and international anthology entitled “ Love is like Air” (USA). She edits series of anthologies entitled “ Metaphor of Contemporary” ( Poland). Her poems have been published in numerous anthologies and magazines in Poland, Czech Republic, the USA, the UK, Belgium, Albania, Spain, Chile, Israel, Canada, India, Italy, Uzbekistan, South Korea and Australia. Alicja Kuberska is a member of the Polish Writers Associations in Warsaw, Poland and IWA Bogdani, Albania. She is also a member of directors’ board of Soflay Literature Foundation.
POETRY PACIFIC (7.1): BACK COVER
POETRY PACIFIC
[spring issue 2018]
taken in California by Yuan Changming
Sunday, 5 November 2017
Editor's Notes: for Kate Emily Yuan
dear PP Friends,
one thing related is the fact that about two weeks ago, we opened a facebook page Happy Yangsheng at https://www.facebook.com/happyyangsheng/ to share insight, knowledge and experience about yangsheng (literally 'nurturing life' in Chinese, or the Way towards holistic health, happiness and longevity). whoever interested in becoming a yangsheng practitioner please feel more than welcome to take a look and even join our community/discussion.
to all submitters in particular: three important things we hope to remind you of are:
1. when submitting to PP, please paste up to 5 poems together with a brief 3rd person bio note in the body of your email to us; we do not open attachments, nor will we request any bio upon acceptance - this will help reduce our computer time;
2. once accepted, please wait at least one year before submitting new work again - this will allow us to feature more authors.
3. as our attention span is short, we always prefer shorter lyrical poems.
In addition, as 11 November 2017 will be our 5th anniversary, we would like to recall that our impulse to found Poetry Pacific on the Canadian Remembrance Day five year ago was to have a platform for our then teenager editor Allen Qing Yuan to practise his editing skills. Since that time, he has certainly been learning a great deal. At the same time, it is Kate Emily Yuan who has been functioning as our spiritual supporter; otherwise, we would not be able to have persisted and prospered in a sense. So, this issue is dedicated to her.
in this issue, we are honored to present 73 poets and 3 visual artists. if you have nothing better to do, enjoy reading/viewing...
with warmest regards,
- eds. @ PP
one thing related is the fact that about two weeks ago, we opened a facebook page Happy Yangsheng at https://www.facebook.com/happyyangsheng/ to share insight, knowledge and experience about yangsheng (literally 'nurturing life' in Chinese, or the Way towards holistic health, happiness and longevity). whoever interested in becoming a yangsheng practitioner please feel more than welcome to take a look and even join our community/discussion.
to all submitters in particular: three important things we hope to remind you of are:
1. when submitting to PP, please paste up to 5 poems together with a brief 3rd person bio note in the body of your email to us; we do not open attachments, nor will we request any bio upon acceptance - this will help reduce our computer time;
2. once accepted, please wait at least one year before submitting new work again - this will allow us to feature more authors.
3. as our attention span is short, we always prefer shorter lyrical poems.
In addition, as 11 November 2017 will be our 5th anniversary, we would like to recall that our impulse to found Poetry Pacific on the Canadian Remembrance Day five year ago was to have a platform for our then teenager editor Allen Qing Yuan to practise his editing skills. Since that time, he has certainly been learning a great deal. At the same time, it is Kate Emily Yuan who has been functioning as our spiritual supporter; otherwise, we would not be able to have persisted and prospered in a sense. So, this issue is dedicated to her.
HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, OUR DEAR KATE EMILY YUAN & POETRY PACIFIC!
HAPPY CANADIAN REMEMBRANCE DAY!
with warmest regards,
- eds. @ PP
POETRY PACIFIC (6.2): Call for Submissions
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
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
- 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
- Many thanks for your kind support of PP & Gooooodluuuuck!
********
book/chapbook manuscript submissions
are closed until further notice
are closed until further notice
5 Poems by Wayne-Daniel Berard
When I became my love for you
When I became my love for you
my hair was your words standing
on no end, my skin was your breath
in and out expanding just enough
contracting not too little, my eye
lids were your touches shading
the overtness opening to
subtleties, and my heart --
do not even ask about my
heart -- it was your step,
to, fro, closer, farther, obvious,
subtle. Now I am disembodied,
flat, amorphous and stretched,
and my bootless heart goes
nowhere. Everything is you
but me. To unbecome your
love is to die in reverse.
Aphrodite Finds True Love
It has been forever.
gods, heroes all sought me
but none saw me.
looking in my eyes
they saw only themselves
and me straddled across them.
I cut myself
disfigured
but I just grew back;
Eternal Beauty
is Eternal Condescension,
so often taken,
never seriously.
I tried the blind
(Homer, Tiresias)
but I didn't want
to not be seen at all.
could I not be
beautiful and
competent,
exceptional
without exception?
Then you.
Heart as open
as your eyes,
"You are astonishingly
lovely," you said. "You
are also good looking."
"Nothing I could do
with you," you said,
"is as important
as you." I saw a
self mirrored in
your eyes that
none had ever seen,
entirety without
echelon, body
and body of work. Oh
but old self-myths
die hard. "Ask anything,"
I say, hating myself
for saying it. "Wealth,
power, wisdom. Ask.
I'll give it." "An undefended
heart," you answer.
"Yours or mine?"
"Yes," you say.
"Yes," I say.
Sight
I know how it must feel to have no one
I'm almost there, having no one but you.
one word, one slip, one kid with a gun
and I'm one of them, the Finished, the Through.
I hate myself for sleeping next to you
so soundly, grateful when I wake and run
to the bathroom, how can I be
unconscious a minute with you,
every blink a regret if/when the
sight of you passes and
almost becomes here.
Divorce
Yes
More important
than no longer
extended families
More important
than faith
and the embrace
of its condition
More important even
than you
who I put aside everything
to have yes
More important
than anything.
This.
May you never
need to understand
This.
First
I know the sound
the sun makes
as it rises
I know the note
the soul strikes
as g*d draws
it like a bow
returning to its
violin, the body
I know the stage
whisper with which
everything is
cued each morning.
(I lean across
the bed, kiss
your hair before
going. "Know
you're way home
to me"
you sigh,
you day unbreak,
you night sans fall.
Bionote
Wayne-Daniel Berard teaches English and Humanities at Nichols College in Dudley, MA. Wayne-Daniel is a Peace Chaplain, an interfaith clergy person, and a member of B’nai Or of Boston. He has published widely in both poetry and prose, and is the co-founding editor of Soul-Lit, an online journal of spiritual poetry. His latest chapbook is Christine Day, Love Poems. He lives in Mansfield, MA with his wife, The Lovely Christine.
When I became my love for you
my hair was your words standing
on no end, my skin was your breath
in and out expanding just enough
contracting not too little, my eye
lids were your touches shading
the overtness opening to
subtleties, and my heart --
do not even ask about my
heart -- it was your step,
to, fro, closer, farther, obvious,
subtle. Now I am disembodied,
flat, amorphous and stretched,
and my bootless heart goes
nowhere. Everything is you
but me. To unbecome your
love is to die in reverse.
Aphrodite Finds True Love
It has been forever.
gods, heroes all sought me
but none saw me.
looking in my eyes
they saw only themselves
and me straddled across them.
I cut myself
disfigured
but I just grew back;
Eternal Beauty
is Eternal Condescension,
so often taken,
never seriously.
I tried the blind
(Homer, Tiresias)
but I didn't want
to not be seen at all.
could I not be
beautiful and
competent,
exceptional
without exception?
Then you.
Heart as open
as your eyes,
"You are astonishingly
lovely," you said. "You
are also good looking."
"Nothing I could do
with you," you said,
"is as important
as you." I saw a
self mirrored in
your eyes that
none had ever seen,
entirety without
echelon, body
and body of work. Oh
but old self-myths
die hard. "Ask anything,"
I say, hating myself
for saying it. "Wealth,
power, wisdom. Ask.
I'll give it." "An undefended
heart," you answer.
"Yours or mine?"
"Yes," you say.
"Yes," I say.
Sight
I know how it must feel to have no one
I'm almost there, having no one but you.
one word, one slip, one kid with a gun
and I'm one of them, the Finished, the Through.
I hate myself for sleeping next to you
so soundly, grateful when I wake and run
to the bathroom, how can I be
unconscious a minute with you,
every blink a regret if/when the
sight of you passes and
almost becomes here.
Divorce
Yes
More important
than no longer
extended families
More important
than faith
and the embrace
of its condition
More important even
than you
who I put aside everything
to have yes
More important
than anything.
This.
May you never
need to understand
This.
First
I know the sound
the sun makes
as it rises
I know the note
the soul strikes
as g*d draws
it like a bow
returning to its
violin, the body
I know the stage
whisper with which
everything is
cued each morning.
(I lean across
the bed, kiss
your hair before
going. "Know
you're way home
to me"
you sigh,
you day unbreak,
you night sans fall.
Bionote
Wayne-Daniel Berard teaches English and Humanities at Nichols College in Dudley, MA. Wayne-Daniel is a Peace Chaplain, an interfaith clergy person, and a member of B’nai Or of Boston. He has published widely in both poetry and prose, and is the co-founding editor of Soul-Lit, an online journal of spiritual poetry. His latest chapbook is Christine Day, Love Poems. He lives in Mansfield, MA with his wife, The Lovely Christine.
4 Poems by Koon Woon
Cocaine Streets
In the dribble of mornings wrapped about
The homeless in doorways like a pastrami sandwich
Ordered by mistake, while the scent of cheap bath oils
And colognes parade by on the pretense of work.
So these men are buried if they fail to retreat to alleys.
Their epitaphs may be read as follows:
“He smoked over 38,000 cigarettes,” as there is
Nothing like a slow slaughter that lines our cocaine streets.
I achieve bowl-bottom existence in my tenement where time
Is measured by eight cuts of the fish head
In Cantonese, Toishanese, and Mandarin as the wash
Flies multi-colored on the fire escape like United Nations
Flags and where I intersect my fantasies with the many points
Of a slow existence, while the manager’s daughter sort
Poker chips, as Buddha would sort souls…
Because your present life is coke and planning,
You can blame it on the previous generation of a previous life
As I wonder about the last remnant of opium as we all do in order
To suppress our sex like nuns and monks
And so in our frustration, we retreat to the top of the dresser
Where a bottle of pills are waiting with a glass of water for doom.
I did come to watch the sea
I did come to fish. I stood for hours in the surf but I was not minding the line – my one connection with the ocean. I had done the preparatory work of digging up sand shrimps and impaling their bright orange bodies to the hook and tossing the line with sinker out twenty feet. Sometimes I pull in a perch, occasionally a sea bass or a flounder. But I am sad this day. As for the beach I remember was in a mist.
The townhouses paraded by one by one as I drove through Ocean Shores. The crabgrass unruly and thrusting strong out of the white sand dunes. In the summer tourists come to support this town, but today the weather is all wrong. I am the solitary figure at the surf – the only person within miles watching the sea.
Someone must watch the sea.
The Proprietress of Love
“Something there is making my heart empty.”
She is fond of divulging.
My Uncle pens firmly from China, “Ai mo nung tsor (love to but unable to help).” As Lorca in his somnambular ballad, “Mocito, si yo puedo, este
trato estaba cerraba, per yo no soy yo, y ni mi casa es ya mi casa (If I am able, young man, this bargain would be closed, but I am no longer I and neither is my house my house).”
The cracks in the sidewalk are not a match for this day of thunder in the sky, the sixth day of the storm season, and the wind forebodes downed power lines, like the pain of jilted love.
She is fond of giving me her hand, when no customers are in the store and says, “Look how fast my hands are aging!” I cast a lazy glance toward the videos of love, and say, I can, I can manage you. And as she smiles, a customer walks in.
I return often when either she or I need a boost from each other.
Somewhere hidden in the city Mr. Five Willows is staring at the computer screen, with a glass of wine within reach, and as he pours from the bottle to refill the glass, a sudden downpour of rain outside.
It is too early to trust the weather.
At the barbecue shop a man purchases a roast duck, cleaved and boxed by “the chop-chop man,” who laments he is not an old “wah queue (long-time immigrant).” His cleaver swings up and chops down all day long, and no, this is not a persistent mirage.
Someone is eating with oily lips tonight. Someone who is already fat.
One of the places I have spent time orienting myself...
Locate yourself inside a seaport city
Locate yourself inside the inner city
Locate yourself inside a small square
Locate yourself inside you
this is you
You are the dragon on the wall
You are the railroad when America was young
You are the immigrant hands that lay the tracks
you are here
it is you
This is a place where you come to
This is a place within you
You were here when the sky was born
you are here
you are you
America I have no other place to go now
But to go within myself and find all that is still new
This is too a place for you as well as for me
you and I are both here
we are here
Of all the places where I have spent my time
Of all the places that have bruised my heart
America you are deep within my heart now
The pain was enormous
yes, it was you
Now don't tell me now to go back
Back to Wales or to Bavaria
America I am now a Native as any Native can be
to have withstood the pain
and yet still be free...
Bionote
Koon Woon is the author of two award-winning books of poems from Kaya Press: The Truth in Rented Rooms, winner of the Pen Oakland Award and a finalist for the Norma Farber First Book Award from the Poetry Society of America; and Water Chasing Water, a winner of the American Book Award. Recently Koon has self-published a memoir with his own Goldfish Press titled Paper-son Poet with a grant from the City of Seattle's Office of Arts & Culture.
Koon has been in the Seattle poetry scene since 1985 with his appearance on the Bumbershoot literary stage after taking poetry workshops from Nelson Bentley. He edited the print journal Chrysanthemum from 1990 until 2006 and currently hosts the online journal Five Willows Literary Review. He is the editor and publisher of Goldfish Press since 2003 and has published over a dozen titles of all genres of work from local and national poets/writers/playwrights.
Koon's poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize 3 times and two of his poems have been nominated as the best of the Internet.. He has appeared in dozens of journals, print and online, and have been internationally-anthologized as well as nationally-anthologized and most recently in Quixotica, an anthology celebrating the life and work of Miguel Cervantes, published in Hong Kong
In the dribble of mornings wrapped about
The homeless in doorways like a pastrami sandwich
Ordered by mistake, while the scent of cheap bath oils
And colognes parade by on the pretense of work.
So these men are buried if they fail to retreat to alleys.
Their epitaphs may be read as follows:
“He smoked over 38,000 cigarettes,” as there is
Nothing like a slow slaughter that lines our cocaine streets.
I achieve bowl-bottom existence in my tenement where time
Is measured by eight cuts of the fish head
In Cantonese, Toishanese, and Mandarin as the wash
Flies multi-colored on the fire escape like United Nations
Flags and where I intersect my fantasies with the many points
Of a slow existence, while the manager’s daughter sort
Poker chips, as Buddha would sort souls…
Because your present life is coke and planning,
You can blame it on the previous generation of a previous life
As I wonder about the last remnant of opium as we all do in order
To suppress our sex like nuns and monks
And so in our frustration, we retreat to the top of the dresser
Where a bottle of pills are waiting with a glass of water for doom.
I did come to watch the sea
I did come to fish. I stood for hours in the surf but I was not minding the line – my one connection with the ocean. I had done the preparatory work of digging up sand shrimps and impaling their bright orange bodies to the hook and tossing the line with sinker out twenty feet. Sometimes I pull in a perch, occasionally a sea bass or a flounder. But I am sad this day. As for the beach I remember was in a mist.
The townhouses paraded by one by one as I drove through Ocean Shores. The crabgrass unruly and thrusting strong out of the white sand dunes. In the summer tourists come to support this town, but today the weather is all wrong. I am the solitary figure at the surf – the only person within miles watching the sea.
Someone must watch the sea.
The Proprietress of Love
“Something there is making my heart empty.”
She is fond of divulging.
My Uncle pens firmly from China, “Ai mo nung tsor (love to but unable to help).” As Lorca in his somnambular ballad, “Mocito, si yo puedo, este
trato estaba cerraba, per yo no soy yo, y ni mi casa es ya mi casa (If I am able, young man, this bargain would be closed, but I am no longer I and neither is my house my house).”
The cracks in the sidewalk are not a match for this day of thunder in the sky, the sixth day of the storm season, and the wind forebodes downed power lines, like the pain of jilted love.
She is fond of giving me her hand, when no customers are in the store and says, “Look how fast my hands are aging!” I cast a lazy glance toward the videos of love, and say, I can, I can manage you. And as she smiles, a customer walks in.
I return often when either she or I need a boost from each other.
Somewhere hidden in the city Mr. Five Willows is staring at the computer screen, with a glass of wine within reach, and as he pours from the bottle to refill the glass, a sudden downpour of rain outside.
It is too early to trust the weather.
At the barbecue shop a man purchases a roast duck, cleaved and boxed by “the chop-chop man,” who laments he is not an old “wah queue (long-time immigrant).” His cleaver swings up and chops down all day long, and no, this is not a persistent mirage.
Someone is eating with oily lips tonight. Someone who is already fat.
One of the places I have spent time orienting myself...
Locate yourself inside a seaport city
Locate yourself inside the inner city
Locate yourself inside a small square
Locate yourself inside you
this is you
You are the dragon on the wall
You are the railroad when America was young
You are the immigrant hands that lay the tracks
you are here
it is you
This is a place where you come to
This is a place within you
You were here when the sky was born
you are here
you are you
America I have no other place to go now
But to go within myself and find all that is still new
This is too a place for you as well as for me
you and I are both here
we are here
Of all the places where I have spent my time
Of all the places that have bruised my heart
America you are deep within my heart now
The pain was enormous
yes, it was you
Now don't tell me now to go back
Back to Wales or to Bavaria
America I am now a Native as any Native can be
to have withstood the pain
and yet still be free...
Bionote
Koon Woon is the author of two award-winning books of poems from Kaya Press: The Truth in Rented Rooms, winner of the Pen Oakland Award and a finalist for the Norma Farber First Book Award from the Poetry Society of America; and Water Chasing Water, a winner of the American Book Award. Recently Koon has self-published a memoir with his own Goldfish Press titled Paper-son Poet with a grant from the City of Seattle's Office of Arts & Culture.
Koon has been in the Seattle poetry scene since 1985 with his appearance on the Bumbershoot literary stage after taking poetry workshops from Nelson Bentley. He edited the print journal Chrysanthemum from 1990 until 2006 and currently hosts the online journal Five Willows Literary Review. He is the editor and publisher of Goldfish Press since 2003 and has published over a dozen titles of all genres of work from local and national poets/writers/playwrights.
Koon's poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize 3 times and two of his poems have been nominated as the best of the Internet.. He has appeared in dozens of journals, print and online, and have been internationally-anthologized as well as nationally-anthologized and most recently in Quixotica, an anthology celebrating the life and work of Miguel Cervantes, published in Hong Kong
5 Poems by Allen Qing Yuan
The Titans
Rampaging and desecrating the walls with the blood of those who built them
they turn all classes into livestock and consume them slowly, not for needs
but for pleasure
They destroy the homes where people felt comfortable
and they make sure no one is comforted
“Show me the money!” they declare; instantly
We see the blood on the money
We see that blood does not equate money
We see the blood of money
But what difference does it make when blood drips from your hands
Any witness would just see the colour of red and not the shades in between
To Change Yourself Is to Change the Whole World
You know little, you know nothing
About quantum entanglement?
Don’t feel ignorant. Me either
But listen: once you’ve changed
Your own inner being, you will
Be better off, and once your self is
Better off, so will your family; so will
Your neighborhood; your village or city
Your homeland; your (and our)
Whole world. The same is true
With quantum physics, exactly
As in human society
Inside vs Outside
Even if, as you choose
You are already deep inside
The circle, inside
The trend, inside
The office, inside
The fashion, inside
Her body, inside
Their book, inside
Its record, inside
Our archive, inside
Your heart, or even inside
The very core, your inner being
Is still lingering in the outside
The way I always prefer
To see, to watch, to think
In No Particular Order
Trees are much more beautiful than humans
Because each has a deep root
Because each root grabs earth tightly
Because each has a strong trunk
Because each trunk is supportive of all its branches
Because each has a unique shape
Because each shape is graceful in its own way
Because each has only one position
Because each position is firm for a lifetime
Because each has a natural environment
Because each environment is a perfect fit for its soul
Because each has a solid heart
Because each heart is full of rings of love
Time against Subjectivity
No sooner had the ice sheet moved an inch
No sooner had dinosaurs extinguished
No sooner did they come down from trees
No sooner did the gambler stops casting the dice
No sooner was the book written
No sooner have the snags drifted away
No sooner did the politician finished his speech act
No sooner has she left the house… Are you listening?
Allen Qing Yuan (born in Vancouver in 1995), author of Traffic Light, is a 2-time Pushcart and one-time Best of the Net nominee. A former co-editor of Poetry Pacific, Allen is currently working full-time for Canada Revenue Agency as an intern from the University of British Columbia. Since grade 10, Allen has had poetry appear in more than 70 literary publications across 16 countries, which include Cordite Poetry Review, Literary Review of Canada, Poetry Scotland, Shampoo and Spillway.
Allen is also the co-founder of a popular clothing brand Above the Movement. For more, please visit his websites:: www.facebook.com/Above.The.Movement ; www.abovethemovement.com ; Twitter: @ATMovement
Rampaging and desecrating the walls with the blood of those who built them
they turn all classes into livestock and consume them slowly, not for needs
but for pleasure
They destroy the homes where people felt comfortable
and they make sure no one is comforted
“Show me the money!” they declare; instantly
We see the blood on the money
We see that blood does not equate money
We see the blood of money
But what difference does it make when blood drips from your hands
Any witness would just see the colour of red and not the shades in between
To Change Yourself Is to Change the Whole World
You know little, you know nothing
About quantum entanglement?
Don’t feel ignorant. Me either
But listen: once you’ve changed
Your own inner being, you will
Be better off, and once your self is
Better off, so will your family; so will
Your neighborhood; your village or city
Your homeland; your (and our)
Whole world. The same is true
With quantum physics, exactly
As in human society
Inside vs Outside
Even if, as you choose
You are already deep inside
The circle, inside
The trend, inside
The office, inside
The fashion, inside
Her body, inside
Their book, inside
Its record, inside
Our archive, inside
Your heart, or even inside
The very core, your inner being
Is still lingering in the outside
The way I always prefer
To see, to watch, to think
In No Particular Order
Trees are much more beautiful than humans
Because each has a deep root
Because each root grabs earth tightly
Because each has a strong trunk
Because each trunk is supportive of all its branches
Because each has a unique shape
Because each shape is graceful in its own way
Because each has only one position
Because each position is firm for a lifetime
Because each has a natural environment
Because each environment is a perfect fit for its soul
Because each has a solid heart
Because each heart is full of rings of love
Time against Subjectivity
No sooner had the ice sheet moved an inch
No sooner had dinosaurs extinguished
No sooner did they come down from trees
No sooner did the gambler stops casting the dice
No sooner was the book written
No sooner have the snags drifted away
No sooner did the politician finished his speech act
No sooner has she left the house… Are you listening?
Bionote
Allen Qing Yuan (born in Vancouver in 1995), author of Traffic Light, is a 2-time Pushcart and one-time Best of the Net nominee. A former co-editor of Poetry Pacific, Allen is currently working full-time for Canada Revenue Agency as an intern from the University of British Columbia. Since grade 10, Allen has had poetry appear in more than 70 literary publications across 16 countries, which include Cordite Poetry Review, Literary Review of Canada, Poetry Scotland, Shampoo and Spillway.
Allen is also the co-founder of a popular clothing brand Above the Movement. For more, please visit his websites:: www.facebook.com/Above.The.Movement ; www.abovethemovement.com ; Twitter: @ATMovement
10 Photos by Tao Zhijian
 |
Bionote
Tao Zhijian is a translator and scholar, with a doctorate from McGill and a membership with the Chinese Writers Association in Quebec, Canada. He has taught at several universities and worked also in the hydroelectric and hydrological fields. His published works include monograph Drawing the Dragon: Western European Reinvention of China, translations of scholarly work Bibliography Complex, and art album Chung Siu Yau Series: the Golden Age, both from Chinese to English. Under his name are also four poetry collections in translation, entitled respectively The Fortuities of a Shoe, A Line at Dawn, On the Shore Beyond, and Upon the Flower, totalling some 320 poems. He has also published numerous critical essays, prose writings and poems in scholarly journals, newspapers and literary magazines in China, Europe, the US as well as in Canada. He is presently engaged, as one of the translators, in the project of creating Chinese-English editions of two of the most authoritative Chinese language dictionaries, a project jointly taken by the Commercial Press and Oxford U press.
5 Poems by Lenny DellaRocca
A Book Arrives in the Mail
for Denise
I'm sending a check.
I'm writing the history of gratitude
on the back where you'll write
“for deposit only”
in case a poor stranger finds it
should it slip from your hand,
cashes it in South Beach
where he'll skip down a neon street
arms held up to the sun
singing about theft and luck.
My check is only a portion of the payment,
there will be a festival: floats and Margaritas,
glittering costumes, fireworks
spelling your name around the moon;
accept the baby leopard-
give her a name worthy of a poem,
walk her on the beach at night;
the postman with first edition Nerudas
will ask you to sign, please do so
with those shooting stars in your little finger.
Earth Becomes Earth
Peter’s father buried what his family didn’t eat or smoke:
Coffee grounds, dead cigarettes.
We hid behind the compost
smoking stolen Chesterfields,
puffed away, talking like grown-ups,
making the faces of our fathers
in finger paint and stick figures.
Smoke fumed from our mouths
as we leaned against the mound of egg shells
crushed under peat moss and steak bones,
from which would grow
tomatoes and pumpkins
for sauce and Halloween.
Hang Man
He is the sum of an
unfortunate handful
of pencil lines,
condemned by a single word,
executed letter by letter
mute, stiff as a stick.
None have ever
drawn his mouth
rendering him
unable to call for a T
to save his neck,
an A to stop the drop.
He can’t shout E
to avoid that F
which will murder him.
What was his crime?
Maybe he befriended
a garden snake
which told red delicious lies
while dangling from the branch
of a tree.
And so he’s eternally at the mercy
of children getting
the hang of letters
They don’t know the power
of connecting them, how they kill
letter by letter
making him live forever.
Let it Be
What if there is no answer?
Or worse, the woman consumed by light
whispers but no one is there.
Birds prosecute the apocalypse against the dead.
Though the last sonnet is uttered in defense,
the world has already ended.
Flesh smokes on the bones of those who waited
for something else to happen.
The soft woman in blue and white robes
hovers over the hopeful dead.
Other Lives and Silences
A Collaborative poem by Michael Hettich and Lenny DellaRocca
The woman in the painting above our bed
leans against a gate in her garden
sweetened with summer, while dark birds
swirl around her head. She's wearing a dress
the color of a beech tree a little boy climbed once,
too high, and disappeared into the man he is now.
I imagine myself that boy, peering from branches
as the woman looks out from beneath that tree,
and I imagine her calling out to me, as I lie here in my bed,
dreaming of other lives and silences.
Once when I walked from a dream into
the rooms of my house, wallpaper emblazoned
with chameleons and Florentine suns,
I seemed to lose myself in someone else’s memories
and move with another person’s body, until
I hurt things without meaning to, trying to caress
the delicate face of someone I used to know,
who is not here, not anymore, who sees what I cannot:
the secrets of my beating heart, the sadness in my eyes.
The woman in the painting heals me
with her far-away look, makes the very things
she sees, and makes the small birds cry.
Bionote
Lenny DellaRocca has had poems in Poet Lore, Poetrybay, Albatross, 2River view, Fairy Tale Review, Chiron Review, Seattle Review, POEM, and Nimrod. His chapbook, The Sleep Talker, is available at Night Ballet Press. His latest collection, is Blood and Gypsies. DellaRocca is founder and co-publisher of South Florida Poetry Journal- SoFloPoJo- and Interview With a Poet both at southfloridapoetryjournal.com
for Denise
I'm sending a check.
I'm writing the history of gratitude
on the back where you'll write
“for deposit only”
in case a poor stranger finds it
should it slip from your hand,
cashes it in South Beach
where he'll skip down a neon street
arms held up to the sun
singing about theft and luck.
My check is only a portion of the payment,
there will be a festival: floats and Margaritas,
glittering costumes, fireworks
spelling your name around the moon;
accept the baby leopard-
give her a name worthy of a poem,
walk her on the beach at night;
the postman with first edition Nerudas
will ask you to sign, please do so
with those shooting stars in your little finger.
Earth Becomes Earth
Peter’s father buried what his family didn’t eat or smoke:
Coffee grounds, dead cigarettes.
We hid behind the compost
smoking stolen Chesterfields,
puffed away, talking like grown-ups,
making the faces of our fathers
in finger paint and stick figures.
Smoke fumed from our mouths
as we leaned against the mound of egg shells
crushed under peat moss and steak bones,
from which would grow
tomatoes and pumpkins
for sauce and Halloween.
Hang Man
He is the sum of an
unfortunate handful
of pencil lines,
condemned by a single word,
executed letter by letter
mute, stiff as a stick.
None have ever
drawn his mouth
rendering him
unable to call for a T
to save his neck,
an A to stop the drop.
He can’t shout E
to avoid that F
which will murder him.
What was his crime?
Maybe he befriended
a garden snake
which told red delicious lies
while dangling from the branch
of a tree.
And so he’s eternally at the mercy
of children getting
the hang of letters
They don’t know the power
of connecting them, how they kill
letter by letter
making him live forever.
Let it Be
What if there is no answer?
Or worse, the woman consumed by light
whispers but no one is there.
Birds prosecute the apocalypse against the dead.
Though the last sonnet is uttered in defense,
the world has already ended.
Flesh smokes on the bones of those who waited
for something else to happen.
The soft woman in blue and white robes
hovers over the hopeful dead.
Other Lives and Silences
A Collaborative poem by Michael Hettich and Lenny DellaRocca
The woman in the painting above our bed
leans against a gate in her garden
sweetened with summer, while dark birds
swirl around her head. She's wearing a dress
the color of a beech tree a little boy climbed once,
too high, and disappeared into the man he is now.
I imagine myself that boy, peering from branches
as the woman looks out from beneath that tree,
and I imagine her calling out to me, as I lie here in my bed,
dreaming of other lives and silences.
Once when I walked from a dream into
the rooms of my house, wallpaper emblazoned
with chameleons and Florentine suns,
I seemed to lose myself in someone else’s memories
and move with another person’s body, until
I hurt things without meaning to, trying to caress
the delicate face of someone I used to know,
who is not here, not anymore, who sees what I cannot:
the secrets of my beating heart, the sadness in my eyes.
The woman in the painting heals me
with her far-away look, makes the very things
she sees, and makes the small birds cry.
Bionote
Lenny DellaRocca has had poems in Poet Lore, Poetrybay, Albatross, 2River view, Fairy Tale Review, Chiron Review, Seattle Review, POEM, and Nimrod. His chapbook, The Sleep Talker, is available at Night Ballet Press. His latest collection, is Blood and Gypsies. DellaRocca is founder and co-publisher of South Florida Poetry Journal- SoFloPoJo- and Interview With a Poet both at southfloridapoetryjournal.com
5 Poems by Anthony Ilacqua
Cracked Lips
At the art museum
we told each other lies
through cracked lips
Empty Bra
near the poppies
we slept in the grass
and spiders made nests
in the empty bra
The Dark Side of Town
We read books
late nights
incandescent bulbs
and overflowing ashtrays
Untied Shoes on a Sunday Afternoon
In her room
she put her shoes on
for some reason
she was not dressed otherwise
it was a rainy afternoon
we spoke
of laundry
vaguely of love
and a future
we would not see
Untied Shoes on a Sunday Afternoon
In her room
she put her shoes on
for some reason
she was not dressed otherwise
it was a rainy afternoon
we spoke
of laundry
vaguely of love
and a future
Bionote
Anthony Ilacqua's third novel Warehouses and Rusted Angels is forthcoming. His novels, Dysphoric Notions (2012) and Undertakers of Rain (2013) are both published through Ring of Fire Publishing. He currently functions as editor in chief for Umbrella Factory Magazine that he co-founded in 2009. Meet Anthony at his blog: anthonyilacqua.blogspot.com
At the art museum
we told each other lies
through cracked lips
Empty Bra
near the poppies
we slept in the grass
and spiders made nests
in the empty bra
The Dark Side of Town
We read books
late nights
incandescent bulbs
and overflowing ashtrays
Untied Shoes on a Sunday Afternoon
In her room
she put her shoes on
for some reason
she was not dressed otherwise
it was a rainy afternoon
we spoke
of laundry
vaguely of love
and a future
we would not see
Untied Shoes on a Sunday Afternoon
In her room
she put her shoes on
for some reason
she was not dressed otherwise
it was a rainy afternoon
we spoke
of laundry
vaguely of love
and a future
Bionote
Anthony Ilacqua's third novel Warehouses and Rusted Angels is forthcoming. His novels, Dysphoric Notions (2012) and Undertakers of Rain (2013) are both published through Ring of Fire Publishing. He currently functions as editor in chief for Umbrella Factory Magazine that he co-founded in 2009. Meet Anthony at his blog: anthonyilacqua.blogspot.com
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