Blue Moon
(the second full moon in a given month, occurring about every 2 ½ years)
and which isn’t blue, but pearly as an abalone disc
washed ashore above the roof tops.
Just before bed we shuffled out in our slippers and night clothes,
in time to see it break free above the tree line
almost bouncing as the trees relinquished it,
settled back into their quiet places
empty handed. I helped you find it, that flood
of light, with your broken eyes,
and we stood there swaying with the trees
marveling.
At the last blue moon we must have been
learning to stand to the newest loss,
your cancer finally behind us, and the Parkinson’s,
your dis-integrating vision waiting in the wings.
At the next one, for all we know we may be gone,
nothing but a memory, and so I yipped a tentative yip,
and then you yipped back in your crumbly voice
that gives way a bit, falls back, and then
my voice began to fill out, lift into a howl
and then, neighbors be damned,
another howl for both of us rose up,
round and full of all the lost and broken things,
lifted up in my chest, poured out of my throat
and the long high note spun
all that loss into silver light.
Chances
That autumn night at my mother’s small apartment
I’d been tossing all night on the narrow daybed
in her alcove room. She came to the doorway
in her blue nightgown, asked if I was all right.
I can’t sleep, I said, sitting up.
Would you, she asked, tentatively,
almost politely, would you like to lie down
on my bed … on one side of my bed?
She carefully chose her words, did not say
beside me, or with me. Quickly, before
I thought or felt what I wish now
I’d thought or felt: Oh no, I said.
No. I’ll be fine.
She backed away.
OK, she said, turning to her room.
And she was gone, and there never
came another chance
to lie beside my mother
in this life.
Brewster Road
Killeen, Texas
There you sit in the yellow bean bag
spit shining your black boots till they gleam.
You’ll line them up before you collapse
on the turquoise aquatic sheets, the water bed
rolling slowly toward me, sloshing away.
The lieutenant retires for the day. Taps.
When you are funny I love you:
when you do your El Medico accent,
appallingly offensive, or when you are Rock,
the punch drunk fighta from the Bronx
to my Esmeralda Robinowitz, which we do
deadpan for hours. Also when we have sex --
an activity we invented together and share
on the secret side of the blue beaded curtain --
there is love.
But Vietnam is coming, my formulaic
letters, your uninformative casual missives. Your hooch maid,
your VD quarantine (which, when I’m finally told,
I will not mind, having myself slept with an old lover.)
You will arrive in uniform, my dad’s welcoming banner
above the porch, and we will not know each other.
Dusty hot days I will sit in front of the window cooler
and cry. You will call me fat, make fun of me
for eating in front of friends, in private
call me Soldier, issue orders and commands
while you lie back smoking pot, plastic cookie
wrap and soda cans around you on the rug.
And it will all unravel, go to dust, come down
to a few photos in a shoe box on a high shelf.
Already we can feel the air changing, feel
how nothing we believe
will turn out to be true.
Promise
We knew that everything ends.
We said death by the same shot.
We said always. Lucky, we said.
And when the sidewalk began
to sink on one side, we learned to tip
our bodies, to walk with one leg longer
than the other. When the air grew thick
we breathed less deeply to avoid the cough,
and later, when everything turned green,
I went blue so you could tell me
from the furniture, the grass.
When
touch turned to fade, went pale and flavorless,
we added spice, slowed down, savored, slid
from one moment to the next with more
deliberation. Waves settled to rolling brooks;
in sweet warm waters we bathed
each other’s bodies in our little tubs.
When
I was bent, you bent around me and we saw
how there would be no bullet through both
hearts in the dark bed – only the slow receding
of our powers, our agency, of who we thought
we were, a purifying to our narrow essences,
our small sap flowing quietly away into the ground.
Dream of Carrying Natalie
1.
The snow is over my head
my blue snow suit, my father
laughing, picks me up, takes me
down the stairs, through the billows
of white, the dazzle, the bright –
down where the lawn used to be
down where we roller skated
leans into the deep back seat
and warm, settles me safely
down among the coats.
2.
I hold my arms out straight to the sides, hoping
I can lift her, lovely exhausted Natalie in shirt of grey
her black hair blowing, and she stands
behind me, stretches out, takes hold of my arms
and I lift, we rise up, stars blowing
such an upsweep of relief – I am strong
enough and she is so light.
3.
Natalie and I are drifting now.
Somewhere below
the fragments of her broken son
come together,
knit themselves closed.
We see boys running.
Surely that one’s Logan
whole again.
Bionote
Gail Rudd Entrekin is Poetry Editor of Hip Pocket Press and Editor of the online environmental literary magazine, Canary (www.canarylitmag.org). She is Editor of the poetry anthology Yuba Flows (2007) and the poetry & short fiction anthology Sierra Songs & Descants: Poetry & Prose of the Sierra (2002). Her poems have been widely published in anthologies and literary magazines, including Cimarron Review, Nimrod, New Ohio Review, and Southern Poetry Review, were finalists for the Pablo Neruda Prize in Poetry from Nimrod International Journal in 2011, and won the Women’s National Book Association Award in 2016. Entrekin taught poetry and English literature at California colleges for 25 years. Her books of poetry include The Art of Healing (with Charles Entrekin) (Poetic Matrix Press 2016); Rearrangement of the Invisible, (Poetic Matrix Press, 2012); Change (Will Do You Good) (Poetic Matrix Press, 2005), which was nominated for a Northern California Book Award; You Notice the Body (Hip Pocket Press, 1998); and John Danced (Berkeley Poets Workshop & Press, 1983). She and her husband, poet and novelist Charles Entrekin, live in the hills of San Francisco’s East Bay.
Monday, 5 November 2018
3 Poems by Amit Parmessur
FREEDOM
Between tied boulders on a windy mountain cliff,
slaves in rugged rags
panted and their dreams panicked.
A freedom beckoned,
and five of the barely-covered slaves
showered like raindrops to clinch it.
The freedom sparkled
but the remaining slaves rebelled against it.
The freedom hoisted itself up faster and halted mid-air,
just above The Valley of Bones.
The herd gathered round their leader
as the freedom beckoned louder.
Officers from hell, in friendly hues that day,
kept whipping through the thick trees
to inform them of their true freedom.
But the bitter bondage swelled in their bosom,
blue and raw, as the sun drenched
the spot with solid rays.
And hearts pulverised without deliberation
they all joined hands to shower too.
Their shouts tore the air, seeming bold and free,
blissful and final.
Their freed souls would later learn
that they had left free bodies.
What’s more tragic than runaway slaves jumping
off the threshold of freedom, forgetting
to leave their names along the wind?
THE LEGEND OF ANSE LA RAIE
Today for many people Anse la Raie, north of
Grand Baie, is a place popular for kitesurfing and its
Krab trouloulou. Part of its beach is strewn with countless
Holes during the low tide, and if you are patient enough,
You might see a lot of these reddish crabs. However,
Few people know that very long ago a giant ray arrived
At the tiny and gorgeous bay and soon settled there.
For some reason, though, it started to attack the small
Fishing boats. It would leap out of the water, somersault
In the air and fall spectacularly on the boats which sank
Under the impact. Several boats were destroyed and a lot
Of people killed before the fishermen concocted a plan
To destroy the monster. They had a long metal harpoon
Forged and secured upright on a boat. They then built the
Dummy figure of a fisherman, which they impaled
On the harpoon. The boat was left to drift in the middle
Of the bay. The giant ray was killed when it attacked
That boat; Anse La Raie bears its name from that time.
HUSHED
A bastille with open gates
Life within a bedecked cemetery
A girl who hurts no one
A sharp blade in her mind
Dreams yet to be seen
Tomorrows yet to be hers
Can’t stay sweet as cotton candy
Will end up hating herself
Every day, many people are ready to weep with her,
but she knows their tears weigh tons, for they
are crocodile ones.
Every night, kneeling by her bed, she lights a matchstick,
holding it upright like a valiant woman. She then fixes
the vacillating flame, as the proud head of the stick burns,
bending in front of her, slowly. She assumes
she’s defeated mankind. And goes to sleep,
inside the bedecked cemetery, inside the bastille.
Bionote
Amit Parmessur, born in 1983, started by writing short stories for The Short Humour Site, winning their Booger Prize for best humour in October 2003. Published in over 150 literary magazines, he has been notably included in best-ofs for Crack the Spine (Winter 2012), The Writing Disorder (2012), Harbinger Asylum (2014 and 2013) and Breath & Shadow (2016). He has also been nominated for Best of the Web Anthology and the Pushcart Prize. His works are inspired from childhood experiences, with a huge dose of fantasy. He currently edits The Pangolin Review, a poetry magazine from Mauritius.
Between tied boulders on a windy mountain cliff,
slaves in rugged rags
panted and their dreams panicked.
A freedom beckoned,
and five of the barely-covered slaves
showered like raindrops to clinch it.
The freedom sparkled
but the remaining slaves rebelled against it.
The freedom hoisted itself up faster and halted mid-air,
just above The Valley of Bones.
The herd gathered round their leader
as the freedom beckoned louder.
Officers from hell, in friendly hues that day,
kept whipping through the thick trees
to inform them of their true freedom.
But the bitter bondage swelled in their bosom,
blue and raw, as the sun drenched
the spot with solid rays.
And hearts pulverised without deliberation
they all joined hands to shower too.
Their shouts tore the air, seeming bold and free,
blissful and final.
Their freed souls would later learn
that they had left free bodies.
What’s more tragic than runaway slaves jumping
off the threshold of freedom, forgetting
to leave their names along the wind?
THE LEGEND OF ANSE LA RAIE
Today for many people Anse la Raie, north of
Grand Baie, is a place popular for kitesurfing and its
Krab trouloulou. Part of its beach is strewn with countless
Holes during the low tide, and if you are patient enough,
You might see a lot of these reddish crabs. However,
Few people know that very long ago a giant ray arrived
At the tiny and gorgeous bay and soon settled there.
For some reason, though, it started to attack the small
Fishing boats. It would leap out of the water, somersault
In the air and fall spectacularly on the boats which sank
Under the impact. Several boats were destroyed and a lot
Of people killed before the fishermen concocted a plan
To destroy the monster. They had a long metal harpoon
Forged and secured upright on a boat. They then built the
Dummy figure of a fisherman, which they impaled
On the harpoon. The boat was left to drift in the middle
Of the bay. The giant ray was killed when it attacked
That boat; Anse La Raie bears its name from that time.
HUSHED
A bastille with open gates
Life within a bedecked cemetery
A girl who hurts no one
A sharp blade in her mind
Dreams yet to be seen
Tomorrows yet to be hers
Can’t stay sweet as cotton candy
Will end up hating herself
Every day, many people are ready to weep with her,
but she knows their tears weigh tons, for they
are crocodile ones.
Every night, kneeling by her bed, she lights a matchstick,
holding it upright like a valiant woman. She then fixes
the vacillating flame, as the proud head of the stick burns,
bending in front of her, slowly. She assumes
she’s defeated mankind. And goes to sleep,
inside the bedecked cemetery, inside the bastille.
Bionote
Amit Parmessur, born in 1983, started by writing short stories for The Short Humour Site, winning their Booger Prize for best humour in October 2003. Published in over 150 literary magazines, he has been notably included in best-ofs for Crack the Spine (Winter 2012), The Writing Disorder (2012), Harbinger Asylum (2014 and 2013) and Breath & Shadow (2016). He has also been nominated for Best of the Web Anthology and the Pushcart Prize. His works are inspired from childhood experiences, with a huge dose of fantasy. He currently edits The Pangolin Review, a poetry magazine from Mauritius.
5 Poems by Kristi Rathbun-Nimmo
Atomic Checkered Blankets
wool
warm checkered wool, red
wool, and black against
black skin, charred black
and red
bodies trapped by heat
and atoms at war
molecules, cells, fibers, muscles
at war long after the war
has ended
wool
checkered wool still clinging
to scents of summers spent
on hillsides green
with grasses and sweet
heat of days, summer days sowing
in spite of nations at war
before the flash fires and the burning
bubbled on bones exposed now
and blackened, before melted steel
and twisted cities groaned
with atomic tongues against roofs
parched and crumbling
when, with brushwood burning,
she held your hand and you
kissed her eyelids throughout the night
wrapped in checkered wool of black
and red—
wool cradles your form
quiet and crumbling against
a night painted cold with ash and stars
hydrogen light dripping green
down the dark horizon, pooling
at the roots, new foundations laid
for new generations
Solar Gods
Winged Mercury worships
the sun’s golden face, while
Venus drifts with gauzy secrets
‘neath volcanic lace.
Gaia, sapphire jewel, is flocked
with offerings and flowers,
and warrior Mars, once proud and strong
laments his waning power.
Reigning Jupiter, rotundest of kings
is crowned with Gossamer, Main, and Halo;
while spiteful Saturn, the overthrown
keeps Titans locked in tow.
Uranus slumbers in his diamond skin
while lullabies Titania sings;
proud Neptune, with wings of blue
keeps retinues of darkest rings.
And Pluto, forgotten brother
with dark Charon roams afar
as Eris beautiful and deadly
her discord softly weaves.
Alter Ego
She flits down the hall, her feet
ballet slipper soft on the hard
wood floors, four-inch
studded heels in hand,
those leg-breaking pumps
she knows I'll never wear,
those pumps that might break
a few necks too. Free
of the too-still, too-silent house
she slips them on, smiles
and saunters
down the street.
Jackrabbit Collision
--from the Greeley Tribune, March 1915
Late in the night,
by bright lantern light,
Frank Olsen went out a-walking.
He got quite a scare,
when out of thin air,
a jackrabbit toppled him over.
He suffered great pain,
a bad ankle sprain,
his family, they wanted justice.
They looked high and low,
but as these things go,
no sign of the rabbit who done it.
reunion
january trees
empty field
hawks’ restless feathers
grasses on two rivers
frost burrowed deep
inside an old forgotten boot
we
lion-tamers all
once
seven years
and nothing left
but wilted
cardboard
crowns
Bionote
Kristi Rathbun-Nimmo hails from Colorful Colorado where she works as the Editor-in-Chief of Chantwood Magazine, as well as a freelance proofreader/editor. Her works include short fiction and poetry which has appeared in The Crucible, The High Plains Register, Luna Review, and others.
wool
warm checkered wool, red
wool, and black against
black skin, charred black
and red
bodies trapped by heat
and atoms at war
molecules, cells, fibers, muscles
at war long after the war
has ended
wool
checkered wool still clinging
to scents of summers spent
on hillsides green
with grasses and sweet
heat of days, summer days sowing
in spite of nations at war
before the flash fires and the burning
bubbled on bones exposed now
and blackened, before melted steel
and twisted cities groaned
with atomic tongues against roofs
parched and crumbling
when, with brushwood burning,
she held your hand and you
kissed her eyelids throughout the night
wrapped in checkered wool of black
and red—
wool cradles your form
quiet and crumbling against
a night painted cold with ash and stars
hydrogen light dripping green
down the dark horizon, pooling
at the roots, new foundations laid
for new generations
Solar Gods
Winged Mercury worships
the sun’s golden face, while
Venus drifts with gauzy secrets
‘neath volcanic lace.
Gaia, sapphire jewel, is flocked
with offerings and flowers,
and warrior Mars, once proud and strong
laments his waning power.
Reigning Jupiter, rotundest of kings
is crowned with Gossamer, Main, and Halo;
while spiteful Saturn, the overthrown
keeps Titans locked in tow.
Uranus slumbers in his diamond skin
while lullabies Titania sings;
proud Neptune, with wings of blue
keeps retinues of darkest rings.
And Pluto, forgotten brother
with dark Charon roams afar
as Eris beautiful and deadly
her discord softly weaves.
Alter Ego
She flits down the hall, her feet
ballet slipper soft on the hard
wood floors, four-inch
studded heels in hand,
those leg-breaking pumps
she knows I'll never wear,
those pumps that might break
a few necks too. Free
of the too-still, too-silent house
she slips them on, smiles
and saunters
down the street.
Jackrabbit Collision
--from the Greeley Tribune, March 1915
Late in the night,
by bright lantern light,
Frank Olsen went out a-walking.
He got quite a scare,
when out of thin air,
a jackrabbit toppled him over.
He suffered great pain,
a bad ankle sprain,
his family, they wanted justice.
They looked high and low,
but as these things go,
no sign of the rabbit who done it.
reunion
january trees
empty field
hawks’ restless feathers
grasses on two rivers
frost burrowed deep
inside an old forgotten boot
we
lion-tamers all
once
seven years
and nothing left
but wilted
cardboard
crowns
Bionote
Kristi Rathbun-Nimmo hails from Colorful Colorado where she works as the Editor-in-Chief of Chantwood Magazine, as well as a freelance proofreader/editor. Her works include short fiction and poetry which has appeared in The Crucible, The High Plains Register, Luna Review, and others.
3 Poems by Julene Tripp Weaver
Final Resting Place
He reached his peak of happiness
he said, when he bought the acreage
on the road that curved. Done with
a squared off block, he preferred
the ambiguity of the turn
one could not see around, an edge
that would simmer unpredictable,
create distance from the sharp-sheared
corner hedges. He planted tall grasses
that boosted white praying hands
reaching to the sky. Finally, a place
quiet to rest under the tall cedar
perched to hide pavement, with soft
brown needles for under his feet
to silence his world.
Saving Each Other
Earthworms stranded on sidewalks
drowned out of their earth-home
they move slow wanting to return, inch-by-
inch against gravel nowhere to begin
the long climb down. What earthling
comes to their rescue with a stick?
Sweet beings who inhabit this northwest
each person like an earthworm
inching our way home.
Invisible World
“...with every invention comes a spiritual debt that must be paid, either ritually, or else taken out of us in warfare, grief, or depression.” Martin Prechtel, The Sun
At work, I bring up the invisible world
people stare with blank faces
I say how cups in the grass bother me
someone interprets, “the trash”
I forget to talk about the malls that cover streams
and how there is never enough we can give back for all our construction
our beauty is miles from the beauty we lost
I stand witness to the invisible world and its slow dissolving
I want to stop the movement of industrial men through time
I want to pour sense into them, write poetry that will slow them into silence
want to stop them from building walls so close together
that a seagull becomes trapped, can’t spread her wings
this seagull is our invisible world
she cries out for assistance, we walk past
I am as invisible as the seagulls that live at the beach
hungry, voracious for a world that no longer exists
Previously published in Off the Coast, January 2006, Vol. XII No. 1
Bionote
Julene Tripp Weaver is a psychotherapist and writer in Seattle, WA. She has a chapbook and two full size collections. The latest, truth be bold—Serenading Life & Death in the Age of AIDS, published by Finishing Line Press, was a finalist for the Lambda Literary Awards and won the Bisexual Book Award. Her work is online at The Seattle Review of Books, HIV Here & Now, Voices in the Wind, Antinarrative Journal, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Writing in a Woman's Voice, you can find more of her writing at www.julenetrippweaver.com.
He reached his peak of happiness
he said, when he bought the acreage
on the road that curved. Done with
a squared off block, he preferred
the ambiguity of the turn
one could not see around, an edge
that would simmer unpredictable,
create distance from the sharp-sheared
corner hedges. He planted tall grasses
that boosted white praying hands
reaching to the sky. Finally, a place
quiet to rest under the tall cedar
perched to hide pavement, with soft
brown needles for under his feet
to silence his world.
Saving Each Other
Earthworms stranded on sidewalks
drowned out of their earth-home
they move slow wanting to return, inch-by-
inch against gravel nowhere to begin
the long climb down. What earthling
comes to their rescue with a stick?
Sweet beings who inhabit this northwest
each person like an earthworm
inching our way home.
Invisible World
“...with every invention comes a spiritual debt that must be paid, either ritually, or else taken out of us in warfare, grief, or depression.” Martin Prechtel, The Sun
At work, I bring up the invisible world
people stare with blank faces
I say how cups in the grass bother me
someone interprets, “the trash”
I forget to talk about the malls that cover streams
and how there is never enough we can give back for all our construction
our beauty is miles from the beauty we lost
I stand witness to the invisible world and its slow dissolving
I want to stop the movement of industrial men through time
I want to pour sense into them, write poetry that will slow them into silence
want to stop them from building walls so close together
that a seagull becomes trapped, can’t spread her wings
this seagull is our invisible world
she cries out for assistance, we walk past
I am as invisible as the seagulls that live at the beach
hungry, voracious for a world that no longer exists
Previously published in Off the Coast, January 2006, Vol. XII No. 1
Bionote
Julene Tripp Weaver is a psychotherapist and writer in Seattle, WA. She has a chapbook and two full size collections. The latest, truth be bold—Serenading Life & Death in the Age of AIDS, published by Finishing Line Press, was a finalist for the Lambda Literary Awards and won the Bisexual Book Award. Her work is online at The Seattle Review of Books, HIV Here & Now, Voices in the Wind, Antinarrative Journal, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Writing in a Woman's Voice, you can find more of her writing at www.julenetrippweaver.com.
3 Poems by Stefanie Bennett
THE PRESENCE
Beyond description,
Too wound weary
To hold
... The Beloved
Lays
The wild violet
Beside
The Patron
Saint
Of soul.
WORD FOREST
And I saw you return in
The dream I’d
Not dreamt
INTERDEPENDENCY
Moonlight in the pines sets
The pampas grass
Purring
Bionote
Stefanie Bennett has published a dozen books of poetry, a novel & a libretto, tutored at The Institute Of Modern Languages – James Cook University – worked with Arts Action For Peace & been nominated for the Pushcart & Best of the Net. Of mixed ancestry [Italian/Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee] she was born in Qld., Australia. ‘The Vanishing’ published by Walleah Press & “Blanks From The Other World” are available from Walleah & Amazon.
Beyond description,
Too wound weary
To hold
... The Beloved
Lays
The wild violet
Beside
The Patron
Saint
Of soul.
WORD FOREST
And I saw you return in
The dream I’d
Not dreamt
INTERDEPENDENCY
Moonlight in the pines sets
The pampas grass
Purring
Bionote
Stefanie Bennett has published a dozen books of poetry, a novel & a libretto, tutored at The Institute Of Modern Languages – James Cook University – worked with Arts Action For Peace & been nominated for the Pushcart & Best of the Net. Of mixed ancestry [Italian/Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee] she was born in Qld., Australia. ‘The Vanishing’ published by Walleah Press & “Blanks From The Other World” are available from Walleah & Amazon.
5 Poems by Kate Garrett
The corner grave
Old Cemetery, Owensville, Ohio
Rain had worn down
her name, left a few letters
and a stone leaning low
after a century of winters.
I pretended to know her: ‘Elizabeth,
wife of ______’, said good morning
every day before school,
though she’d long ago sifted
down to dust and bones
beneath the roots of our village.
I invented a tragic death,
looked for signs,
willed her to haunt me.
I imagined skeletons
with high collars
and tangled hair hiding
behind the dresses in my closet.
Halloween: I dressed in cream linen,
bobbed for apples, waited
for Elizabeth,
scanned the fields for see-through
shapes on our hayride.
She didn’t show, but I still
insisted a handprint
in red paint smacked against
our shed window, was hers.
(First published at Melancholy Hyperbole, 2013, and in the author's pamphlet The names of things unseen / part of Caboodle, Prolebooks, 2015)
GMT -8 hours
The rain fell
warmer than this
when you were
my latest secret.
I only brought you
out if the moon
was in hiding;
I waited until midnight,
unclipped you from
the washing line
to drink you down with
cheap rosé wine.
well.
you always said you
liked the way
towels felt after
a day drying in the sun:
stiff, scratchy,
difficult to wrap
around your body;
one part of you I loved.
(First published in the author's pamphlet The names of things unseen / part of Caboodle, Prolebooks, 2015)
Petruchio
said I was too old,
like four years is a lifetime,
asked me to buy him a vodka and coke,
if I was really as nice as I pretended to be,
wished more than anything that I would
punch him in the face,
chastised me for smoking, but took
a drag from my cigarette,
clapped his hands on my hips
when I was too drunk and angry to notice,
reminded me I still seethed and boiled
underneath a still life surface,
tried to knock me down a peg or two,
because I was probably used to being beautiful,
had absolutely no idea
who he was talking to,
would never say I was beautiful,
you can count on that,
showed me a girl’s number, his Friday
trophy: he didn’t need me, he could get anyone,
shouted over the road to say I better
not be watching him piss up this wall –
insisted all women were out to get him,
agreed that time is a human invention,
walked beside me in dark midwinter,
stared at his feet like a little boy,
suggested I go home with him after all, maybe
it would be alright, maybe –
hugged me once, then turned away,
slid into the night in the posh part of town,
disappeared with the taxi’s brake lights,
left us both untamed.
(First published in the author's pamphlet The names of things unseen / as part of Caboodle, Prolebooks, 2015)
To know, to will, to dare, and to keep silent
He asked if I was a witch, if he’d see
me dancing naked through the trees,
and if I’d meet him at midnight so we
could build a fire. He said I was proper
bonny, a dark faery, just what he wanted.
I said I am, though not that kind of witch,
but he was away with his own faeries—
they brought him needles, lighters, spoons.
So the boy with the clouds
in his eyes said it was fine.
I didn’t say my magic simmered slowly;
I didn’t say a spell isn’t such a quick fix.
I didn’t say that behind closed doors each
night a man searched me for devil marks,
tried to squeeze admissions from my throat,
and threw my words on a fire to warm
his ale-drunk hands, to bind me to him.
I didn’t say that even as we spoke, nettle
roots pushed down through cryptic notes
I’d planted in the garden, and I’d soon be free.
(First published at Peacock Journal, 2017 and in the author's pamphlet Losing interest in the sound of petrichor, The Black Light Engine Room Press, 2018)
Nothing is forever
Now more than ever you know
summer is kissed by impermanence –
the forever of backyard heat blurred
by the running feet of a child
collecting cicada shells from tacky
sap glistening on pine bark, a cluster
of trees, a row of peony bushes
creating a labyrinth where nothing
escapes or penetrates. The insect’s
change from crawling thing to a red-
eyed flurry of wings is complete.
Tilt your face to the sky, and breathe.
(First published in the author's pamphlet Losing interest in the sound of petrichor, The Black Light Engine Room Press, 2018)
Bionote
Kate Garrett is the managing editor of Three Drops from a Cauldron, Picaroon Poetry, and Lonesome October Lit. She also founded the charity webzine Bonnie's Crew, raising funds for the congenital heart unit in Leeds that saved her daughter's life. Her own work is published widely online and in print, and she is the author of several pamphlets, most recently You've never seen a doomsday like it (Indigo Dreams, 2017), and Losing interest in the sound of petrichor (The Black Light Engine Room Press, 2018). Kate was born and raised in rural southern Ohio, but moved to the UK in 1999, where she still lives in Sheffield with her husband, five children, and a sleepy cat. www.kategarrettwrites.co.uk
Old Cemetery, Owensville, Ohio
Rain had worn down
her name, left a few letters
and a stone leaning low
after a century of winters.
I pretended to know her: ‘Elizabeth,
wife of ______’, said good morning
every day before school,
though she’d long ago sifted
down to dust and bones
beneath the roots of our village.
I invented a tragic death,
looked for signs,
willed her to haunt me.
I imagined skeletons
with high collars
and tangled hair hiding
behind the dresses in my closet.
Halloween: I dressed in cream linen,
bobbed for apples, waited
for Elizabeth,
scanned the fields for see-through
shapes on our hayride.
She didn’t show, but I still
insisted a handprint
in red paint smacked against
our shed window, was hers.
(First published at Melancholy Hyperbole, 2013, and in the author's pamphlet The names of things unseen / part of Caboodle, Prolebooks, 2015)
GMT -8 hours
The rain fell
warmer than this
when you were
my latest secret.
I only brought you
out if the moon
was in hiding;
I waited until midnight,
unclipped you from
the washing line
to drink you down with
cheap rosé wine.
well.
you always said you
liked the way
towels felt after
a day drying in the sun:
stiff, scratchy,
difficult to wrap
around your body;
one part of you I loved.
(First published in the author's pamphlet The names of things unseen / part of Caboodle, Prolebooks, 2015)
Petruchio
said I was too old,
like four years is a lifetime,
asked me to buy him a vodka and coke,
if I was really as nice as I pretended to be,
wished more than anything that I would
punch him in the face,
chastised me for smoking, but took
a drag from my cigarette,
clapped his hands on my hips
when I was too drunk and angry to notice,
reminded me I still seethed and boiled
underneath a still life surface,
tried to knock me down a peg or two,
because I was probably used to being beautiful,
had absolutely no idea
who he was talking to,
would never say I was beautiful,
you can count on that,
showed me a girl’s number, his Friday
trophy: he didn’t need me, he could get anyone,
shouted over the road to say I better
not be watching him piss up this wall –
insisted all women were out to get him,
agreed that time is a human invention,
walked beside me in dark midwinter,
stared at his feet like a little boy,
suggested I go home with him after all, maybe
it would be alright, maybe –
hugged me once, then turned away,
slid into the night in the posh part of town,
disappeared with the taxi’s brake lights,
left us both untamed.
(First published in the author's pamphlet The names of things unseen / as part of Caboodle, Prolebooks, 2015)
To know, to will, to dare, and to keep silent
He asked if I was a witch, if he’d see
me dancing naked through the trees,
and if I’d meet him at midnight so we
could build a fire. He said I was proper
bonny, a dark faery, just what he wanted.
I said I am, though not that kind of witch,
but he was away with his own faeries—
they brought him needles, lighters, spoons.
So the boy with the clouds
in his eyes said it was fine.
I didn’t say my magic simmered slowly;
I didn’t say a spell isn’t such a quick fix.
I didn’t say that behind closed doors each
night a man searched me for devil marks,
tried to squeeze admissions from my throat,
and threw my words on a fire to warm
his ale-drunk hands, to bind me to him.
I didn’t say that even as we spoke, nettle
roots pushed down through cryptic notes
I’d planted in the garden, and I’d soon be free.
(First published at Peacock Journal, 2017 and in the author's pamphlet Losing interest in the sound of petrichor, The Black Light Engine Room Press, 2018)
Nothing is forever
Now more than ever you know
summer is kissed by impermanence –
the forever of backyard heat blurred
by the running feet of a child
collecting cicada shells from tacky
sap glistening on pine bark, a cluster
of trees, a row of peony bushes
creating a labyrinth where nothing
escapes or penetrates. The insect’s
change from crawling thing to a red-
eyed flurry of wings is complete.
Tilt your face to the sky, and breathe.
(First published in the author's pamphlet Losing interest in the sound of petrichor, The Black Light Engine Room Press, 2018)
Bionote
Kate Garrett is the managing editor of Three Drops from a Cauldron, Picaroon Poetry, and Lonesome October Lit. She also founded the charity webzine Bonnie's Crew, raising funds for the congenital heart unit in Leeds that saved her daughter's life. Her own work is published widely online and in print, and she is the author of several pamphlets, most recently You've never seen a doomsday like it (Indigo Dreams, 2017), and Losing interest in the sound of petrichor (The Black Light Engine Room Press, 2018). Kate was born and raised in rural southern Ohio, but moved to the UK in 1999, where she still lives in Sheffield with her husband, five children, and a sleepy cat. www.kategarrettwrites.co.uk
2 Poems by Dean Baltesson
Verses Of The Endless
They have gone mad
contemplating versions
of the black ocean
still waiting to be written
the blond cliffs before it.
Unexpected waves
founder the words
luring us onto rocks
to become predictions of the past
and memories of the future.
All of this experience
is acknowledged and drowned
with equanimity
in the black ocean
still waiting to be written.
Some Time At Sea
How far out to sea
must you chance
to see all
of what is left on land.
How much suffering
must you greet
to acknowledge
what the heart feels.
The colours of the sea
as blue as they are deep
as emerald as emerald
are often too beautiful.
How many more dreams
of a lighthouse
swept beyond the
ultimate sweep of navigation.
How much time at sea
how broad the waters
to know what it was
to be loved.
Bionote
Dean Baltesson is a poet and musician living in Victoria BC Canada. He is currently working on a volume of poetry entitled There Must be Words To Describe This. His poetry and can be found in a number of online and print literary journals or on his recent CD “Covering Ground”
They have gone mad
contemplating versions
of the black ocean
still waiting to be written
the blond cliffs before it.
Unexpected waves
founder the words
luring us onto rocks
to become predictions of the past
and memories of the future.
All of this experience
is acknowledged and drowned
with equanimity
in the black ocean
still waiting to be written.
Some Time At Sea
How far out to sea
must you chance
to see all
of what is left on land.
How much suffering
must you greet
to acknowledge
what the heart feels.
The colours of the sea
as blue as they are deep
as emerald as emerald
are often too beautiful.
How many more dreams
of a lighthouse
swept beyond the
ultimate sweep of navigation.
How much time at sea
how broad the waters
to know what it was
to be loved.
Bionote
Dean Baltesson is a poet and musician living in Victoria BC Canada. He is currently working on a volume of poetry entitled There Must be Words To Describe This. His poetry and can be found in a number of online and print literary journals or on his recent CD “Covering Ground”
1 Poem by Daniel Ari
We are just passing through
The one who shakes
IS the shaking.
A person can turn into
a shout in the woods
or a long spill of loud tears.
We shake to give ourselves birth.
The saints ask outright for what they want:
'Put your hand on my forehead.'
'Lay myself down.'
'Go away!'
'Water, please.'
The saints only answer yes-no questions;
The saints only answer yes.
Bionote
As poet laureate of Richmond, California, Daniel Ari created the 2017 Richmond Anthology of Poetry, the city's first. His book One Way to Ask (Norfolk Press, 2016) combines original poems in a new form called queron with illustrations created and curated in collaboration with 67 artists including Roz Chast, R. Crumb, Henrik Drescher and Wayne White. The book won the Eric Hoffer da Vinci Eye Award for design and was a finalist for the Lascaux Poetry Prize. Daniel has had work published in Poet's Market, Writer's Digest, Africa Vs Asia Anthology, McSweeney’s, Winning Writers, Defenestration, carte blanche, Thema, NonBinary Review, and many others. He supports his poetic life through his career as a marketing copywriter where he has written haiku for Google.
The one who shakes
IS the shaking.
A person can turn into
a shout in the woods
or a long spill of loud tears.
We shake to give ourselves birth.
The saints ask outright for what they want:
'Put your hand on my forehead.'
'Lay myself down.'
'Go away!'
'Water, please.'
The saints only answer yes-no questions;
The saints only answer yes.
Bionote
As poet laureate of Richmond, California, Daniel Ari created the 2017 Richmond Anthology of Poetry, the city's first. His book One Way to Ask (Norfolk Press, 2016) combines original poems in a new form called queron with illustrations created and curated in collaboration with 67 artists including Roz Chast, R. Crumb, Henrik Drescher and Wayne White. The book won the Eric Hoffer da Vinci Eye Award for design and was a finalist for the Lascaux Poetry Prize. Daniel has had work published in Poet's Market, Writer's Digest, Africa Vs Asia Anthology, McSweeney’s, Winning Writers, Defenestration, carte blanche, Thema, NonBinary Review, and many others. He supports his poetic life through his career as a marketing copywriter where he has written haiku for Google.
2 Poems by Pat Connor
In the House Where I Grew Up
The kitchen table
In the house where I grew up
Was wooden, cold and stained
Came apart in the middle
Like so many ruined meals
And other realities hard to digest
Silences which say more than words can say
Furtive glances the only I love you
Support incomplete, bond left unspoken
When we left the house where I grew up
The kitchen table stayed behind
But the dining room table came with us
A place to spend and fear the holidays
An anchor to hold us to our past
When we did not know how to be a family
Epic
My feet
Set squarely in
The present
My eyes
Firmly focused on
The future
The narrow way
Seems dangerous and hard
Wrought with strife
And lonely
But, when not absorbed in
Seeming circumstances
Or caught up in
wavering from
Side
to
side
It merely becomes
The surest, shortest distance
Between two points
The past has passed
The present
Is
But a fleeting gift
I will hold out for
The future
And trust in
What it brings
Bionote
Pat Connor's first chapbook, Scarborough Songs, was published by Lyricalmyrical Press in 2013, and charted on the Toronto Poetry Map. Part-Time Contemplative, his second chapbook with Lyricalmyrical, was released in 2016. He is a manager for the Toronto chapter of 100,000 Poets for Change.
The kitchen table
In the house where I grew up
Was wooden, cold and stained
Came apart in the middle
Like so many ruined meals
And other realities hard to digest
Silences which say more than words can say
Furtive glances the only I love you
Support incomplete, bond left unspoken
When we left the house where I grew up
The kitchen table stayed behind
But the dining room table came with us
A place to spend and fear the holidays
An anchor to hold us to our past
When we did not know how to be a family
Epic
My feet
Set squarely in
The present
My eyes
Firmly focused on
The future
The narrow way
Seems dangerous and hard
Wrought with strife
And lonely
But, when not absorbed in
Seeming circumstances
Or caught up in
wavering from
Side
to
side
It merely becomes
The surest, shortest distance
Between two points
The past has passed
The present
Is
But a fleeting gift
I will hold out for
The future
And trust in
What it brings
Bionote
Pat Connor's first chapbook, Scarborough Songs, was published by Lyricalmyrical Press in 2013, and charted on the Toronto Poetry Map. Part-Time Contemplative, his second chapbook with Lyricalmyrical, was released in 2016. He is a manager for the Toronto chapter of 100,000 Poets for Change.
5 Poems by Anna Banasiak
Masquerade
I'm leaving my body
the costumes are borrowed
from the changing room of life
my face belongs to a foreign person
for the moment
someone's invisible hand
removes my life
as a used prop
I'm leaving
to start playing
in the new mask
The art of flying
Sunrise
stops the essence of existence
ducks immersed in silence
fly free like flames
they dive
stagger sacred circles
my soul
spreads its wings
flying between two worlds
happy upon a moment
brightened by a light
approaches infinity
Varanasi
water like a mirror reflects faces of the dead
in the play of light and shade I melt
time has stopped in the flight to eternity
bodies sail in the cycle of birth and death
river accepts everything
it takes the memory of things
in tranquil breath of reality
I float on the other side
I can fly higher and higher
passing the limits
born from a drop of creation
in the last gasp of life I pass
The Metamorphosis
life fell apart
hid
in the shade
of being
in silence
I'm
music
I play
stopped
in existence
over
time
The Dancer
a drop of water
unique in cosmos
in the changing river of time
passing like a single life
I'm only a shadow
dancing in the emptiness
Bionote
I'm a poet and literary critic. My poems have been published in New York, London, Surrey, Australia, Canada, India, Africa, Japan, Israel. I'm the winner of poetry competition in London,Berlin and Bratislava. I'm interested in art and psychology.
I'm leaving my body
the costumes are borrowed
from the changing room of life
my face belongs to a foreign person
for the moment
someone's invisible hand
removes my life
as a used prop
I'm leaving
to start playing
in the new mask
The art of flying
Sunrise
stops the essence of existence
ducks immersed in silence
fly free like flames
they dive
stagger sacred circles
my soul
spreads its wings
flying between two worlds
happy upon a moment
brightened by a light
approaches infinity
Varanasi
water like a mirror reflects faces of the dead
in the play of light and shade I melt
time has stopped in the flight to eternity
bodies sail in the cycle of birth and death
river accepts everything
it takes the memory of things
in tranquil breath of reality
I float on the other side
I can fly higher and higher
passing the limits
born from a drop of creation
in the last gasp of life I pass
The Metamorphosis
life fell apart
hid
in the shade
of being
in silence
I'm
music
I play
stopped
in existence
over
time
The Dancer
a drop of water
unique in cosmos
in the changing river of time
passing like a single life
I'm only a shadow
dancing in the emptiness
Bionote
I'm a poet and literary critic. My poems have been published in New York, London, Surrey, Australia, Canada, India, Africa, Japan, Israel. I'm the winner of poetry competition in London,Berlin and Bratislava. I'm interested in art and psychology.
5 Poems by Allen Qing Yuan
Tree-ception
standing on the shoulders
of your elder wood
where the sides curve into faces
long, disfigured yet noble
your arms embrace outwardly
not afraid to be broken,
because they are inseparable
your veiny growth pumps through
the stump, a heartbeat so subtle
like a tambourine against the clouds
your skin is so thick, yet you are so open
learning from the sun
feeding yourself with its rays of nourishment
you will rise, a living legacy.
*
A Small Wish
I would rather be a leaf
Whose body may contain
The secrets of a whole forest
Or
A single dewdrop
Whose soul can see
Through an entire ocean
How Come
You really
Me? She
Us? I
You? He
Them? One
Her? We
You? It
Us? They
Him/her?
In the Forest of Life
He kept felling trees
One after another
Not to see whose ring is
The roundest, but to taste
Which cut offers the finest
And most fragrant sawdust
Four Haiku
Vase
Ever so eye-catching
Whether it stands high or low
With a hollow heart
Walnut
Always invisible
Behind its deeply wrinkled skin
Yet full of brains
Man-Spider
We are all spiders
Confining our lives to webs
Hung at dark corners
Leaf
High up on tree’s top
You flutter with power and pride
Until your downfall
Bionote
Allen Qing Yuan, author of Traffic Light, is a 2-time Pushcart and 2-time Best of the Net nominee. A former co-editor of Poetry Pacific, Allen is currently working full-time 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.
standing on the shoulders
of your elder wood
where the sides curve into faces
long, disfigured yet noble
your arms embrace outwardly
not afraid to be broken,
because they are inseparable
your veiny growth pumps through
the stump, a heartbeat so subtle
like a tambourine against the clouds
your skin is so thick, yet you are so open
learning from the sun
feeding yourself with its rays of nourishment
you will rise, a living legacy.
*
A Small Wish
I would rather be a leaf
Whose body may contain
The secrets of a whole forest
Or
A single dewdrop
Whose soul can see
Through an entire ocean
How Come
You really
Me? She
Us? I
You? He
Them? One
Her? We
You? It
Us? They
Him/her?
In the Forest of Life
He kept felling trees
One after another
Not to see whose ring is
The roundest, but to taste
Which cut offers the finest
And most fragrant sawdust
Four Haiku
Vase
Ever so eye-catching
Whether it stands high or low
With a hollow heart
Walnut
Always invisible
Behind its deeply wrinkled skin
Yet full of brains
Man-Spider
We are all spiders
Confining our lives to webs
Hung at dark corners
Leaf
High up on tree’s top
You flutter with power and pride
Until your downfall
Bionote
Allen Qing Yuan, author of Traffic Light, is a 2-time Pushcart and 2-time Best of the Net nominee. A former co-editor of Poetry Pacific, Allen is currently working full-time 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.
2 Poems & 4 Photos by Keith Moul
A Chief Speaks His Truth
After the massacre of whites,
the long row of gallows,
and the vengeance felt
in white hearts, the sun
abandoned its heat, life.
No peace separates us from
rent red hearts of guilty Sioux,
no rain washes hatred away
or fear of scalps piling high.
Few of my braves stirred
into the cauldron, yes, but
justice for them would be
justice for all of our tribe:
our homes now abandoned,
our fields now burned, our
weapons broken, tools seized
to humiliate each sinew of work.
I will not kneel to pray again.
Prairie nights will be cold.
More new days burden us so.
Whites will displace yet again,
to emptiness in the Indian lands.
Never to Kneel
I laugh in ample space among elms; in my field,
so much pleasure, persistent, through my years.
Seasons speed past, yes, but my father left me
not only his land, from his father, generations
in fact, but with no trace of malice detectable.
Hard winds may punish things staunch: family
that abandons shelter; me risking too much
on the tractor aiming at long furrows, no time
for a voice to escape; but still hardly one step
from complete perfection, a permanent faith.
Snow may deluge the path, but all is at peace.
My neighbor rebukes time passing as an enemy:
he finishes his work, but hates both cold and heat;
he rushes himself and his family to the foundation
of the house, to face the brutal storm; he exposes
his family to troubling fears, but meaning no harm.
My neighbor defiles this land, his land by right;
demeans the soil that gives him life, not to kneel.
Bionote
Keith Moul’s poems and photos are published widely. Finishing Line Press released a chap called The Future as a Picnic Lunch in 2015. Aldrich Press published Naked Among Possibilities in 2016; Finishing Line Press has just released (1/17) Investment in Idolatry. In August, 2017, Aldrich Press released Not on Any Map, a collection of earlier poems. These poems are from a new work about prairie life through U.S. history, including regional trials, character, and attachment to the land.
After the massacre of whites,
the long row of gallows,
and the vengeance felt
in white hearts, the sun
abandoned its heat, life.
No peace separates us from
rent red hearts of guilty Sioux,
no rain washes hatred away
or fear of scalps piling high.
Few of my braves stirred
into the cauldron, yes, but
justice for them would be
justice for all of our tribe:
our homes now abandoned,
our fields now burned, our
weapons broken, tools seized
to humiliate each sinew of work.
I will not kneel to pray again.
Prairie nights will be cold.
More new days burden us so.
Whites will displace yet again,
to emptiness in the Indian lands.
Never to Kneel
I laugh in ample space among elms; in my field,
so much pleasure, persistent, through my years.
Seasons speed past, yes, but my father left me
not only his land, from his father, generations
in fact, but with no trace of malice detectable.
Hard winds may punish things staunch: family
that abandons shelter; me risking too much
on the tractor aiming at long furrows, no time
for a voice to escape; but still hardly one step
from complete perfection, a permanent faith.
Snow may deluge the path, but all is at peace.
My neighbor rebukes time passing as an enemy:
he finishes his work, but hates both cold and heat;
he rushes himself and his family to the foundation
of the house, to face the brutal storm; he exposes
his family to troubling fears, but meaning no harm.
My neighbor defiles this land, his land by right;
demeans the soil that gives him life, not to kneel.
Bionote
Keith Moul’s poems and photos are published widely. Finishing Line Press released a chap called The Future as a Picnic Lunch in 2015. Aldrich Press published Naked Among Possibilities in 2016; Finishing Line Press has just released (1/17) Investment in Idolatry. In August, 2017, Aldrich Press released Not on Any Map, a collection of earlier poems. These poems are from a new work about prairie life through U.S. history, including regional trials, character, and attachment to the land.
5 Poems by Yuan Changming
Nesting
With grasses from epics
Sticks from philosophy
Feathers from contemporary art
We are all busy building nests of meaning
So our souls could settle there
High up as if on Ygdrasil
Avihs || Vishnu
Mornings || they disperse || beyond || the corn
Fields, || separately. ||Sunday
She || throws
Her partner’s computer || (midnight)
Into the garage.|| George ||who
In many || a city || upgraded || his software
Upgraded || hers.
They will || stop over || an island
Separately.|| Your son
Hated || all || mushrooms
George mentions – do you recall || yourself?
To a single mind,|| their spirits || evaporate
Dataism
1/ The End of a Beginning
Given each organism as a biochemical algorithm
Your life is a programed process proving
Your consciousness is actually far less
Valuable than a fucking Frankenstein’s AI
2/ The Beginning of an End
Through human-computer interface
My mind has become part of a robot
While the robot part of me
As data exchanges with my consciousness
Or flow between each other on their own
Where can I find my true self?
Turing Test
There is-- no solution -- to this
--Problem of --the other mind
Harbored-- in my bedmate’s --body:
After --35 years --of marriage
Or communication --inside out--
Are --you a cyborg human, --or
Am I a --human cyborg? --Perhaps
We --are both dreaming in a --virtual world
--Like a lost digital --artifact?
The Meaning of Evolution
More advanced in evolution
Than their human masters are chickens
As they outnumber the stars in the whole
Universe, and occupy every corner of
The entire planet, but as in-dividuals
No chicken can fly higher than a low
Fence, make love within its confinement
Or live together with its children. The only
Thing they do besides laying eggs and growing
Meat is standing there, day and night, as if
Meditating about the meaning of evolution
Bionote
Yuan Changming started to learn the English alphabet in Shanghai at age 19 and published several monographs on translation before leaving China. With a Canadian PhD in English, Yuan currently edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Yuan in Vancouver; credits include ten Pushcart and three Best of the Net nominations, the Naji Naaman's Literary (Honour) Prize 2018, Best of the Best Canadian Poetry (2008-2017), BestNewPoemsOnline, Threepenny Review and 1,469 others across 42 countries.
With grasses from epics
Sticks from philosophy
Feathers from contemporary art
We are all busy building nests of meaning
So our souls could settle there
High up as if on Ygdrasil
Avihs || Vishnu
Mornings || they disperse || beyond || the corn
Fields, || separately. ||Sunday
She || throws
Her partner’s computer || (midnight)
Into the garage.|| George ||who
In many || a city || upgraded || his software
Upgraded || hers.
They will || stop over || an island
Separately.|| Your son
Hated || all || mushrooms
George mentions – do you recall || yourself?
To a single mind,|| their spirits || evaporate
Dataism
1/ The End of a Beginning
Given each organism as a biochemical algorithm
Your life is a programed process proving
Your consciousness is actually far less
Valuable than a fucking Frankenstein’s AI
2/ The Beginning of an End
Through human-computer interface
My mind has become part of a robot
While the robot part of me
As data exchanges with my consciousness
Or flow between each other on their own
Where can I find my true self?
Turing Test
There is-- no solution -- to this
--Problem of --the other mind
Harbored-- in my bedmate’s --body:
After --35 years --of marriage
Or communication --inside out--
Are --you a cyborg human, --or
Am I a --human cyborg? --Perhaps
We --are both dreaming in a --virtual world
--Like a lost digital --artifact?
The Meaning of Evolution
More advanced in evolution
Than their human masters are chickens
As they outnumber the stars in the whole
Universe, and occupy every corner of
The entire planet, but as in-dividuals
No chicken can fly higher than a low
Fence, make love within its confinement
Or live together with its children. The only
Thing they do besides laying eggs and growing
Meat is standing there, day and night, as if
Meditating about the meaning of evolution
Bionote
Yuan Changming started to learn the English alphabet in Shanghai at age 19 and published several monographs on translation before leaving China. With a Canadian PhD in English, Yuan currently edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Yuan in Vancouver; credits include ten Pushcart and three Best of the Net nominations, the Naji Naaman's Literary (Honour) Prize 2018, Best of the Best Canadian Poetry (2008-2017), BestNewPoemsOnline, Threepenny Review and 1,469 others across 42 countries.
2 Poems by Patrick Theron Erickson
EATING DISORDER
I buy the loaf
for want of praise
and break the bread
alone and eat
never missing the leavening
nor the wheat taken away
I grow indolent
on the worthless filler
and never know the lean
nor the stout ones
too long at the lard
nor their leaner friends
forever dieting
The more I’m made
of boastful stuff
the more I binge
the less I purge.
SLALOM
As surely as
wisdom hones its tribute
razor sharp
sanity
is the whetstone
and truth
the razor’s edge
Therefore
keep your wits
about you
and sharpen your skillset
your intellect
Don’t dumb down
to beat the rush
For learning
is a slippery slope
and knowledge
the downhill plunge.
Bionote
Patrick Theron Erickson, a resident of Garland, Texas, a Tree City, just south of Duck Creek, is a retired parish pastor put out to pasture himself. His work has appeared in Poetry Pacific, Grey Sparrow Journal, Cobalt Review, and Burningword Literary Journal, among other publications, and more recently in Right Hand Pointing, Tipton Poetry Journal, Wilderness House Literary Review and Danse Macabre.
I buy the loaf
for want of praise
and break the bread
alone and eat
never missing the leavening
nor the wheat taken away
I grow indolent
on the worthless filler
and never know the lean
nor the stout ones
too long at the lard
nor their leaner friends
forever dieting
The more I’m made
of boastful stuff
the more I binge
the less I purge.
SLALOM
As surely as
wisdom hones its tribute
razor sharp
sanity
is the whetstone
and truth
the razor’s edge
Therefore
keep your wits
about you
and sharpen your skillset
your intellect
Don’t dumb down
to beat the rush
For learning
is a slippery slope
and knowledge
the downhill plunge.
Bionote
Patrick Theron Erickson, a resident of Garland, Texas, a Tree City, just south of Duck Creek, is a retired parish pastor put out to pasture himself. His work has appeared in Poetry Pacific, Grey Sparrow Journal, Cobalt Review, and Burningword Literary Journal, among other publications, and more recently in Right Hand Pointing, Tipton Poetry Journal, Wilderness House Literary Review and Danse Macabre.
4 Poems by Hayley Mitchell Haugen
Ephemeral
(for David)
it can rain down in cinders
at the strike of any kitchen match
get tossed into corners, crumpled
and forgotten among the day’s lost words
look, already it has lifted from us,
floating towards our personal history
like so much paper on the wind
where did it go, our first year —
so fragile, so fleeting — this time
I nearly forgot to cherish
The Blue Wife
read a story once about a woman
who walked into a cornfield, just left
her gaping husband at a roadside Super-quick
and strolled into the embrace of night,
the fireflies closing the gaps behind her,
briefly lighting the spaces she had been.
Blue Wife, though, is no romantic: the forest
behind her house slowly encroaches,
all coyote howl and jaw bone, deer tic
and smothering kudzu. Poison ivy strangles
her shrubbery, darkens the sun porch walls,
and the hope that is the firefly, is too fleeting
to light the way.
Politics
The Grimm girl wakes up in November
To an awful stench
Some tangled evil rotting on the US beaches
In the sewer drains – they call it a transition.
Grimm girl doesn’t wait till January to pack her bags
She simply takes what she can carry,
Retreats back to the forest
Quick and silent
To the safety of the wolves.
Sloth Must Know Something
(for Connor Ewing)
because sloth is always smiling – could be
sloth just sees you coming, turning that head
ninety degrees, or that up high, hanging
around in a forest of rain and clouds,
the best leaves are the ones others can’t reach.
Sloth is so slow algae grows on sloth’s own
furry backside, but that’s all right, sloth thinks,
green camouflaged ball that sloth is, perched in
a fork of tree. Sloth doesn’t get around
much but can breaststroke as well as any
water polo player – if sloth wants to.
Most days are best for snacking, for sleeping –
ten to twenty hours if need be. Sloth’s
got the pacing wired – so what that sloth climbs
only six to eight feet each day? Sloth’s got
this sloth-body down, sloth’s own slothy joy,
like all the other sloths sloth knows, and, yes,
like healing boys.
Bionote
Hayley Mitchell Haugen holds a Ph.D. in 20th Century American Literature from Ohio University and an MFA in poetry from the University of Washington. She is currently an Associate Professor of English at Ohio University Southern, where she teaches courses in composition, American literature, and creative writing. Her chapbook What the Grimm Girl Looks Forward To appears from Finishing Line Press (2016), and poems have appeared, or are forthcoming, in Rattle, Slant, Spillway, Chiron Review, and many other journals. Her critical work appears in Proteus, The Body in Medical Culture, On the Literary Nonfiction of Nancy Mairs, and Stephen King’s Contemporary Classics: Reflections on the Modern Master of Horror, and elsewhere. She edits Sheila-Na-Gig online: https://sheilanagigblog.com/
(for David)
it can rain down in cinders
at the strike of any kitchen match
get tossed into corners, crumpled
and forgotten among the day’s lost words
look, already it has lifted from us,
floating towards our personal history
like so much paper on the wind
where did it go, our first year —
so fragile, so fleeting — this time
I nearly forgot to cherish
The Blue Wife
read a story once about a woman
who walked into a cornfield, just left
her gaping husband at a roadside Super-quick
and strolled into the embrace of night,
the fireflies closing the gaps behind her,
briefly lighting the spaces she had been.
Blue Wife, though, is no romantic: the forest
behind her house slowly encroaches,
all coyote howl and jaw bone, deer tic
and smothering kudzu. Poison ivy strangles
her shrubbery, darkens the sun porch walls,
and the hope that is the firefly, is too fleeting
to light the way.
Politics
The Grimm girl wakes up in November
To an awful stench
Some tangled evil rotting on the US beaches
In the sewer drains – they call it a transition.
Grimm girl doesn’t wait till January to pack her bags
She simply takes what she can carry,
Retreats back to the forest
Quick and silent
To the safety of the wolves.
Sloth Must Know Something
(for Connor Ewing)
because sloth is always smiling – could be
sloth just sees you coming, turning that head
ninety degrees, or that up high, hanging
around in a forest of rain and clouds,
the best leaves are the ones others can’t reach.
Sloth is so slow algae grows on sloth’s own
furry backside, but that’s all right, sloth thinks,
green camouflaged ball that sloth is, perched in
a fork of tree. Sloth doesn’t get around
much but can breaststroke as well as any
water polo player – if sloth wants to.
Most days are best for snacking, for sleeping –
ten to twenty hours if need be. Sloth’s
got the pacing wired – so what that sloth climbs
only six to eight feet each day? Sloth’s got
this sloth-body down, sloth’s own slothy joy,
like all the other sloths sloth knows, and, yes,
like healing boys.
Bionote
Hayley Mitchell Haugen holds a Ph.D. in 20th Century American Literature from Ohio University and an MFA in poetry from the University of Washington. She is currently an Associate Professor of English at Ohio University Southern, where she teaches courses in composition, American literature, and creative writing. Her chapbook What the Grimm Girl Looks Forward To appears from Finishing Line Press (2016), and poems have appeared, or are forthcoming, in Rattle, Slant, Spillway, Chiron Review, and many other journals. Her critical work appears in Proteus, The Body in Medical Culture, On the Literary Nonfiction of Nancy Mairs, and Stephen King’s Contemporary Classics: Reflections on the Modern Master of Horror, and elsewhere. She edits Sheila-Na-Gig online: https://sheilanagigblog.com/
1 Poem by Ken Williams
EARTH IS SICK
Earth is sick
feverish ocean temperatures
birth monster storms
still-born fishing grounds
heat shimmering off baked lands, drying
dying farm lands, ravaged forests
fifty-foot towering monster waves
chews shores
high tides swamping lowlands
thunder shoots from mouths of cannons
harsh hellish winds, sounding like crying butterflies
having their wings pulled off
rushes us as a malevolent force
and—lighting hurled by angry gods
Earth is sick
feverish symptoms
coma thrashing nightmares
hurricanes larger than mythical legends
rise ever higher
Earth’s attempt to heal mankind’s
foolish actions—poisonous flooding of
her skies before its too late
Fools, Fool-In-Chief
driven by insane greed
ignoring reality
till it is too late
Earth is sick
pandemic fires sweep the West
flooding skies with ash
reducing sun to smudgy ball of fire
Hurricanes harass the Gulf
epic tornados tear the Heartland
killer floods swamp Bangladesh
Deliriously Earth tosses and turns
fighting desperately for her life
only way she knows how
like our bodies would, do fight an infection
only question is:
Will the human race fight likewise
or, instead will we go quietly
into that good night
Bionote
Ken Williams worked as a social worker for the homeless, primary the mentally ill, but including veterans, women, the elderly, drug and alcohol addicted and the physically disabled in Santa Barbara CA for over thirty years. His dedication to his clients has been acknowledged by the Board of Supervisors, the State Senate, State Assembly, A.C.L.U. Santa Barbara Chapter, Housing Authority, California chapter of the National Association of Social Workers, Mental Health Association, Salvation Army, Catholic Charities, National Council on Alcoholism and Drug Abuse and others. The late Paul Walker highlighted his work in the documentary, SHELTER which Paul produced. He is a disabled combat Marine veteran of the Vietnam War.
His writings have appeared in Columbia University’s: Columbia Journal, Cecile’s Magazine, the Huffington Post, The Potomac, A journal of Poetry and Politics, Mobius, Better Than Starbucks, The Criterion, Slab Lit. Mag. U. Penn, , S/tick Magazine, The Fear of Monkeys, Indiana Voice Journal, VietNow, Haggard and Halloo, Scars Productions, Military Experience and the Arts, Resistance is Fertile, Bitchin’ Kitsch, Metaphor Magazine, The Good Men Project, Edhat, 1888.center The Creative Truth, noozhawk, Down In The Dirt Magazine, Hektoen International, Ibis Head Review, Hello Horror, Santa Barbara Independent and the News-Press. FRACTURED ANGEL is his most recent novel.
Earth is sick
feverish ocean temperatures
birth monster storms
still-born fishing grounds
heat shimmering off baked lands, drying
dying farm lands, ravaged forests
fifty-foot towering monster waves
chews shores
high tides swamping lowlands
thunder shoots from mouths of cannons
harsh hellish winds, sounding like crying butterflies
having their wings pulled off
rushes us as a malevolent force
and—lighting hurled by angry gods
Earth is sick
feverish symptoms
coma thrashing nightmares
hurricanes larger than mythical legends
rise ever higher
Earth’s attempt to heal mankind’s
foolish actions—poisonous flooding of
her skies before its too late
Fools, Fool-In-Chief
driven by insane greed
ignoring reality
till it is too late
Earth is sick
pandemic fires sweep the West
flooding skies with ash
reducing sun to smudgy ball of fire
Hurricanes harass the Gulf
epic tornados tear the Heartland
killer floods swamp Bangladesh
Deliriously Earth tosses and turns
fighting desperately for her life
only way she knows how
like our bodies would, do fight an infection
only question is:
Will the human race fight likewise
or, instead will we go quietly
into that good night
Bionote
Ken Williams worked as a social worker for the homeless, primary the mentally ill, but including veterans, women, the elderly, drug and alcohol addicted and the physically disabled in Santa Barbara CA for over thirty years. His dedication to his clients has been acknowledged by the Board of Supervisors, the State Senate, State Assembly, A.C.L.U. Santa Barbara Chapter, Housing Authority, California chapter of the National Association of Social Workers, Mental Health Association, Salvation Army, Catholic Charities, National Council on Alcoholism and Drug Abuse and others. The late Paul Walker highlighted his work in the documentary, SHELTER which Paul produced. He is a disabled combat Marine veteran of the Vietnam War.
His writings have appeared in Columbia University’s: Columbia Journal, Cecile’s Magazine, the Huffington Post, The Potomac, A journal of Poetry and Politics, Mobius, Better Than Starbucks, The Criterion, Slab Lit. Mag. U. Penn, , S/tick Magazine, The Fear of Monkeys, Indiana Voice Journal, VietNow, Haggard and Halloo, Scars Productions, Military Experience and the Arts, Resistance is Fertile, Bitchin’ Kitsch, Metaphor Magazine, The Good Men Project, Edhat, 1888.center The Creative Truth, noozhawk, Down In The Dirt Magazine, Hektoen International, Ibis Head Review, Hello Horror, Santa Barbara Independent and the News-Press. FRACTURED ANGEL is his most recent novel.
1 Poem by Darren C. Demaree
EMILY AS THE ROT
I am not aging well.
Emily is aging appropriately.
I’m glad we made extra promises
to each other after
that wedding ended.
Bionote
My poems have appeared, or are scheduled to appear in numerous magazines/journals, including Diode, Meridian, New Letters, Diagram, and the Colorado Review.
I am the author of six poetry collections, most recently 'Many Full Hands Applauding Inelegantly' (2016, 8th House Publishing). My seventh collection 'Two Towns Over' was selected as the winner of the Louise Bogan Award by Trio House Press, and is scheduled to be released in March of 2018. I am the Managing Editor of the Best of the Net Anthology and Ovenbird Poetry.
I am currently living and writing in Columbus, Ohio with my wife and children.
I am not aging well.
Emily is aging appropriately.
I’m glad we made extra promises
to each other after
that wedding ended.
Bionote
My poems have appeared, or are scheduled to appear in numerous magazines/journals, including Diode, Meridian, New Letters, Diagram, and the Colorado Review.
I am the author of six poetry collections, most recently 'Many Full Hands Applauding Inelegantly' (2016, 8th House Publishing). My seventh collection 'Two Towns Over' was selected as the winner of the Louise Bogan Award by Trio House Press, and is scheduled to be released in March of 2018. I am the Managing Editor of the Best of the Net Anthology and Ovenbird Poetry.
I am currently living and writing in Columbus, Ohio with my wife and children.
3 Poems by Grant Guy
Until
My language and voice to give what I saw as truth was crippled
I crippled my voice myself to keep the unwanted language at a distance
Unable to do harm because love and death are the same word
I thought the walls I built were as strong as a granite to keep the words out
Until
Until you found my heart and made it virtuous
Until you found my bed and made it virtuous
Until you eroded the granite stone fortress against the unwanted words
A new sound has entered into my ears that are not frightful
It does not matter if we are in the quiet hours of the night
Or in the golden daylight of a July afternoon
Wherever the words new sound travels in laughter or tears
We could be holding hands or kissing the new sound
You could be angry at me or I angry at you
Sings sings sings out
The new sound the new song of my wanted language
I
Love you
The Pioneer of Hope Collapsed
The pioneer of hope collapsed
At the feet of the veteran of despair
The pioneer's funeral was a sad occasion
The preacher was late being caught up up in cross town traffic
And forgot the the name of pioneer fumbling through his notes
An out of tune marching band played the Danse Macabre
The faint hearted mourners wrapped in bronze dread
Their acid malevolent blind eyed faces void of the next day
Projected out onto the super highway's dead end
Were turning to pillars of cynicism
Deaf mute and blind
Yet
Somewhere a sunlit cellar
Here there and everywhere
Seen and not seen
Scene and not scene
The orphaned children of the pioneer
Are secretly birthed Zeus
I Was a Disease
I was a disease
All that came close to me got sick
Until she soothed the man
And made me human
The end of pain
She took into the shadow of love
She did not lead me
She did not hold my hand
She was not the Stalker in the zone of love
I took footfall steps of trepidations steps
Sliding one foot carefully in front of me
I crossed to the other side of the shadow
Like a swimming reaching the far shore of a lake
I wanted to shout out the love that renewed me
She put a finger to her lips
A whispered is the proper refrain
Do not shout out my love like a boastful worshipper
Do not make a scene of my redemption
To be in it is enough
To live it is enough
I walked through the shadow of love
Bionote
Grant Guy is a Winnipeg, Canada, poet, writer and playwright. Former artistic director of Adhere + Deny. His writings have been published in Canada, the United States, Wales, India and England. He has three books published. He was the 2004 recipient of the MAC’s 2004 Award of Distinction and the 2017 recipient of the WAC’s Making A Difference Award.
My language and voice to give what I saw as truth was crippled
I crippled my voice myself to keep the unwanted language at a distance
Unable to do harm because love and death are the same word
I thought the walls I built were as strong as a granite to keep the words out
Until
Until you found my heart and made it virtuous
Until you found my bed and made it virtuous
Until you eroded the granite stone fortress against the unwanted words
A new sound has entered into my ears that are not frightful
It does not matter if we are in the quiet hours of the night
Or in the golden daylight of a July afternoon
Wherever the words new sound travels in laughter or tears
We could be holding hands or kissing the new sound
You could be angry at me or I angry at you
Sings sings sings out
The new sound the new song of my wanted language
I
Love you
The Pioneer of Hope Collapsed
The pioneer of hope collapsed
At the feet of the veteran of despair
The pioneer's funeral was a sad occasion
The preacher was late being caught up up in cross town traffic
And forgot the the name of pioneer fumbling through his notes
An out of tune marching band played the Danse Macabre
The faint hearted mourners wrapped in bronze dread
Their acid malevolent blind eyed faces void of the next day
Projected out onto the super highway's dead end
Were turning to pillars of cynicism
Deaf mute and blind
Yet
Somewhere a sunlit cellar
Here there and everywhere
Seen and not seen
Scene and not scene
The orphaned children of the pioneer
Are secretly birthed Zeus
I Was a Disease
I was a disease
All that came close to me got sick
Until she soothed the man
And made me human
The end of pain
She took into the shadow of love
She did not lead me
She did not hold my hand
She was not the Stalker in the zone of love
I took footfall steps of trepidations steps
Sliding one foot carefully in front of me
I crossed to the other side of the shadow
Like a swimming reaching the far shore of a lake
I wanted to shout out the love that renewed me
She put a finger to her lips
A whispered is the proper refrain
Do not shout out my love like a boastful worshipper
Do not make a scene of my redemption
To be in it is enough
To live it is enough
I walked through the shadow of love
Bionote
Grant Guy is a Winnipeg, Canada, poet, writer and playwright. Former artistic director of Adhere + Deny. His writings have been published in Canada, the United States, Wales, India and England. He has three books published. He was the 2004 recipient of the MAC’s 2004 Award of Distinction and the 2017 recipient of the WAC’s Making A Difference Award.
2 Poems by Megan Denese Mealor
Obstinance
your aberration
is dyslexic and frail,
bats beating at the brink
maniacal mirage
of untapped blue devils
and untested claws
still lamenting the loss of your geometry
you believe in nothing
but Van Gogh’ s fatal heart
ink into armor into prism into psalm
psalm into sonnet into starling into song
painting true love as an exaltation of larks
Suicide Attack
I raised the dead once,
by the handhold of a coma,
beneath the ruin of our grave.
They came stumbling
with their graceless marrow
clamoring from cobwebs,
gasping for the breath
reserved for my last rose.
They sobbed with transient twilight,
choking on severed shadows
from terminal sunsets
and blood-boiling moons.
They asked me, voiceless, waning,
how did I see the sky?
I answered:
in every battling, burning color,
in every flicker of foaming fire
beyond his storming seas.
Bionote
Megan Denese Mealor spins words into wars in Jacksonville, Florida, where she lives in imperfect harmony with her partner and 4-year-old son. Her work has appeared in numerous journals, most recently Literally Stories, The Ekphrastic Review, Haikuniverse, Right Hand Pointing, Neologism Poetry Journal, Liquid Imagination, Former People, and Third Wednesday. Diagnosed with bipolar disorder in her teens, Megan’s main mission as a writer is to inspire others feeling stigmatized by mental illness.
your aberration
is dyslexic and frail,
bats beating at the brink
maniacal mirage
of untapped blue devils
and untested claws
still lamenting the loss of your geometry
you believe in nothing
but Van Gogh’ s fatal heart
ink into armor into prism into psalm
psalm into sonnet into starling into song
painting true love as an exaltation of larks
Suicide Attack
I raised the dead once,
by the handhold of a coma,
beneath the ruin of our grave.
They came stumbling
with their graceless marrow
clamoring from cobwebs,
gasping for the breath
reserved for my last rose.
They sobbed with transient twilight,
choking on severed shadows
from terminal sunsets
and blood-boiling moons.
They asked me, voiceless, waning,
how did I see the sky?
I answered:
in every battling, burning color,
in every flicker of foaming fire
beyond his storming seas.
Bionote
Megan Denese Mealor spins words into wars in Jacksonville, Florida, where she lives in imperfect harmony with her partner and 4-year-old son. Her work has appeared in numerous journals, most recently Literally Stories, The Ekphrastic Review, Haikuniverse, Right Hand Pointing, Neologism Poetry Journal, Liquid Imagination, Former People, and Third Wednesday. Diagnosed with bipolar disorder in her teens, Megan’s main mission as a writer is to inspire others feeling stigmatized by mental illness.
5 Poems by Alice Elizabeth Rogoff
Sesshu
Sesshu’s
black lines,
inking leaves,
limbs of trees
white spaces,
painting in a circle
snow on paper,
snowfall on paper,
feeling of harmony
in the winter sky.
Sesshu: Fifteenth Century Japanese Zen monk and artist.
Call It Bloom
The amaryllis
is three feet tall,
its red blossoms
beginning to open.
At the museum,
Georgia O’Keeffe’s
flowers bloom
on canvas.
In the conservatory’s gardens,
the tropical plants
wait to be
drawn.
The Train Across Canada
The train
Veering and winding
Through the mountain paths
The train drops down steep inclines
The tamaracks
Pines that change from green to gold
Shivers of needles
Translating
The frost
Settling
Through the window
The moon
Like a white dog
Howls melodiously
We sing softly to ourselves
Beyond the mountain paths
A native village
Beyond my sight.
Geometry Problem
White wolves
Howl on blank pages
On Montana mornings
And California switchbacks.
Coyotes roam
Urban hills,
Lovers roll in the snow
Creating angels.
Angels fly in the tree tops,
And sometimes I’m happy
As the night wraps
Its arms around stars and me.
The Chagall Exhibit of the Bible
at the Jewish Museum, New York City
On the walls of the Jewish Museum,
Pictures of the animals
And the ark,
Like our life,
Our rocky voyages
Bouncing off Central Park,
Horses trotting by;
Doves will fly back,
And bring news of land,
Messages of hope,
Arriving together
At high school reunions,
Coupling on swaying boats,
Planning trips to
Archaeological sites
In Turkey,
We are suspended
On a point on top of
A hill,
The water seeping away,
Revealing dry ground;
Green pastures
Appearing.
Bionote
Alice Elizabeth Rogoff, originally from New Rochelle, New York, lives in San Francisco. She has an MA in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University. Her poetry book Mural won a Blue Light Book Award, and another poetry book Barge Wood is published by CC. Marimbo Press. She received an Individual Literary grant from the San Francisco Arts Commission for a poetry project. She is a Co-Editor of the Haight Ashbury Literary Journal.
Sesshu’s
black lines,
inking leaves,
limbs of trees
white spaces,
painting in a circle
snow on paper,
snowfall on paper,
feeling of harmony
in the winter sky.
Sesshu: Fifteenth Century Japanese Zen monk and artist.
Call It Bloom
The amaryllis
is three feet tall,
its red blossoms
beginning to open.
At the museum,
Georgia O’Keeffe’s
flowers bloom
on canvas.
In the conservatory’s gardens,
the tropical plants
wait to be
drawn.
The Train Across Canada
The train
Veering and winding
Through the mountain paths
The train drops down steep inclines
The tamaracks
Pines that change from green to gold
Shivers of needles
Translating
The frost
Settling
Through the window
The moon
Like a white dog
Howls melodiously
We sing softly to ourselves
Beyond the mountain paths
A native village
Beyond my sight.
Geometry Problem
White wolves
Howl on blank pages
On Montana mornings
And California switchbacks.
Coyotes roam
Urban hills,
Lovers roll in the snow
Creating angels.
Angels fly in the tree tops,
And sometimes I’m happy
As the night wraps
Its arms around stars and me.
The Chagall Exhibit of the Bible
at the Jewish Museum, New York City
On the walls of the Jewish Museum,
Pictures of the animals
And the ark,
Like our life,
Our rocky voyages
Bouncing off Central Park,
Horses trotting by;
Doves will fly back,
And bring news of land,
Messages of hope,
Arriving together
At high school reunions,
Coupling on swaying boats,
Planning trips to
Archaeological sites
In Turkey,
We are suspended
On a point on top of
A hill,
The water seeping away,
Revealing dry ground;
Green pastures
Appearing.
Bionote
Alice Elizabeth Rogoff, originally from New Rochelle, New York, lives in San Francisco. She has an MA in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University. Her poetry book Mural won a Blue Light Book Award, and another poetry book Barge Wood is published by CC. Marimbo Press. She received an Individual Literary grant from the San Francisco Arts Commission for a poetry project. She is a Co-Editor of the Haight Ashbury Literary Journal.
3 Poems by John Bartlett
THE BLUE
The blue of the ocean snatched up by sky
Fog smudges this perfect landscape
I wait to be called by name
The violinist on the street oblivious
Fog smudges this perfect landscape
Apple-trees glow like stop lights
The violinist on the street oblivious
As children sleep, buried in dreams
Apple-trees glow like stop lights
Crowds surge like advancing tides
As children sleep, buried in dreams
The sea drifts on with no guilt
Crowds surge like advancing tides
Somewhere a single gull complains
The sea drifts on with no guilt
A small boat on a vast canvas
Somewhere a single gull complains
I wait to be called by name
A small boat on a vast canvas
The blue of the ocean snatched up by sky
SHAME
Let tides untie my deep desires,
retreating waves reveal my shameful dreams.
The roar of surf cannot erase
past deeds so badly done.
My crimes fly all around me
like startled crows in fright.
My guilt and shame,
the signs I tried,
but often failed to be
the man I thought I was.
Danger
A knife in a drawer full of spoons
Smiles unsheathed like swords
Dangers lurks in the bottom of your glass
Outside the door marauding tigers
A teabag might strangle you
A lawnmower take revenge
Sharks tread water patiently at beaches
Even serial killers queue at libraries
Assassins lurk in every shadow
Why bother getting up in the morning?
The cat might break your leg
But there’s something truly compelling about living
Even if it’s all over just too soon.
Bionote
John Bartlett‘s non-fiction and essays have been widely published and will be collated into an e-book entitled A Tiny and Brilliant Light to be released in November 2017. He is the author of two novels, Towards a Distant Sea and Estuary and a collection of short stories, All Mortal Flesh. He blogs regularly at: http://beyondtheestuary.com/
The blue of the ocean snatched up by sky
Fog smudges this perfect landscape
I wait to be called by name
The violinist on the street oblivious
Fog smudges this perfect landscape
Apple-trees glow like stop lights
The violinist on the street oblivious
As children sleep, buried in dreams
Apple-trees glow like stop lights
Crowds surge like advancing tides
As children sleep, buried in dreams
The sea drifts on with no guilt
Crowds surge like advancing tides
Somewhere a single gull complains
The sea drifts on with no guilt
A small boat on a vast canvas
Somewhere a single gull complains
I wait to be called by name
A small boat on a vast canvas
The blue of the ocean snatched up by sky
SHAME
Let tides untie my deep desires,
retreating waves reveal my shameful dreams.
The roar of surf cannot erase
past deeds so badly done.
My crimes fly all around me
like startled crows in fright.
My guilt and shame,
the signs I tried,
but often failed to be
the man I thought I was.
Danger
A knife in a drawer full of spoons
Smiles unsheathed like swords
Dangers lurks in the bottom of your glass
Outside the door marauding tigers
A teabag might strangle you
A lawnmower take revenge
Sharks tread water patiently at beaches
Even serial killers queue at libraries
Assassins lurk in every shadow
Why bother getting up in the morning?
The cat might break your leg
But there’s something truly compelling about living
Even if it’s all over just too soon.
Bionote
John Bartlett‘s non-fiction and essays have been widely published and will be collated into an e-book entitled A Tiny and Brilliant Light to be released in November 2017. He is the author of two novels, Towards a Distant Sea and Estuary and a collection of short stories, All Mortal Flesh. He blogs regularly at: http://beyondtheestuary.com/
1 Poem by James Croal Jackson
PORTRAIT OF A KITCHEN
Rather, it’s about the void she left
behind– no dirty dishes in the sink,
no hand to move the plates out
from the coffins of the cabinets.
Used to be hot soup was what
we wanted to come home to
when we wanted to come
home, but the chicken rots
in the fridge and even its
memory chokes on
cold forever air
Bionote
James Croal Jackson is the author of The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights Press, 2017). His poetry has appeared in FLAPPERHOUSE, Yes Poetry, Serving House Journal, and elsewhere. He edits The Mantle, a poetry journal. Find him in Columbus, Ohio or at jimjakk.com.
Rather, it’s about the void she left
behind– no dirty dishes in the sink,
no hand to move the plates out
from the coffins of the cabinets.
Used to be hot soup was what
we wanted to come home to
when we wanted to come
home, but the chicken rots
in the fridge and even its
memory chokes on
cold forever air
Bionote
James Croal Jackson is the author of The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights Press, 2017). His poetry has appeared in FLAPPERHOUSE, Yes Poetry, Serving House Journal, and elsewhere. He edits The Mantle, a poetry journal. Find him in Columbus, Ohio or at jimjakk.com.
2 Poems by Larry Rogers
Sipping a Bud in the He’s Not Here Club
It made the cowboys nervous
when the cowgirls began
dancing with each other;
there were so many cowboys
willing and available.
When the cowgirls persisted
the cowboys became morose.
Even today many sit bitterly alone
or simply dumbfounded
in dimly-lit roadhouses
Intact
Every so often a certain expression
will creep or romp across her face
revealing something else about her
that she doesn’t want known. “It’s
what you get for harboring so many
secrets,” he good-naturedly chides.
“Someday, like those dancers at the Gentleman’s
Club, you’ll be totally exposed.” “That
isn’t funny and neither is this,” she advises,
sweeping up the pieces of a favorite vase
he knocked over tiptoeing in earlier this morning.
“You break everything you touch,” she tells him.
But when he touches her later she appears to remain intact.
Bionote
Larry Rogers is a singer/songwriter. Growing up, he lived for a while in Berkeley and Compton, California, but was mostly raised in a potting shed trailer in the piney woods of west central Arkansas--a sanctuary for moonshiners, marijuana growers, and merry (and not-so-merry) pranksters. His poems and stories have appeared in Misfit, Hanging Loose, Nerve Cowboy, Pearl, Rattle, Wormwood Review, and The Denver Post. He lives with his wife in Fort Smith, Arkansas.
It made the cowboys nervous
when the cowgirls began
dancing with each other;
there were so many cowboys
willing and available.
When the cowgirls persisted
the cowboys became morose.
Even today many sit bitterly alone
or simply dumbfounded
in dimly-lit roadhouses
Intact
Every so often a certain expression
will creep or romp across her face
revealing something else about her
that she doesn’t want known. “It’s
what you get for harboring so many
secrets,” he good-naturedly chides.
“Someday, like those dancers at the Gentleman’s
Club, you’ll be totally exposed.” “That
isn’t funny and neither is this,” she advises,
sweeping up the pieces of a favorite vase
he knocked over tiptoeing in earlier this morning.
“You break everything you touch,” she tells him.
But when he touches her later she appears to remain intact.
Bionote
Larry Rogers is a singer/songwriter. Growing up, he lived for a while in Berkeley and Compton, California, but was mostly raised in a potting shed trailer in the piney woods of west central Arkansas--a sanctuary for moonshiners, marijuana growers, and merry (and not-so-merry) pranksters. His poems and stories have appeared in Misfit, Hanging Loose, Nerve Cowboy, Pearl, Rattle, Wormwood Review, and The Denver Post. He lives with his wife in Fort Smith, Arkansas.
2 Poems by Johnny Longfellow
Goodnight
—for Diane
I’m telling ya’—really!—they’re only friends.
It’s jus’ . . . well . . . evenin’s drawin’ to a close,
An’ though they’ve done their best, it always ends
The same ol’ way. Grown shy now, nose to nose,
There’s no goodnight ‘til someone reaches out
To hol’ the other. See? They’re drawn inside
That unmapped place, where, fearful, full o’ doubt,
Both long to lose their way.
Ya’ think they’ve lied?
If so, their lie is rendered with such care
As only two ol’ friends can show (his hand,
All tender, brushes back a wisp o’ hair;
Her neck, more tender . . . mmmmmm). They understand
What’s placed at risk. They try to make it right:
They’re friends. They kiss. They only kiss goodnight.
Postcard to my Suicide
Dear S—
I thought o’ you,
and jus’ the other night,
in fact. It made me feel
I really oughta write
this little note an’ say,
I love it here. The sky
is blue. The sea is blue.
An’ well . . . that’s all.
Bye-bye
Bionote
Johnny Longfellow is the editor of the online poetry site, Midnight Lane Boutique. His own poetry has appeared in The Barefoot Muse, The Road Not Taken, The Rotary Dial, and other journals. In addition, he has served for over twenty years as a mentor to Newburyport, MA high school students through the Poetry Soup reading program and print journal. Follow him on Twitter @BAD_ACID_LABS
—for Diane
I’m telling ya’—really!—they’re only friends.
It’s jus’ . . . well . . . evenin’s drawin’ to a close,
An’ though they’ve done their best, it always ends
The same ol’ way. Grown shy now, nose to nose,
There’s no goodnight ‘til someone reaches out
To hol’ the other. See? They’re drawn inside
That unmapped place, where, fearful, full o’ doubt,
Both long to lose their way.
Ya’ think they’ve lied?
If so, their lie is rendered with such care
As only two ol’ friends can show (his hand,
All tender, brushes back a wisp o’ hair;
Her neck, more tender . . . mmmmmm). They understand
What’s placed at risk. They try to make it right:
They’re friends. They kiss. They only kiss goodnight.
Postcard to my Suicide
Dear S—
I thought o’ you,
and jus’ the other night,
in fact. It made me feel
I really oughta write
this little note an’ say,
I love it here. The sky
is blue. The sea is blue.
An’ well . . . that’s all.
Bye-bye
Bionote
Johnny Longfellow is the editor of the online poetry site, Midnight Lane Boutique. His own poetry has appeared in The Barefoot Muse, The Road Not Taken, The Rotary Dial, and other journals. In addition, he has served for over twenty years as a mentor to Newburyport, MA high school students through the Poetry Soup reading program and print journal. Follow him on Twitter @BAD_ACID_LABS
1 Poem by Adam Reynolds
(solitude)
the most faraway
song, i’ve come
so far without
what has slept
in the decades
not knowing how
to be
knowing what i
am, your touch
wakens
Bionote
Adam Reynolds is published in poetry journals such as Ink Sweat and Tears, Orbis, Borderlines, Ghazal Page, The Literateur, and 10x3, and currently works in heritage in the Middle East.
the most faraway
song, i’ve come
so far without
what has slept
in the decades
not knowing how
to be
knowing what i
am, your touch
wakens
Bionote
Adam Reynolds is published in poetry journals such as Ink Sweat and Tears, Orbis, Borderlines, Ghazal Page, The Literateur, and 10x3, and currently works in heritage in the Middle East.
1 Poem by Pamela Hobart Carter
A TOO LARGE FACE
It is how we think of childhood
and death, paler
than their awful selves, tall
versions when they are taller
and interfere more with cirrus
and icy jet trails
when it is in simple actions
such as sliding a book
from a shelf marked fiction
or stacking delicious impending purchases
on the counter by the cash register
the heart stops
and worlds fail and how
it is—my end, yours—
becomes as obvious
as a too large face
we must admit daily
is familiar and in need of attention
Bionote
Pamela Hobart Carter used to be a teacher who wrote on the side. Now she is a writer who teaches on the side. Some of her plays have been read and produced on Seattle stages. Long ago she trained as a geologist.
It is how we think of childhood
and death, paler
than their awful selves, tall
versions when they are taller
and interfere more with cirrus
and icy jet trails
when it is in simple actions
such as sliding a book
from a shelf marked fiction
or stacking delicious impending purchases
on the counter by the cash register
the heart stops
and worlds fail and how
it is—my end, yours—
becomes as obvious
as a too large face
we must admit daily
is familiar and in need of attention
Bionote
Pamela Hobart Carter used to be a teacher who wrote on the side. Now she is a writer who teaches on the side. Some of her plays have been read and produced on Seattle stages. Long ago she trained as a geologist.
1 Poem by Katacha Díaz
Sunrise Seascape
Ring in the new year, light and carefree,
with early morning hike, binoculars in hand,
to catch first day sunrise at Makapu’u Head.
See stunning views of O’ahu’s windward
coast, turquoise sea below, offshore islets,
and red-roofed Makapu’u Lighthouse.
Binoculars, viewing scope and interpretive
sign along the trail help identify Hawaiian
seabirds and spot migrating humpback whales.
Capturing the first day sunrise in a tropical
paradise is like a love affair —
so beautiful that it couldn’t last.
But even the briefest of
moments last a lifetime.
Bionote
Katacha Díaz is a Peruvian American writer. Wanderlust and love of travel have taken her all over the world to gather material for her stories. She earned her BA and MPA from the University of Washington. She was a research associate at the University of California, Davis. Among the children’s books she has authored is Badger at Sandy Ridge Road for the Smithsonian Institution’s Backyard series. Her writing appears or is forthcoming with The Pangolin Review, Anak Sastra, The Galway Review, Barely South Review, Westview, Visual Verse, The MacGuffin, Medical Literary Messenger, Cecile's Writers', Peacock Journal, Flash Frontier, New Mexico Review, Gravel, Foliate Oak, and elsewhere. She lives and writes up in her perch with a wide view of the Columbia River in the Pacific Northwest.
Ring in the new year, light and carefree,
with early morning hike, binoculars in hand,
to catch first day sunrise at Makapu’u Head.
See stunning views of O’ahu’s windward
coast, turquoise sea below, offshore islets,
and red-roofed Makapu’u Lighthouse.
Binoculars, viewing scope and interpretive
sign along the trail help identify Hawaiian
seabirds and spot migrating humpback whales.
Capturing the first day sunrise in a tropical
paradise is like a love affair —
so beautiful that it couldn’t last.
But even the briefest of
moments last a lifetime.
Bionote
Katacha Díaz is a Peruvian American writer. Wanderlust and love of travel have taken her all over the world to gather material for her stories. She earned her BA and MPA from the University of Washington. She was a research associate at the University of California, Davis. Among the children’s books she has authored is Badger at Sandy Ridge Road for the Smithsonian Institution’s Backyard series. Her writing appears or is forthcoming with The Pangolin Review, Anak Sastra, The Galway Review, Barely South Review, Westview, Visual Verse, The MacGuffin, Medical Literary Messenger, Cecile's Writers', Peacock Journal, Flash Frontier, New Mexico Review, Gravel, Foliate Oak, and elsewhere. She lives and writes up in her perch with a wide view of the Columbia River in the Pacific Northwest.
1 Poem by Erren Geraud Kelly
Snowflakes
cover the ground like broken
dreams
they are god's fingerprints
left on the world
like a computer
spilling out
code,
the shy sheds its
skin
after showing its
scars.
i watch a woman strip
until her body becomes
winter
i touch her and
she becomes
dreams
Bionote
I am a Two-Time Pushcart nominated poet from Boston . I have been writing for 28 years and
have over 300 publications in print and online in such publications as Hiram Poetry
Review, Mudfish, Poetry Magazine(online), Ceremony, Cacti Fur, Bitterzoet, Cactus Heart, Similar Peaks, Gloom Cupboard, Poetry Salzburg and other publications. My most recent publication
was in Black Heart Literary journal; I have also been published in anthologies such as "
Fertile Ground," and Beyond The Frontier.” My work can also been seen on Youtube
under the " Gallery Cabaret," links. I am also the author of the book, " Disturbing The Peace," on Night Ballet Press. I recieved my B.A. in English-Creative Writing from Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge. I also love to read and I love to travel, having visited 45 states and Canada and
Europe. The themes in my writings vary, but i have always had a soft spot for subjects
and people who are not in the mainstream. But i never limit myself to anything, i always
try to keep an open mind.
cover the ground like broken
dreams
they are god's fingerprints
left on the world
like a computer
spilling out
code,
the shy sheds its
skin
after showing its
scars.
i watch a woman strip
until her body becomes
winter
i touch her and
she becomes
dreams
Bionote
I am a Two-Time Pushcart nominated poet from Boston . I have been writing for 28 years and
have over 300 publications in print and online in such publications as Hiram Poetry
Review, Mudfish, Poetry Magazine(online), Ceremony, Cacti Fur, Bitterzoet, Cactus Heart, Similar Peaks, Gloom Cupboard, Poetry Salzburg and other publications. My most recent publication
was in Black Heart Literary journal; I have also been published in anthologies such as "
Fertile Ground," and Beyond The Frontier.” My work can also been seen on Youtube
under the " Gallery Cabaret," links. I am also the author of the book, " Disturbing The Peace," on Night Ballet Press. I recieved my B.A. in English-Creative Writing from Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge. I also love to read and I love to travel, having visited 45 states and Canada and
Europe. The themes in my writings vary, but i have always had a soft spot for subjects
and people who are not in the mainstream. But i never limit myself to anything, i always
try to keep an open mind.
2 Poems by John Grey
SOLITARY MAN AT THE PARTY
He sat silent on a sofa
between two huddles of loud talkers,
with no idea what he was doing in that place.
He was as still as the December air outside,
while imagining himself
down on his knees,
begging to be allowed into a conversation.
The rooms were crowded
with barely enough room
for him to wonder
if he was really there at all.
He was just another table lamp,
a coaster, a plate of canape crumbs.
Nothing human. Nothing of consequence.
When he got up to leave,
his host thanked him for coming.
He wasn’t sure who she was thanking.
It was only, outside,
in a hallway alone,
that he realized.
WALLFLOWER
You are not fanged.
You are not striped.
And you are far from the bravest.
Your tongue’s not fire.
Your words aren’t sequined.
Silence is the height of your rhetoric.
And here you are,
on that chair against the wall,
immaculately invisible.
You do not hunt.
You are not hunted.
If there’s to be a kill
it has most likely happened already.
Bionote
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Examined Life Journal, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Leading Edge, Poetry East and Midwest Quarterly.
He sat silent on a sofa
between two huddles of loud talkers,
with no idea what he was doing in that place.
He was as still as the December air outside,
while imagining himself
down on his knees,
begging to be allowed into a conversation.
The rooms were crowded
with barely enough room
for him to wonder
if he was really there at all.
He was just another table lamp,
a coaster, a plate of canape crumbs.
Nothing human. Nothing of consequence.
When he got up to leave,
his host thanked him for coming.
He wasn’t sure who she was thanking.
It was only, outside,
in a hallway alone,
that he realized.
WALLFLOWER
You are not fanged.
You are not striped.
And you are far from the bravest.
Your tongue’s not fire.
Your words aren’t sequined.
Silence is the height of your rhetoric.
And here you are,
on that chair against the wall,
immaculately invisible.
You do not hunt.
You are not hunted.
If there’s to be a kill
it has most likely happened already.
Bionote
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Examined Life Journal, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Leading Edge, Poetry East and Midwest Quarterly.
2 Poems by P. C. Scheponik
Sparrow Song
A trinity of sparrows came to me
while I was sitting beneath an oak tree
at a weathered picnic table in the park,
a placid place where I am able
to seek the words that would express
my soul’s deep longing for the caress
of God’s own hand upon its face—
the touch of truth, the feel of grace
loosed in me in bountiful ways.
The perfect moment, time and space
suspended,
as if to wait for beauty and truth to be
blended—
the words to be born—
the meanings bud, the sounds form
their dream petals deep inside.
The way the yolk within the egg resides,
a golden sun that silently hides
‘til it clothes itself in the promise of
feathers, in the purpose of song.
Then breaks free from the shell
to enter the world where it belongs,
for a time to fly, for a time to sing,
like these tiny sparrows so close to me.
I could almost touch; I could almost reach
the truth in their sweet song.
The Understanding
Though I live to write these words on these lines,
they cannot give me life.
They are just a way of holding on to an idea of who
I am.
How I number myself among the multitude of leaves
on the trees, or stars in the sky, or waves in the sea.
Who am I?
Who am I?
How can I be of any significance amidst all I see
of beauty, of beauty’s truth surrounding me
in this world.
Bionote
P.C. Scheponik has published four collections of poems: Psalms to Padre Pio (National Centre for Padre Pio, INC), A Storm by Any Other Name and Songs the Sea has Sung in Me (PS Books, a division of Philadelphia Stories), and And the Sun Still Dared to Shine (Mazo Publishers). His work has also appeared in a number of smaller journals. Most recently he has been published in All the Sins Literary Journal and Adelaide Literary Magazine (Number 7 Volume II June 2017). As well, he was a finalist and winner in Adelaide Literary Magazine Awards 2017 and will be published in the Adelaide Literary Magazine Awards Anthology for 2017.
A trinity of sparrows came to me
while I was sitting beneath an oak tree
at a weathered picnic table in the park,
a placid place where I am able
to seek the words that would express
my soul’s deep longing for the caress
of God’s own hand upon its face—
the touch of truth, the feel of grace
loosed in me in bountiful ways.
The perfect moment, time and space
suspended,
as if to wait for beauty and truth to be
blended—
the words to be born—
the meanings bud, the sounds form
their dream petals deep inside.
The way the yolk within the egg resides,
a golden sun that silently hides
‘til it clothes itself in the promise of
feathers, in the purpose of song.
Then breaks free from the shell
to enter the world where it belongs,
for a time to fly, for a time to sing,
like these tiny sparrows so close to me.
I could almost touch; I could almost reach
the truth in their sweet song.
The Understanding
Though I live to write these words on these lines,
they cannot give me life.
They are just a way of holding on to an idea of who
I am.
How I number myself among the multitude of leaves
on the trees, or stars in the sky, or waves in the sea.
Who am I?
Who am I?
How can I be of any significance amidst all I see
of beauty, of beauty’s truth surrounding me
in this world.
Bionote
P.C. Scheponik has published four collections of poems: Psalms to Padre Pio (National Centre for Padre Pio, INC), A Storm by Any Other Name and Songs the Sea has Sung in Me (PS Books, a division of Philadelphia Stories), and And the Sun Still Dared to Shine (Mazo Publishers). His work has also appeared in a number of smaller journals. Most recently he has been published in All the Sins Literary Journal and Adelaide Literary Magazine (Number 7 Volume II June 2017). As well, he was a finalist and winner in Adelaide Literary Magazine Awards 2017 and will be published in the Adelaide Literary Magazine Awards Anthology for 2017.
2 Poems by Phil Wood
Ignored
The paragraph of mud
muffles our boots. Two birds
skip rocks, a rain-happy stream;
they splash their fearless joy.
Open Window
The butterfly net fraying
in the fossilized light
of his study. My flutter
of childhood escapes.
Bionote
Phil Wood works in a statistics office. He enjoys working with numbers and words. His writing can be found in various publications, including: Jellyfish Whispers, Autumn Sky Daily, Nutshells and Nuggets, Nine Muses Poetry.
The paragraph of mud
muffles our boots. Two birds
skip rocks, a rain-happy stream;
they splash their fearless joy.
Open Window
The butterfly net fraying
in the fossilized light
of his study. My flutter
of childhood escapes.
Bionote
Phil Wood works in a statistics office. He enjoys working with numbers and words. His writing can be found in various publications, including: Jellyfish Whispers, Autumn Sky Daily, Nutshells and Nuggets, Nine Muses Poetry.
2 Poems by Richard Luftig
Oku
In Japanese, a farthest, dead-end place
These unlucky pines
go against their fate.
Each pine the only
pine, each moment
the only one
in this life. I look
and see no-thing,
turn my face
to the hawk
wind, coldest
of winter.
Today is all
I am, perhaps
the last poem
I ever might be.
Poppies
Plant two on your hill
And in fall songbirds will feast
On the seeds. Next spring
You will have one-hundred
Times the flowers spreading
Among the pinyon oak.
Bionote
I am a former professor of educational psychology and special education at Miami University in Ohio now residing in California. My poems and stories have appeared in numerous literary journals in the United States and internationally in, Canada, Australia, Europe, and Asia. Two of my poems recently appeared in Ten Years of Dos Madres Press.
In Japanese, a farthest, dead-end place
These unlucky pines
go against their fate.
Each pine the only
pine, each moment
the only one
in this life. I look
and see no-thing,
turn my face
to the hawk
wind, coldest
of winter.
Today is all
I am, perhaps
the last poem
I ever might be.
Poppies
Plant two on your hill
And in fall songbirds will feast
On the seeds. Next spring
You will have one-hundred
Times the flowers spreading
Among the pinyon oak.
Bionote
I am a former professor of educational psychology and special education at Miami University in Ohio now residing in California. My poems and stories have appeared in numerous literary journals in the United States and internationally in, Canada, Australia, Europe, and Asia. Two of my poems recently appeared in Ten Years of Dos Madres Press.
1 Poem by Diane Webster
FALL DEFIANCE
The October maple leaf
was gifted to me
for its Fall red
wondrousness.
But after a day inside
the leaf curled
until its middle digit
raised defiantly.
Bionote
Diane Webster grew up in Eastern Oregon before she moved to Colorado. She enjoys drives in the mountains to view all the wildlife and scenery and takes amateur photographs. Writing poetry provides a creative outlet exciting in images and phrases Diane thrives in. Her work has appeared in "Philadelphia Poets," "Eunoia Review," "River Poets Journal," and other literary magazines.
The October maple leaf
was gifted to me
for its Fall red
wondrousness.
But after a day inside
the leaf curled
until its middle digit
raised defiantly.
Bionote
Diane Webster grew up in Eastern Oregon before she moved to Colorado. She enjoys drives in the mountains to view all the wildlife and scenery and takes amateur photographs. Writing poetry provides a creative outlet exciting in images and phrases Diane thrives in. Her work has appeared in "Philadelphia Poets," "Eunoia Review," "River Poets Journal," and other literary magazines.
1 Poem by Vicki Iorio
Response to #1263
Tell all the truth but tell it slant--
O Emily, I can tell you about slant
rhymes, half rhymes, half moons
my slant, code name for my secret lips
but you are talking about the truth
sometimes slanted, hooded, fakery
not the slant of my pelvic tilt.
Did you ever tilt your world,
rock the Amherst gloom?
If truth be told
gradually, you say
so to dazzle. I think the truth
should not be a blush growing slowly
but a flash of light igniting veins
exposing birds in the the blind--
I fell in love at Mcnally Jackson
\your hair an unapologetic viper's nest
Your words,
an open invitation
Your belly button beneath bare midriff
a sex organ
Your long legs dressed in pimp bell bottoms
He/She/ binary/cis
When you read your poetry
at McNally Jackson
I died and went to heaven
Let's name our daughter McNally Jackson
Private school baby
We drop her off at Smith
and have a New England weekend
you write me poetry
with words pulled from the ropes of your hair
Bionote
Vicki Iorio is the author of the poetry collection, Poems from the Dirty Couch, Local Gems Press, 2013 and the chapbook, Send me a Letter, dancinggirlpress. You can read Iorio's work in Hell strung and Crooked, I Let Go of the Stars, (Great Weather for Media), The Brownstone Poets Anthology, The San Pedro Review, The Mom Egg, Crack the Spine, The Painted Bride Quarterly, The Fem Lit Magazine, Redheaded Stepchild Magazine, The Paper Street Journal, Poetry Bay, Home Planet News,Concise, Cactus Heart, Rattle on line,South Florida Poetry Journal, 521 Magazine,RatsAss Review, New York Times, blog site, Poetry Super Highway, Eratio Poetry Journal, In Between Hangovers, Conch.es, Anti Heroin Chic, Misfit, Califragile Poetry.
Tell all the truth but tell it slant--
O Emily, I can tell you about slant
rhymes, half rhymes, half moons
my slant, code name for my secret lips
but you are talking about the truth
sometimes slanted, hooded, fakery
not the slant of my pelvic tilt.
Did you ever tilt your world,
rock the Amherst gloom?
If truth be told
gradually, you say
so to dazzle. I think the truth
should not be a blush growing slowly
but a flash of light igniting veins
exposing birds in the the blind--
I fell in love at Mcnally Jackson
\your hair an unapologetic viper's nest
Your words,
an open invitation
Your belly button beneath bare midriff
a sex organ
Your long legs dressed in pimp bell bottoms
He/She/ binary/cis
When you read your poetry
at McNally Jackson
I died and went to heaven
Let's name our daughter McNally Jackson
Private school baby
We drop her off at Smith
and have a New England weekend
you write me poetry
with words pulled from the ropes of your hair
Bionote
Vicki Iorio is the author of the poetry collection, Poems from the Dirty Couch, Local Gems Press, 2013 and the chapbook, Send me a Letter, dancinggirlpress. You can read Iorio's work in Hell strung and Crooked, I Let Go of the Stars, (Great Weather for Media), The Brownstone Poets Anthology, The San Pedro Review, The Mom Egg, Crack the Spine, The Painted Bride Quarterly, The Fem Lit Magazine, Redheaded Stepchild Magazine, The Paper Street Journal, Poetry Bay, Home Planet News,Concise, Cactus Heart, Rattle on line,South Florida Poetry Journal, 521 Magazine,RatsAss Review, New York Times, blog site, Poetry Super Highway, Eratio Poetry Journal, In Between Hangovers, Conch.es, Anti Heroin Chic, Misfit, Califragile Poetry.
2 Poems by Jenny Lu
Joker
strangers across the poker table
i see you
royal flush in your hand
i know it.
you see me
behind my array of cards
undressing me in your head
undoing my mask
and I’ve got you
encapsulated in my smile
that smile
the seductive one,
curve of my lips.
but there are no aces up my sleeve
there are no secrets
you were just a fool
and when you look down again
there
in place of the king:
a joker.
S.S. Evergreens
Sea captains, us two, the boat at our will
Through crashing waves, we steer out of the storm
To moonlight, I swear I will love you still.
When great whites leap, with water the bow fills
Panicked, wet backs against the wind-storm
Sea captains, us two, the boat at our will.
Hold tight, vow safety, to the end I love ’til
Isles afar, red zones, no matter, inform:
To moonlight, I swear I will love you still.
The heavens crack fire, sky looking to kill
But meet our maker, I cannot conform
Sea captains, us two, the boat at our will.
You, panacea, in this temper, my pill
Ice oceans rage, rage, yet you- ever warm
To moonlight, I swear I will love you still.
And I face the night to see white milk spilled
in tides, wishing goodnight, again affirm:
Sea captains, us two, the boat at our will
To moonlight, I swear I will love you still.
strangers across the poker table
i see you
royal flush in your hand
i know it.
you see me
behind my array of cards
undressing me in your head
undoing my mask
and I’ve got you
encapsulated in my smile
that smile
the seductive one,
curve of my lips.
but there are no aces up my sleeve
there are no secrets
you were just a fool
and when you look down again
there
in place of the king:
a joker.
S.S. Evergreens
Sea captains, us two, the boat at our will
Through crashing waves, we steer out of the storm
To moonlight, I swear I will love you still.
When great whites leap, with water the bow fills
Panicked, wet backs against the wind-storm
Sea captains, us two, the boat at our will.
Hold tight, vow safety, to the end I love ’til
Isles afar, red zones, no matter, inform:
To moonlight, I swear I will love you still.
The heavens crack fire, sky looking to kill
But meet our maker, I cannot conform
Sea captains, us two, the boat at our will.
You, panacea, in this temper, my pill
Ice oceans rage, rage, yet you- ever warm
To moonlight, I swear I will love you still.
And I face the night to see white milk spilled
in tides, wishing goodnight, again affirm:
Sea captains, us two, the boat at our will
To moonlight, I swear I will love you still.
3 Poems by Mark J. Mitchell
PUBLIC INSECURITY
Everyone on the inbound bus
thinks their small secrets are safe but
the thin man, three seats from the back,
he sees them all, he knows them all.
That woman—with the gray, askew
face she forgot her lipstick,
but knows it is on the counter,
smiles, knows his wife will find it soon.
And the man in the blue suit and joke
tie—he misplaced his faith—just
last night. He’s sure it will come back,
so he shakes his sure Chronicle.
A mother looks at her short son—
neat in his uniform sweater—bites
back the iron taste in her mouth.
Children should not know their parents.
Watching, he is careful never to take
notes. He won’t draw pictures. That’s
against his rules. It is enough to know
that no one knows the things he knows.
RELIGIOUS VISIONS
In my mouth I taste sacrilege —Sylvia Grénier Salome
When you look
through ashes
the world seems dusty
and fingerprints mar
the spout on your white
teapot. Smoke kisses
your eyelids while
you watch bus after bus
hiss by like seconds
and the day seems shot,
veined with thin cracks
like that antique mirror
you see through
ash-colored bifocals.
DAILY REPORT
It’s simple to forget morning
already absent from rear-view mirrors.
Afternoons have no voice,
unless baseball is played below the sun.
A littered table is all that’s left
this evening—names escape lightly
as butterflies. Dreams are scattered
like pennies from a child’s broken bank.
Bionote
Mark J. Mitchell’s latest novel, The Magic War just appeared from Loose Leaves Publishing. He studied writing at UC Santa Cruz under Raymond Carver and George Hitchcock. His work has appeared in the several anthologies and hundreds of periodicals. Three of his chapbooks— Three Visitors, Lent, 1999, and Artifacts and Relics—and the novel, Knight Prisoner are available through Amazon and Barnes and Noble.. He lives with his wife the activist and documentarian, Joan Juster and makes a living pointing out pretty things in San Francisco.
Everyone on the inbound bus
thinks their small secrets are safe but
the thin man, three seats from the back,
he sees them all, he knows them all.
That woman—with the gray, askew
face she forgot her lipstick,
but knows it is on the counter,
smiles, knows his wife will find it soon.
And the man in the blue suit and joke
tie—he misplaced his faith—just
last night. He’s sure it will come back,
so he shakes his sure Chronicle.
A mother looks at her short son—
neat in his uniform sweater—bites
back the iron taste in her mouth.
Children should not know their parents.
Watching, he is careful never to take
notes. He won’t draw pictures. That’s
against his rules. It is enough to know
that no one knows the things he knows.
RELIGIOUS VISIONS
In my mouth I taste sacrilege —Sylvia Grénier Salome
When you look
through ashes
the world seems dusty
and fingerprints mar
the spout on your white
teapot. Smoke kisses
your eyelids while
you watch bus after bus
hiss by like seconds
and the day seems shot,
veined with thin cracks
like that antique mirror
you see through
ash-colored bifocals.
DAILY REPORT
It’s simple to forget morning
already absent from rear-view mirrors.
Afternoons have no voice,
unless baseball is played below the sun.
A littered table is all that’s left
this evening—names escape lightly
as butterflies. Dreams are scattered
like pennies from a child’s broken bank.
Bionote
Mark J. Mitchell’s latest novel, The Magic War just appeared from Loose Leaves Publishing. He studied writing at UC Santa Cruz under Raymond Carver and George Hitchcock. His work has appeared in the several anthologies and hundreds of periodicals. Three of his chapbooks— Three Visitors, Lent, 1999, and Artifacts and Relics—and the novel, Knight Prisoner are available through Amazon and Barnes and Noble.. He lives with his wife the activist and documentarian, Joan Juster and makes a living pointing out pretty things in San Francisco.
1 Poem by Byron Beynon
THE RED LEAVES
The first red leaves of a Keatsian autumn,
a draught like fire piercing
the dawning air.
They will soon be gone,
beyond the jigsaw of branches,
spent sparks within a creative forge.
Already the unique days
are losing the race,
as individual melodies
fragrant with colour,
scent the hungering wind
as it jingles
a demanding score
that faces the dispossessed horizon,
an impulse of motion
that continued unseen.
Bionote
Byron Beynon lives in Wales. His work has appeared in several publications including Poetry Pacific, Cyphers, The Stony Thursday Book, London Magazine, Poetry Wales, The Yellow Nib and the human rights anthology In Protest (University of London and Keats House Poets). He co-ordinated the Wales' section of the anthology Fifty Strong (Heinemann). Collections include Cuffs (Rack Press), Human Shores (Lapwing Publications) and The Echoing Coastline (Agenda Editions)."
The first red leaves of a Keatsian autumn,
a draught like fire piercing
the dawning air.
They will soon be gone,
beyond the jigsaw of branches,
spent sparks within a creative forge.
Already the unique days
are losing the race,
as individual melodies
fragrant with colour,
scent the hungering wind
as it jingles
a demanding score
that faces the dispossessed horizon,
an impulse of motion
that continued unseen.
Bionote
Byron Beynon lives in Wales. His work has appeared in several publications including Poetry Pacific, Cyphers, The Stony Thursday Book, London Magazine, Poetry Wales, The Yellow Nib and the human rights anthology In Protest (University of London and Keats House Poets). He co-ordinated the Wales' section of the anthology Fifty Strong (Heinemann). Collections include Cuffs (Rack Press), Human Shores (Lapwing Publications) and The Echoing Coastline (Agenda Editions)."
3 Poems by Adrian Slonaker
“The Winning Ticket”
If the tuba-voiced telemarketer I hung up on
won the Megabucks jackpot,
he'd torpedo his reality shitcom
about the vagaries and vicissitudes
of wage-bondage with benefits
before booking a pilgrimage to Sandusky, Ohio
because he longs to
solemnly photobomb Lake Erie.
Then he'd shod his tumid toes with
cobalt blue loafers and
step into an unsteady paso doble solo-
because dollars don't cure klutziness
or loneliness-
in the direction of a diner dripping with
that shade of olive found on '70s stoves for
a lozenge of baklava, and
he'd surprise the sylphlike stranger behind
him with whatever she craved
just to sample casual philanthropy before
hieing himself home to relish his
recently realized raison d'être
as an unrepentant lord of leisure
by juxtaposing jellybean-hued jalopies in
testosterone-streaked classic car classifieds
to determine which one he'd drive
if he knew how and
by crafting and scattering internet rumors like
the ersatz truth that the etymological parent of
Fred Flintstone's “Yabba Dabba Doo”
is an erstwhile Estonian exclamation
that means “Hallelujah!”
“T. dohrnii”
Turritopsis dohrnii is the spitting image of
a slice of maraschino cherry in aspic
surrounded by slender tentacles identical to
the vermicelli-like branches on
my Aunt Penny's fiber-optic Christmas tree.
While randy Imperial Romans rhapsodized over Venus,
Vikings and Skrælings skirmished in Vinland,
Wyomingite women menstruated messily into pioneer petticoats,
Polari-speaking sodomites got arrested in swinging London,
and the French Fifth Republic lopped off its last head,
the immortal jellyfish jauntily propelled itself
or reposed peacefully as a polyp,
smugly shrugging off
our necrophobic neuroses.
“Credit Where It's Due”
She can’t remember not knowing him,
the chocolate house, the one with the gingkos,
and his flame-haired, Liquid Paper-pale presence.
She counted on them as she counted on wet February mornings
and lightning bugs on popsicle-flavoured August nights.
He was the steadfast bastard who missed Marty's make-out party
populated with sure things
just to keep her company when she was scratching her chickenpox,
the bad influence
who procured her inaugural Gauloise,
the confidant who clammed up about her split Levis
despite his God-given gift of gossip.
Years have melted, exams and lovers have been fretted over,
but his exquisitely chosen, obscenity-laden words
were the ones that always soothed her
and made Fanta fly from her nostrils.
If the tuba-voiced telemarketer I hung up on
won the Megabucks jackpot,
he'd torpedo his reality shitcom
about the vagaries and vicissitudes
of wage-bondage with benefits
before booking a pilgrimage to Sandusky, Ohio
because he longs to
solemnly photobomb Lake Erie.
Then he'd shod his tumid toes with
cobalt blue loafers and
step into an unsteady paso doble solo-
because dollars don't cure klutziness
or loneliness-
in the direction of a diner dripping with
that shade of olive found on '70s stoves for
a lozenge of baklava, and
he'd surprise the sylphlike stranger behind
him with whatever she craved
just to sample casual philanthropy before
hieing himself home to relish his
recently realized raison d'être
as an unrepentant lord of leisure
by juxtaposing jellybean-hued jalopies in
testosterone-streaked classic car classifieds
to determine which one he'd drive
if he knew how and
by crafting and scattering internet rumors like
the ersatz truth that the etymological parent of
Fred Flintstone's “Yabba Dabba Doo”
is an erstwhile Estonian exclamation
that means “Hallelujah!”
“T. dohrnii”
Turritopsis dohrnii is the spitting image of
a slice of maraschino cherry in aspic
surrounded by slender tentacles identical to
the vermicelli-like branches on
my Aunt Penny's fiber-optic Christmas tree.
While randy Imperial Romans rhapsodized over Venus,
Vikings and Skrælings skirmished in Vinland,
Wyomingite women menstruated messily into pioneer petticoats,
Polari-speaking sodomites got arrested in swinging London,
and the French Fifth Republic lopped off its last head,
the immortal jellyfish jauntily propelled itself
or reposed peacefully as a polyp,
smugly shrugging off
our necrophobic neuroses.
“Credit Where It's Due”
She can’t remember not knowing him,
the chocolate house, the one with the gingkos,
and his flame-haired, Liquid Paper-pale presence.
She counted on them as she counted on wet February mornings
and lightning bugs on popsicle-flavoured August nights.
He was the steadfast bastard who missed Marty's make-out party
populated with sure things
just to keep her company when she was scratching her chickenpox,
the bad influence
who procured her inaugural Gauloise,
the confidant who clammed up about her split Levis
despite his God-given gift of gossip.
Years have melted, exams and lovers have been fretted over,
but his exquisitely chosen, obscenity-laden words
were the ones that always soothed her
and made Fanta fly from her nostrils.
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