Contributor: Donal Mahoney
- -
The zombie's wife
has a dowager's hump
and never sees the sky.
On her way to church
she steps on ants
and swipes at every fly.
Her husband Humphrey
stays at home
and scours the house
for the squeaky mouse
his wife says got inside.
Winter's coming
and the larder's bare
so Humphrey wants
his wife to fix
the mouse for supper
fricasseed or fried.
- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
Pages
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Saturday, October 31, 2015
Friday, October 30, 2015
Lost
Contributor: Ray Samuc
- -
Days are folding
gathering pace,
they are shining pebbles
before the Earth breathed,
when small hands
carried
and guarded them.
They still run through the veins,
a splinter in the heart
for each one that fell
- - -
Ray Samuc is an administrator and philosophy graduate from the North West of England. He has had a recent poem published in Black Poppy Review.
- -
Days are folding
gathering pace,
they are shining pebbles
before the Earth breathed,
when small hands
carried
and guarded them.
They still run through the veins,
a splinter in the heart
for each one that fell
- - -
Ray Samuc is an administrator and philosophy graduate from the North West of England. He has had a recent poem published in Black Poppy Review.
Thursday, October 29, 2015
Fly Beyond
Contributor: Lyla Sommersby
- -
Dropped
Falling
Shattered.
Grovelling
Begging
Crying
Slowly
Moving
So slowly
Buds of wings
Buds of courage
Looking to the sky
Discovering
Me
Discovering
Truth
Discovering
What I want
What I need
Discovering
It's not you
It was never you
I am free.
- - -
I am a student in Miami, Florida. Painting is my other love. My first book, Sketches of Someone, is available through Thunderune Publishing.
- -
Dropped
Falling
Shattered.
Grovelling
Begging
Crying
Slowly
Moving
So slowly
Buds of wings
Buds of courage
Looking to the sky
Discovering
Me
Discovering
Truth
Discovering
What I want
What I need
Discovering
It's not you
It was never you
I am free.
- - -
I am a student in Miami, Florida. Painting is my other love. My first book, Sketches of Someone, is available through Thunderune Publishing.
Wednesday, October 28, 2015
Blink in Time
Contributor: Gary Thomas Hubbard
- -
Life is but a blink in time
Some will die as I write this rhyme
Bombs exploding overhead
If our ship sinks, we will be dead
Some stand up and rock the boat
Just to see what makes it float
Others hide beneath the deck
Fearful that on the rocks we"ll wreck
Sinking to the bottom of the bay
I would rather at the helm stay
Helping to steer clear of disaster
The wind picks up, and we move faster
Lower the sails to slow us down
Steer hard a port, don't run aground
We see the horizon of a brand new day
Hard to starboard, a new course we lay
Working together to find calmer seas
The wind died down, it's a gentle breeze
Life is but a blink in time
Some will die as I write this rhyme
- - -
I was born and raised in Ohio and now I live in Florida. I'm married and we have two children. Most important, I'm a Papa. There are a dozen poems on this site and I have a poem printed in "Stormcloud Poets second anthology".
- -
Life is but a blink in time
Some will die as I write this rhyme
Bombs exploding overhead
If our ship sinks, we will be dead
Some stand up and rock the boat
Just to see what makes it float
Others hide beneath the deck
Fearful that on the rocks we"ll wreck
Sinking to the bottom of the bay
I would rather at the helm stay
Helping to steer clear of disaster
The wind picks up, and we move faster
Lower the sails to slow us down
Steer hard a port, don't run aground
We see the horizon of a brand new day
Hard to starboard, a new course we lay
Working together to find calmer seas
The wind died down, it's a gentle breeze
Life is but a blink in time
Some will die as I write this rhyme
- - -
I was born and raised in Ohio and now I live in Florida. I'm married and we have two children. Most important, I'm a Papa. There are a dozen poems on this site and I have a poem printed in "Stormcloud Poets second anthology".
Tuesday, October 27, 2015
TSA
Contributor: J.K. Durick
- -
In a line like this we feel a familiar tug
A place we know, learned it early on
In school, move slowly, a shuffle step
In keeping with this time and place,
Obedient to a fault we move forward
Passport and boarding pass in hand
We wait our turn, empty our pockets
Into a plastic bucket, surrender our shoes
And belt willingly, watch it all disappear
Into a machine, like the machine we enter
Stand this way, turn that way, the machines
Get to know us, the privacy we carry goes
On display, the workers observe and discuss
There are no secrets, they get to know
Our hidden selves, the weapons we carry
The explosives we’re hiding, a pack of gum
A set of keys, a half empty pill bottle, a comb
A nail clipper, the evidence mounts up and
We cringe, our guilt, our innocence pause
Await the verdict; they gesture to move on
Or pull us aside, and we accept the judgment
Step aside with them or grab our belongings
Hurry our shoes back on; safe, secure, unmasked
We continue on as if nothing has happened.
- - -
J. K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Eskimo Pie, Black Mirror, Poetry Pacific, Eye on life Magazine, and Leaves of Ink.
- -
In a line like this we feel a familiar tug
A place we know, learned it early on
In school, move slowly, a shuffle step
In keeping with this time and place,
Obedient to a fault we move forward
Passport and boarding pass in hand
We wait our turn, empty our pockets
Into a plastic bucket, surrender our shoes
And belt willingly, watch it all disappear
Into a machine, like the machine we enter
Stand this way, turn that way, the machines
Get to know us, the privacy we carry goes
On display, the workers observe and discuss
There are no secrets, they get to know
Our hidden selves, the weapons we carry
The explosives we’re hiding, a pack of gum
A set of keys, a half empty pill bottle, a comb
A nail clipper, the evidence mounts up and
We cringe, our guilt, our innocence pause
Await the verdict; they gesture to move on
Or pull us aside, and we accept the judgment
Step aside with them or grab our belongings
Hurry our shoes back on; safe, secure, unmasked
We continue on as if nothing has happened.
- - -
J. K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Eskimo Pie, Black Mirror, Poetry Pacific, Eye on life Magazine, and Leaves of Ink.
Monday, October 26, 2015
Guitar
Contributor: Richard Schnap
- -
My ex-wife bought it
As a birthday gift
To kill the silence
That buried us both
And in its time
I strummed it for many
In museums and men’s clubs
And after hours bars
But the crowds began
To grow thinner and thinner
Until it sadly echoed
Through empty rooms
Now it sits lifeless
In its coffin-like case
A dead remnant
Of a failed love
- - -
Richard Schnap is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of print and online publications.
- -
My ex-wife bought it
As a birthday gift
To kill the silence
That buried us both
And in its time
I strummed it for many
In museums and men’s clubs
And after hours bars
But the crowds began
To grow thinner and thinner
Until it sadly echoed
Through empty rooms
Now it sits lifeless
In its coffin-like case
A dead remnant
Of a failed love
- - -
Richard Schnap is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of print and online publications.
Sunday, October 25, 2015
First Birthday
Contributor: Susan Sweetland Garay
- -
One year after giving birth
to a living breathing person,
I walk through a light warm rain
barefoot on the porch
with a full rainbow overhead.
Though I don’t know
exactly what she understands,
I tell her about that day.
How it felt to meet her and see her
finally breathe the same air I was breathing.
There were wild storms
that night, and an amazing grey.
We all watch and listen to the rain
on the hills, long before it
arrives here.
And then there are sprinkles
and a neon, luminescent green.
- - -
Susan Sweetland Garay lives in the Willamette Valley with her husband and daughter where she works in the vineyard industry. She has had poetry and photography published in a variety of journals, on line and in print, and she was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2014. Her first full length poetry collection, Approximate Tuesday, was published in 2013 and her second book Strange Beauty is forthcoming from Aldrich Press (2015).
- -
One year after giving birth
to a living breathing person,
I walk through a light warm rain
barefoot on the porch
with a full rainbow overhead.
Though I don’t know
exactly what she understands,
I tell her about that day.
How it felt to meet her and see her
finally breathe the same air I was breathing.
There were wild storms
that night, and an amazing grey.
We all watch and listen to the rain
on the hills, long before it
arrives here.
And then there are sprinkles
and a neon, luminescent green.
- - -
Susan Sweetland Garay lives in the Willamette Valley with her husband and daughter where she works in the vineyard industry. She has had poetry and photography published in a variety of journals, on line and in print, and she was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2014. Her first full length poetry collection, Approximate Tuesday, was published in 2013 and her second book Strange Beauty is forthcoming from Aldrich Press (2015).
Saturday, October 24, 2015
Leave The Travellers Be
Contributor: Paul Tristram
- -
You have all heard all about it,
you have all watched it on TV.
And everyone knows that they
should just leave the Travellers be.
They are doing no one any harm
by wanting a different way of life.
But it shakes the foundations of the reality
you share with your upper class wife.
They are helping the housing problem
by living life in their own way.
But the government won’t listen to reason
it won’t let people have their say.
This is supposed to be a free country?
it is their choice to live on a bus.
Like to live in a town or a city
is a decision which is only down to us?
They should make legal campsites
and just leave the Travellers be.
Instead of closing society’s gates.
we should let them all go free.
- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.
- -
You have all heard all about it,
you have all watched it on TV.
And everyone knows that they
should just leave the Travellers be.
They are doing no one any harm
by wanting a different way of life.
But it shakes the foundations of the reality
you share with your upper class wife.
They are helping the housing problem
by living life in their own way.
But the government won’t listen to reason
it won’t let people have their say.
This is supposed to be a free country?
it is their choice to live on a bus.
Like to live in a town or a city
is a decision which is only down to us?
They should make legal campsites
and just leave the Travellers be.
Instead of closing society’s gates.
we should let them all go free.
- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.
Friday, October 23, 2015
Confessions of a Dying Day
Contributor: Ken W Simpson
- -
Cycles of innocence and regret
tints of pink
enveloped by
the beauty of music
hovering dissolving
over decomposing leaves
shards of broken glass
promiscuous ways
and brittle egos
as shadows dance away.
- - -
An Australian poet whose latest collection, Patterns of Perception, was published by Augur Press (UK) last January. He lives with his family in the state of Victoria.
- -
Cycles of innocence and regret
tints of pink
enveloped by
the beauty of music
hovering dissolving
over decomposing leaves
shards of broken glass
promiscuous ways
and brittle egos
as shadows dance away.
- - -
An Australian poet whose latest collection, Patterns of Perception, was published by Augur Press (UK) last January. He lives with his family in the state of Victoria.
Thursday, October 22, 2015
An Eighth of a Lemon
Contributor: Donal Mahoney
- -
For Martha in the early years
life was recess, nothing more.
She knelt on asphalt,
quartered oranges for kittens
who never lost stringed mittens,
whose London Bridges
never fell down.
For Martha now,
life’s Parkview Manor
where a woman in white,
three times a day, bleeds
an eighth of a lemon into her tea.
- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
- -
For Martha in the early years
life was recess, nothing more.
She knelt on asphalt,
quartered oranges for kittens
who never lost stringed mittens,
whose London Bridges
never fell down.
For Martha now,
life’s Parkview Manor
where a woman in white,
three times a day, bleeds
an eighth of a lemon into her tea.
- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
Wednesday, October 21, 2015
Prescriptions
Contributor: JD DeHart
- -
A kind man in a lab coat
can sell me wares. Instruments
dot his walls like a strange
modernist décor. I cannot
read his writing.
The ladies at the front desk
seem polite enough. They call
my name with mechanical
mispronunciation.
I have signed in, resigned in,
and when I leave, I have a slip.
Somehow, the druggists can read
it, looking at it, nodding,
the scribbles bearing meaning.
They ask if I have any questions
for the pharmacist. I want to graze
the topic of immortality, but this
does not seem to be an good time.
- - -
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available from RedDashboard.
- -
A kind man in a lab coat
can sell me wares. Instruments
dot his walls like a strange
modernist décor. I cannot
read his writing.
The ladies at the front desk
seem polite enough. They call
my name with mechanical
mispronunciation.
I have signed in, resigned in,
and when I leave, I have a slip.
Somehow, the druggists can read
it, looking at it, nodding,
the scribbles bearing meaning.
They ask if I have any questions
for the pharmacist. I want to graze
the topic of immortality, but this
does not seem to be an good time.
- - -
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available from RedDashboard.
Tuesday, October 20, 2015
Escape
Contributor: J.K. Durick
- -
It’s on the sly, of course. We gather the tools we’ll need
All hush-hush, done deals and then we’re ready to begin.
It’s not as difficult as it looks; it’s not as easy as it seems.
Quietly cutting, nights are best, but noisy days work as well.
Scraping and grinding blend into the day, cause nary a ripple
Of attention; after all, life is scraping and grinding, one foot
In front of another, day after day, year after year, until cutting,
Sawing our way out of all the walls and tunnels around us is
All that’s left us; escaping, stepping, crawling out of the place
We are assigned, sentenced to for life, for crimes we can’t even
Imagine takes courage, a foolish unsafe courage; outside the walls
At first, we become strangers, unusual activity reports, scent only
Bloodhounds follow, shadows passing through familiar landscapes.
Then, we become rumor, legend, part of mythology, ghost stories,
A lesson we hope they will all learn from: escape eventually becomes
A frightening necessity.
- - -
J. K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Eskimo Pie, Black Mirror, Poetry Pacific, Eye on life Magazine, and Leaves of Ink.
- -
It’s on the sly, of course. We gather the tools we’ll need
All hush-hush, done deals and then we’re ready to begin.
It’s not as difficult as it looks; it’s not as easy as it seems.
Quietly cutting, nights are best, but noisy days work as well.
Scraping and grinding blend into the day, cause nary a ripple
Of attention; after all, life is scraping and grinding, one foot
In front of another, day after day, year after year, until cutting,
Sawing our way out of all the walls and tunnels around us is
All that’s left us; escaping, stepping, crawling out of the place
We are assigned, sentenced to for life, for crimes we can’t even
Imagine takes courage, a foolish unsafe courage; outside the walls
At first, we become strangers, unusual activity reports, scent only
Bloodhounds follow, shadows passing through familiar landscapes.
Then, we become rumor, legend, part of mythology, ghost stories,
A lesson we hope they will all learn from: escape eventually becomes
A frightening necessity.
- - -
J. K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Eskimo Pie, Black Mirror, Poetry Pacific, Eye on life Magazine, and Leaves of Ink.
Monday, October 19, 2015
The Most Hostile Territory
Contributor: Ted Kerns
- -
A master in an alien discipline
can be expected to try to tie
idle hands glued to the weird skeleton,
blind to the crippling performance tests
cause. Because the fertile field beckons predation.
Barges in, dressed as life's knighted director,
let's hop to the stale institution lecture,
hear, hear, they'll look down on you if you dare wear
that shirt like tatter is an accomplishment
and profane text, so ablaze, is success's
antithesis and an abnormality besides
but this is what the castle-sculptor reaps;
see what thumbing that nose at work ethic verses
drops into thy bushel - oh how the market
shall scoff, shall summon stoogers who are not funny,
who shall chain you to your rightful, pauper, chair.
- - -
Let's say I'm one of those guys who ended up in his fifties before figuring out what to be when he grew up, but it's not so bad because now there's little point in worrying about it.
- -
A master in an alien discipline
can be expected to try to tie
idle hands glued to the weird skeleton,
blind to the crippling performance tests
cause. Because the fertile field beckons predation.
Barges in, dressed as life's knighted director,
let's hop to the stale institution lecture,
hear, hear, they'll look down on you if you dare wear
that shirt like tatter is an accomplishment
and profane text, so ablaze, is success's
antithesis and an abnormality besides
but this is what the castle-sculptor reaps;
see what thumbing that nose at work ethic verses
drops into thy bushel - oh how the market
shall scoff, shall summon stoogers who are not funny,
who shall chain you to your rightful, pauper, chair.
- - -
Let's say I'm one of those guys who ended up in his fifties before figuring out what to be when he grew up, but it's not so bad because now there's little point in worrying about it.
Sunday, October 18, 2015
Mute
Contributor: Richard Schnap
- -
She was an unborn song
Waiting to be written
As she danced to a music
That only she could hear
That mirrored the ocean
As it swayed with the moon
And mimicked the wind
With its subtle caress
But her movements betrayed
A sadness within her
For she could not find
The one to give her life
And till he appeared
With the touch to release her
The story of her heart
Would never have a voice
- - -
Richard Schnap is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of print and online publications.
- -
She was an unborn song
Waiting to be written
As she danced to a music
That only she could hear
That mirrored the ocean
As it swayed with the moon
And mimicked the wind
With its subtle caress
But her movements betrayed
A sadness within her
For she could not find
The one to give her life
And till he appeared
With the touch to release her
The story of her heart
Would never have a voice
- - -
Richard Schnap is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of print and online publications.
Saturday, October 17, 2015
Reading The Obituaries
Contributor: John Grey
- -
Another overdose,
too many sleeping pills this time.
Found a week later,
rigid and smelling
like a thousand gutters.
More cancer,
that wretched cannibal
eating its host alive.
More heart-attacks,
more murders.
And a small plane crash.
And a minor earthquake.
And a cement block
from a bridge,
breaking free,
crushing a car.
First coffee done with
and I'm the only one
who's lived yet.
- - -
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Perceptions and Sanskrit with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Owen Wister Review and Louisiana Literature.
- -
Another overdose,
too many sleeping pills this time.
Found a week later,
rigid and smelling
like a thousand gutters.
More cancer,
that wretched cannibal
eating its host alive.
More heart-attacks,
more murders.
And a small plane crash.
And a minor earthquake.
And a cement block
from a bridge,
breaking free,
crushing a car.
First coffee done with
and I'm the only one
who's lived yet.
- - -
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Perceptions and Sanskrit with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Owen Wister Review and Louisiana Literature.
Friday, October 16, 2015
Rewind
Contributor: Ken W Simpson
- -
On the esplanade
cliches stroll
exclaim and interject
greet platitudes
pose mechanically
for photos
buy picture postcards
with sound effects
of surging waves
and screeching seagulls
then write home
about a wonderful time
if you only you were here
to share the views
from our balcony
of the sea
where pronouns swim
or sunbathe on the sand.
- - -
An Australian poet whose latest collection, Patterns of Perception, was published by Augur Press (UK) last January. He lives with his family in the state of Victoria.
- -
On the esplanade
cliches stroll
exclaim and interject
greet platitudes
pose mechanically
for photos
buy picture postcards
with sound effects
of surging waves
and screeching seagulls
then write home
about a wonderful time
if you only you were here
to share the views
from our balcony
of the sea
where pronouns swim
or sunbathe on the sand.
- - -
An Australian poet whose latest collection, Patterns of Perception, was published by Augur Press (UK) last January. He lives with his family in the state of Victoria.
Thursday, October 15, 2015
A Lightshow
Contributor: Gary Thomas Hubbard
- -
Hazy clouds with a lightshow behind
Thunder roars and startles our mind
Lightning dances across open skies
Blindingly bright so I close my eyes
Rain starts softly to fall to the ground
Life slows as I listen, what a calming sound
Startled by the crashing noise from above
Nature serenades me with sounds that I love
Rain increases and pounds the damp ground
Making muddy puddles pop up all around
Thunder is muffled as the storm moves away
Lightning flashes like a child with a flashlight at play
All that is left is a small sidewalk flood
And bunches of puddles, filled up with mud.
- - -
I was born and raised in Ohio and now I live in Florida. I'm married and we have two children. Most important, I'm a Papa. There are a dozen poems on this site and I have a poem printed in "Stormcloud Poets second anthology".
- -
Hazy clouds with a lightshow behind
Thunder roars and startles our mind
Lightning dances across open skies
Blindingly bright so I close my eyes
Rain starts softly to fall to the ground
Life slows as I listen, what a calming sound
Startled by the crashing noise from above
Nature serenades me with sounds that I love
Rain increases and pounds the damp ground
Making muddy puddles pop up all around
Thunder is muffled as the storm moves away
Lightning flashes like a child with a flashlight at play
All that is left is a small sidewalk flood
And bunches of puddles, filled up with mud.
- - -
I was born and raised in Ohio and now I live in Florida. I'm married and we have two children. Most important, I'm a Papa. There are a dozen poems on this site and I have a poem printed in "Stormcloud Poets second anthology".
Wednesday, October 14, 2015
Glass Expectations [on a Wall Mount\
Contributor: Kosative D.
- -
- - -
- -
Half heartedly, would I presume
to wither a holy spell—
yet to what degree would said charm consume
the bit of me where lightness dwells?
So often am I as sheer as the glass that makes me.
Each time I smile, I often disappear.
Melting away to the infinite emotions that take me
on a luminous faux fervent veneer.
I dictate many truths from the sand
But often hold glass expectations in my hand
Whilst trying desperately to suffice.
I’m often ravenous and dine on corpses—
yet my meals so often remain
reflective of my see through forces
and consummate my glassy veins.
I wonder how much sun it might take
to make me visible—a glass gone opaque!
For I carry diseases inside these frail walls.
The world with such ease doth breaks.
Folding into such memories hidden in breakable shawls—
so obstinate as it quakes.
For look at me!
I am nothing you see.
See through as a curtain you hang for vanity.
However so thick, I do think I could be
Opulent, but dead to a varied degree.
- - -
Tuesday, October 13, 2015
Surprise, Surprise
Contributor: Donal Mahoney
- -
The mother's dead.
Thirty years later
you meet the daughter
and realize the daughter
is the mother again,
poking her finger
in your chest half an hour
after her plane lands.
The same laugh knocks
folks in the elevator
back a bit.
Every time the daughter
grabs your arm
to emphasize a point
the way the mother did,
you want a ticket
to the Maldives
or maybe Bulgaria.
Sophia in the summer
might be nice.
This time, however,
you stay put.
She found you
on the Internet.
You must admit
the freckles
across her nose
scream she's right:
You are her father.
Surprise, Surprise.
Her mother never said.
- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
- -
The mother's dead.
Thirty years later
you meet the daughter
and realize the daughter
is the mother again,
poking her finger
in your chest half an hour
after her plane lands.
The same laugh knocks
folks in the elevator
back a bit.
Every time the daughter
grabs your arm
to emphasize a point
the way the mother did,
you want a ticket
to the Maldives
or maybe Bulgaria.
Sophia in the summer
might be nice.
This time, however,
you stay put.
She found you
on the Internet.
You must admit
the freckles
across her nose
scream she's right:
You are her father.
Surprise, Surprise.
Her mother never said.
- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
Monday, October 12, 2015
Shoulder to Shoulder
Contributor: Cynthia Kerwalken
- -
You
On the other end of the line
Just a quick blip away
Like we're standing
Shoulder to shoulder
Even as we run
Even as the world whirls around us
Even as everything unfurls
Like blossoms in bloom
Even as we wrinkle away to nothing
We'll always be
Shoulder to shoulder
Just a quick blip away.
- - -
- -
You
On the other end of the line
Just a quick blip away
Like we're standing
Shoulder to shoulder
Even as we run
Even as the world whirls around us
Even as everything unfurls
Like blossoms in bloom
Even as we wrinkle away to nothing
We'll always be
Shoulder to shoulder
Just a quick blip away.
- - -
Sunday, October 11, 2015
Mind
Contributor: JD DeHart
- -
What begins in the coil
of the hidden world, spilled
forward and down, running
furiously
What training it takes to
collect the scraps of daily
thought and organize them
so that they produce
an accurate and clear response
Thus Endeth, the professor says,
signalling a new start to thought,
a new topic, a new coil
and a new fire to begin sparking.
- - -
- -
What begins in the coil
of the hidden world, spilled
forward and down, running
furiously
What training it takes to
collect the scraps of daily
thought and organize them
so that they produce
an accurate and clear response
Thus Endeth, the professor says,
signalling a new start to thought,
a new topic, a new coil
and a new fire to begin sparking.
- - -
Saturday, October 10, 2015
You
Contributor: R H Farmington
- -
Long and strong
Hands
Arms
Legs
Feet
Kind and smiling
Lips
Eyes
Heart
Soul
Maybe
A tattoo or two
Thick, dark hair
A sensual assuredness
And blue eyes
I'll be waiting
You're what I want.
You're what I'm waiting for.
- - -
- -
Long and strong
Hands
Arms
Legs
Feet
Kind and smiling
Lips
Eyes
Heart
Soul
Maybe
A tattoo or two
Thick, dark hair
A sensual assuredness
And blue eyes
I'll be waiting
You're what I want.
You're what I'm waiting for.
- - -
Friday, October 9, 2015
Salt-Water Life
Contributor: Joanna M. Weston
- -
rivers taught me how to drown
moss-grown rocks stole my eyes
sea cucumbers weave tides of green
kelp ribbons wave over fields of sand
so small the seahorse rides coral
yet reefs slice my heart like blades
where spume flies with your words
the chaotic silence of a cresting wave
take high latitudes in stride
shores lie above drifting ice-bergs
long slow swell of ocean currents
this wind blows passion into foam
back to the curve of ship’s cutting bow
shrimp and crab nibble cold flesh
- - -
JOANNA M. WESTON. Married; has two cats, multiple spiders, a herd of deer, and two derelict hen-houses. Her middle-reader, ‘Those Blue Shoes', published by Clarity House Press; and poetry, ‘A Summer Father’, published by Frontenac House of Calgary.
- -
rivers taught me how to drown
moss-grown rocks stole my eyes
sea cucumbers weave tides of green
kelp ribbons wave over fields of sand
so small the seahorse rides coral
yet reefs slice my heart like blades
where spume flies with your words
the chaotic silence of a cresting wave
take high latitudes in stride
shores lie above drifting ice-bergs
long slow swell of ocean currents
this wind blows passion into foam
back to the curve of ship’s cutting bow
shrimp and crab nibble cold flesh
- - -
JOANNA M. WESTON. Married; has two cats, multiple spiders, a herd of deer, and two derelict hen-houses. Her middle-reader, ‘Those Blue Shoes', published by Clarity House Press; and poetry, ‘A Summer Father’, published by Frontenac House of Calgary.
Thursday, October 8, 2015
Home
Contributor: Sola McDarra
- -
Home,
Open arms
Kind eyes
A meal shared
Four walls to enclose
All that I hold
Within me.
- - -
- -
Home,
Open arms
Kind eyes
A meal shared
Four walls to enclose
All that I hold
Within me.
- - -
Wednesday, October 7, 2015
What Possessed You?
Contributor: Ken W Simpson
- -
Bacon and eggs
in the morning
add ‘h’ to ate
before deceiving.
Unsheathed
as shark’s teeth
add ‘f’ to ear
in the afternoon.
A venomous night
curdled words
add ‘d’ to read
before retiring.
- - -
An Australian poet whose latest collection, Patterns of Perception, was published by Augur Press (UK) last January. He lives with his family in the state of Victoria.
- -
Bacon and eggs
in the morning
add ‘h’ to ate
before deceiving.
Unsheathed
as shark’s teeth
add ‘f’ to ear
in the afternoon.
A venomous night
curdled words
add ‘d’ to read
before retiring.
- - -
An Australian poet whose latest collection, Patterns of Perception, was published by Augur Press (UK) last January. He lives with his family in the state of Victoria.
Tuesday, October 6, 2015
Catching Up
Contributor: Justin DeFerbrache
- -
You agree to get some coffee
because it's more of a hassle to refuse.
I want to communicate so badly.
I am a fig tree
reaching out my tendril roots
to a frozen ground.
The cappuccino makes my face hot
and my eyes huge.
Not the greatest choice of weapons
for this especially icy duel.
There was a time
when I did not pay to view you
from behind aquarium glass.
When you were a companion and not an image
to be viewed on a TV screen,
worlds away.
I want to scream,
to fall on the floor,
and beg you to love me
as you once did.
But instead we talk.
Words that splatter
like bugs against your windshield.
How's the family, how's the job?
I get the ten o' clock rehash
of the six o'clock news.
I pull out one of "our jokes"
and you greet it, but not with a smile.
I wonder
at the time we spent together
and how you can barely even see me now.
I want to tell you
that you've caused me pain,
that you've dragged me
through the bowels of Hell.
But would you hear anything more
than the echo of a ghost?
You're biding your time,
waiting to return
to the land of the living.
How I yearn to be alive for you.
To be someone that you answer
with your heart
and not with the teleprompter
that you're reading off my forehead.
The cellphone starts to cry.
You're so relieved to hear the voice
you wished you were talking to all along.
You don't even notice
as I slip my empty mug into my bag.
I'll keep it in my windowsill
for the great, American tragedy
that has been our "catching up."
- - -
Justin DeFerbrache studied English Literature at a small liberal arts college in Indiana. For the past three years, he has been working as a TESOL teacher in China and exploring the Asian continent one bit at a time. He writes poetry and short fiction on the side.
- -
You agree to get some coffee
because it's more of a hassle to refuse.
I want to communicate so badly.
I am a fig tree
reaching out my tendril roots
to a frozen ground.
The cappuccino makes my face hot
and my eyes huge.
Not the greatest choice of weapons
for this especially icy duel.
There was a time
when I did not pay to view you
from behind aquarium glass.
When you were a companion and not an image
to be viewed on a TV screen,
worlds away.
I want to scream,
to fall on the floor,
and beg you to love me
as you once did.
But instead we talk.
Words that splatter
like bugs against your windshield.
How's the family, how's the job?
I get the ten o' clock rehash
of the six o'clock news.
I pull out one of "our jokes"
and you greet it, but not with a smile.
I wonder
at the time we spent together
and how you can barely even see me now.
I want to tell you
that you've caused me pain,
that you've dragged me
through the bowels of Hell.
But would you hear anything more
than the echo of a ghost?
You're biding your time,
waiting to return
to the land of the living.
How I yearn to be alive for you.
To be someone that you answer
with your heart
and not with the teleprompter
that you're reading off my forehead.
The cellphone starts to cry.
You're so relieved to hear the voice
you wished you were talking to all along.
You don't even notice
as I slip my empty mug into my bag.
I'll keep it in my windowsill
for the great, American tragedy
that has been our "catching up."
- - -
Justin DeFerbrache studied English Literature at a small liberal arts college in Indiana. For the past three years, he has been working as a TESOL teacher in China and exploring the Asian continent one bit at a time. He writes poetry and short fiction on the side.
Monday, October 5, 2015
Curtain
Contributor: Richard Schnap
- -
The old men turn up their collars
And walk even slower than usual
As the chill wind slaps their faces
Bringing tears coursing down their cheeks
And the children are lost in daydreams
Of bagfuls of Halloween candy
The challenge of Thanksgiving wishbones
Presents beneath a star-crowned tree
And the ice cream shop on the corner
Closes its doors for the season
While the flower store empties its windows
To make way for the poinsettias to come
While I look out from my window
At the trees whose leaves are now golden
And flocks of birds heading southward
Goodbye Summer goodbye
- - -
Richard Schnap is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of print and online publications.
- -
The old men turn up their collars
And walk even slower than usual
As the chill wind slaps their faces
Bringing tears coursing down their cheeks
And the children are lost in daydreams
Of bagfuls of Halloween candy
The challenge of Thanksgiving wishbones
Presents beneath a star-crowned tree
And the ice cream shop on the corner
Closes its doors for the season
While the flower store empties its windows
To make way for the poinsettias to come
While I look out from my window
At the trees whose leaves are now golden
And flocks of birds heading southward
Goodbye Summer goodbye
- - -
Richard Schnap is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of print and online publications.
Sunday, October 4, 2015
Sibling Reunion
Contributor: Donal Mahoney
- -
They're getting older,
five brothers and sisters,
all with degrees, jobs, families,
nice homes, good lives, happier
than most except when they must
fly to the home of their childhood
and settle their mother's estate.
They gather in the old stucco
none of them is willing to sell.
They drink bourbon and scotch
and tell each other everything again
that happened when they were young,
what made them take planes anywhere
trying to escape and forget.
A few more drinks and they see the bees
swarming the day Mom knocked the hive
out of the willow with her clothesline pole.
They were young, not yet in school,
happy and laughing, clapping but not
understanding why Father was gone,
why he would call but never come home.
All summer they rode tricycles
into each other, yelling and screaming,
ringing the bells on the handlebars,
trying to figure out what had happened.
Another few drinks and they agree
it's time to go out in the yard and look up
in the tree where the hive used to be.
Once again they hear children
yelling and screaming,
riding into each other, ringing bells,
looking everywhere for answers,
not knowing the questions.
In minutes they realize the reunion's over
and there may never be another.
It's time to pack, get on planes, escape
before someone puts a match to the stucco.
The hive's on the ground bouncing
and they're all bees, swarming again.
- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
- -
They're getting older,
five brothers and sisters,
all with degrees, jobs, families,
nice homes, good lives, happier
than most except when they must
fly to the home of their childhood
and settle their mother's estate.
They gather in the old stucco
none of them is willing to sell.
They drink bourbon and scotch
and tell each other everything again
that happened when they were young,
what made them take planes anywhere
trying to escape and forget.
A few more drinks and they see the bees
swarming the day Mom knocked the hive
out of the willow with her clothesline pole.
They were young, not yet in school,
happy and laughing, clapping but not
understanding why Father was gone,
why he would call but never come home.
All summer they rode tricycles
into each other, yelling and screaming,
ringing the bells on the handlebars,
trying to figure out what had happened.
Another few drinks and they agree
it's time to go out in the yard and look up
in the tree where the hive used to be.
Once again they hear children
yelling and screaming,
riding into each other, ringing bells,
looking everywhere for answers,
not knowing the questions.
In minutes they realize the reunion's over
and there may never be another.
It's time to pack, get on planes, escape
before someone puts a match to the stucco.
The hive's on the ground bouncing
and they're all bees, swarming again.
- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
Saturday, October 3, 2015
Friday, October 2, 2015
Soneto Soltero
Contributor: April Mae M. Berza
- -
Imprisoning the alphabet inside my lips
Stills my mind from stealing your divinest image
To tranquilize my desire, my silent heart weeps
In oblivion, its prison cell is a sad cage;
Litanies of sshhh waking my ticking heartbeat,
Lulling already when the roaring thunder clapped
Like a dictator with feet pounding, on his seat,
Ordering, for lovers are servants not to stop,
Vainly trying to surrender to the whisper
Etherized on the ears to invent lexicons
Ere the simulacrum of words starts to slumber
Gently to shape meanings as the passion dawns;
As my heart is freed, silence is then locked inside
Now fear is hushed as I walk the aisle as your bride.
- - -
April Mae M. Berza is the author of Confession ng isang Bob Ong fan (Flipside, 2014). Her poems appeared in Calliope, Contemporary Verse 2, Poetica, Maganda, Belleville Park Pages, The Manila Times and elsewhere. She lives in Taguig, Philippines.
- -
Imprisoning the alphabet inside my lips
Stills my mind from stealing your divinest image
To tranquilize my desire, my silent heart weeps
In oblivion, its prison cell is a sad cage;
Litanies of sshhh waking my ticking heartbeat,
Lulling already when the roaring thunder clapped
Like a dictator with feet pounding, on his seat,
Ordering, for lovers are servants not to stop,
Vainly trying to surrender to the whisper
Etherized on the ears to invent lexicons
Ere the simulacrum of words starts to slumber
Gently to shape meanings as the passion dawns;
As my heart is freed, silence is then locked inside
Now fear is hushed as I walk the aisle as your bride.
- - -
April Mae M. Berza is the author of Confession ng isang Bob Ong fan (Flipside, 2014). Her poems appeared in Calliope, Contemporary Verse 2, Poetica, Maganda, Belleville Park Pages, The Manila Times and elsewhere. She lives in Taguig, Philippines.
Thursday, October 1, 2015
Differentials
Contributor: Joanna M. Weston
- -
digits even or not
added subtracted
multiplied or equated
spin their reciprocal
symbols exponentially
to circulate as fractions
that leap logarithms
in ledgers made fluent
by indexed almanacs
earning daily dividends
commonly confused
by numberless nerds
like me
- - -
JOANNA M. WESTON. Married; has two cats, multiple spiders, a herd of deer, and two derelict hen-houses. Her middle-reader, ‘Those Blue Shoes', published by Clarity House Press; and poetry, ‘A Summer Father’, published by Frontenac House of Calgary.
- -
digits even or not
added subtracted
multiplied or equated
spin their reciprocal
symbols exponentially
to circulate as fractions
that leap logarithms
in ledgers made fluent
by indexed almanacs
earning daily dividends
commonly confused
by numberless nerds
like me
- - -
JOANNA M. WESTON. Married; has two cats, multiple spiders, a herd of deer, and two derelict hen-houses. Her middle-reader, ‘Those Blue Shoes', published by Clarity House Press; and poetry, ‘A Summer Father’, published by Frontenac House of Calgary.