Contributor: Richard Schnap
- -
Time is not an inert entity
Marching with the steady rhythm
Of a soldier following orders
It is a creature with a will
Inching slowly when I wait
For my lover to return home safely
And as swiftly as a young child
When I count the years I’ve wasted
Trying to please my late father
But sometimes it seems to be both
A season with a wild nature
Its dead leaves lost in the wind
- - -
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.
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Monday, November 30, 2015
Sunday, November 29, 2015
A BIG MAN
Contributor: David Subacchi
- -
He kept cursing
One oath after another
A big man
Ducking his head
He was angry
About everything
The anxious barman
Waited patiently
Eye contact was fatal
An invitation to engage
In inarticulate banter
Or to experience
A stream of obscenity
Aimed in your direction
Unmitigated by any sense
Of humour or irony
Then a young girl appeared
Softly spoken, blushing
Placing gentle hands
On his tattooed arms
'It’s time' she whispered
Leading him slowly away
Obedient as any
Unsuspecting beast.
- - -
David Subacchi lives in Wales (UK) where he was born of Italian roots. He studied at the University of Liverpool and Cestrian Press has published his last two poetry collections FIRST CUT (2012) and HIDING IN SHADOWS (2014).
- -
He kept cursing
One oath after another
A big man
Ducking his head
He was angry
About everything
The anxious barman
Waited patiently
Eye contact was fatal
An invitation to engage
In inarticulate banter
Or to experience
A stream of obscenity
Aimed in your direction
Unmitigated by any sense
Of humour or irony
Then a young girl appeared
Softly spoken, blushing
Placing gentle hands
On his tattooed arms
'It’s time' she whispered
Leading him slowly away
Obedient as any
Unsuspecting beast.
- - -
David Subacchi lives in Wales (UK) where he was born of Italian roots. He studied at the University of Liverpool and Cestrian Press has published his last two poetry collections FIRST CUT (2012) and HIDING IN SHADOWS (2014).
Saturday, November 28, 2015
Questions?
Contributor: Maddison Scott
- -
Why do I cradle
so much hope
in the withered hands
of a
dying
day?
Why do I feed those
rotting teeth
with
flowers
as would a man on
his wife's
grave?
Why don't I
remember
anything
but
the hurdling notion
that I don't even
exist?
- - -
Maddison Scott is the author of numerous unwritten novels and can often be found running marathons… of the TV-watching variety. She lives on a big island.
- -
Why do I cradle
so much hope
in the withered hands
of a
dying
day?
Why do I feed those
rotting teeth
with
flowers
as would a man on
his wife's
grave?
Why don't I
remember
anything
but
the hurdling notion
that I don't even
exist?
- - -
Maddison Scott is the author of numerous unwritten novels and can often be found running marathons… of the TV-watching variety. She lives on a big island.
Friday, November 27, 2015
Black Friday
Contributor: Ruth Z Deming
- -
I hope this last day of November
finds you well
Once the body learns how to make
cancer cells, her oncologist told her,
they look for hidden opportunities.
There’s no going back.
Like a child learning to read.
If only the abnormal cells were on the surface
we could pick them off, or take
an X-Acto Blade in the dead of night
Worry-Time, and slice them off
like bits of dried egg
under the reading lamp.
Nothing distracts like shopping,
America’s most perfect sport.
Only yesterday I went to Marshall’s
whispering “You’re looking not buying.
You’re looking not buying.”
When I came home I faced
my mortality once again. The new
credit card – the security code
reads “888” - expires in four years,
just in time for my seventy-second
birthday.
The words look hideous to me
but some day I’ll count that “young.”
Does it ever cross your mind,
as it does mine, from dawn to dusk
that some day they’ll all be dead.
Every last one of them,
wept for,
buried, cremated, bodies given to science,
as a new generation begins the rhyme all
over again.
Come with me and stand by the window.
The leaves on the maple are withered and shrunk,
dangling like dry tea bags, ready to drop.
Swirls of branches I never noticed
quiver in the cold. They loop round
creating a vacuum in the sky
were I a painter I’d splash it
onto a canvas. I knew a sculptor
once, who said a sculpture is
a tree in disguise.
The cancer that killed him
was in his stomach.
I have peeked out my window
once again.
Is it fair to say
the leaves are waving to me?
They are. They are.
Thing is,
are they waving hello
or goodbye?
- - -
Ruth Z Deming has had her poetry published in lit mags including Mad Swirl, Eunoia Review, and River Poets.
- -
I hope this last day of November
finds you well
Once the body learns how to make
cancer cells, her oncologist told her,
they look for hidden opportunities.
There’s no going back.
Like a child learning to read.
If only the abnormal cells were on the surface
we could pick them off, or take
an X-Acto Blade in the dead of night
Worry-Time, and slice them off
like bits of dried egg
under the reading lamp.
Nothing distracts like shopping,
America’s most perfect sport.
Only yesterday I went to Marshall’s
whispering “You’re looking not buying.
You’re looking not buying.”
When I came home I faced
my mortality once again. The new
credit card – the security code
reads “888” - expires in four years,
just in time for my seventy-second
birthday.
The words look hideous to me
but some day I’ll count that “young.”
Does it ever cross your mind,
as it does mine, from dawn to dusk
that some day they’ll all be dead.
Every last one of them,
wept for,
buried, cremated, bodies given to science,
as a new generation begins the rhyme all
over again.
Come with me and stand by the window.
The leaves on the maple are withered and shrunk,
dangling like dry tea bags, ready to drop.
Swirls of branches I never noticed
quiver in the cold. They loop round
creating a vacuum in the sky
were I a painter I’d splash it
onto a canvas. I knew a sculptor
once, who said a sculpture is
a tree in disguise.
The cancer that killed him
was in his stomach.
I have peeked out my window
once again.
Is it fair to say
the leaves are waving to me?
They are. They are.
Thing is,
are they waving hello
or goodbye?
- - -
Ruth Z Deming has had her poetry published in lit mags including Mad Swirl, Eunoia Review, and River Poets.
Thursday, November 26, 2015
Face
Contributor: Allison Grayhurst
- -
Inside your luscious eyes
is the burden of depth,
are the stones and rivers
of centuries unguarded
by time.
On your lips
is the sensual curve of tree-line
and sea-shell, is a language
unbroken by bad experience.
On your nose
of boyish turn are nostrils
unlocking the breath of endurance,
is the edge where sunlight rests
after travel.
On your forehead
is a heavy mist of
oscillating pain and grace,
are the marks of a struggle
relieved by love.
On your jaw, cheek and chin
is the strength of the moon
and night-wooed things,
is the hoot and howl
of the sleepless earth, ascending.
- - -
Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. She has over 650 poems published international journals. She has eleven published books of poetry, seven collections, seven chapbooks; www.allisongrayhurst.com
- -
Inside your luscious eyes
is the burden of depth,
are the stones and rivers
of centuries unguarded
by time.
On your lips
is the sensual curve of tree-line
and sea-shell, is a language
unbroken by bad experience.
On your nose
of boyish turn are nostrils
unlocking the breath of endurance,
is the edge where sunlight rests
after travel.
On your forehead
is a heavy mist of
oscillating pain and grace,
are the marks of a struggle
relieved by love.
On your jaw, cheek and chin
is the strength of the moon
and night-wooed things,
is the hoot and howl
of the sleepless earth, ascending.
- - -
Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. She has over 650 poems published international journals. She has eleven published books of poetry, seven collections, seven chapbooks; www.allisongrayhurst.com
Wednesday, November 25, 2015
All at once we sprung across the great plains
Contributor: James Diaz
- -
A plummet to the bottom
safe in there
thrashing and casting net
into fire
when are you coming home?
A toothless old man
stole my car
I don't own
a single thing
say it like you mean it
I want to sing to this piece of bark
until my eyes bug out
until
the world weeps at the sight of its own shadow
and we've settled our debts
toasting bathtub wine in paper cups
with our airplane glue hearts stuck to the floor
a high life low lived
irreversible tomorrow
happening to bend
as we wake.
- - -
James Diaz lives in Upstate New York. His stories and poems have appeared in Cheap Pop Lit, Ditch, Pismire and Collective Exile.
- -
A plummet to the bottom
safe in there
thrashing and casting net
into fire
when are you coming home?
A toothless old man
stole my car
I don't own
a single thing
say it like you mean it
I want to sing to this piece of bark
until my eyes bug out
until
the world weeps at the sight of its own shadow
and we've settled our debts
toasting bathtub wine in paper cups
with our airplane glue hearts stuck to the floor
a high life low lived
irreversible tomorrow
happening to bend
as we wake.
- - -
James Diaz lives in Upstate New York. His stories and poems have appeared in Cheap Pop Lit, Ditch, Pismire and Collective Exile.
Tuesday, November 24, 2015
Sea of Ice
Contributor: Nikhil Nath
- -
From ashes, I
have learnt
to scribble
words on
the face of
the moon
burning a
tramcar ticket
that cost me
a tree,
its shadow
gone, I
now hunt
for clouds
in mushrooms,
watching watermelons
sail away
in a sea
of ice.
- - -
Nikhil has been writing poetry for eighteen years. He has been published in various magazines in India, the USA and the UK. Nikhil Nath is his pen name. He lives and works from Kolkata, India. “Write rubbish, but write", said Virginia Woolf. This is Nikhil's maxim for writing.
Allegro, Aji, Ink salt and Tears, Laughing Dog (Poem of the Month), Ehanom, Ithica Lit, Germ Magazine, Leaves of Ink, Linden Avenue, Pif magazine have all recently accepted his work.
- -
From ashes, I
have learnt
to scribble
words on
the face of
the moon
burning a
tramcar ticket
that cost me
a tree,
its shadow
gone, I
now hunt
for clouds
in mushrooms,
watching watermelons
sail away
in a sea
of ice.
- - -
Nikhil has been writing poetry for eighteen years. He has been published in various magazines in India, the USA and the UK. Nikhil Nath is his pen name. He lives and works from Kolkata, India. “Write rubbish, but write", said Virginia Woolf. This is Nikhil's maxim for writing.
Allegro, Aji, Ink salt and Tears, Laughing Dog (Poem of the Month), Ehanom, Ithica Lit, Germ Magazine, Leaves of Ink, Linden Avenue, Pif magazine have all recently accepted his work.
Monday, November 23, 2015
Patterns (For Evelyn)
Contributor: C.V. Ellis
- -
Stubby nicotined fingers
moved rhythmically,
crochet crooked for hours,
possessing a deftness
that belied their round
and rotund posture,
they mesmerized
as colored thread
snaked past her
chubby index finger,
a hummingbird
dining on nectar
forming Bind-offs,
Single-knits, Trebles
as Pineapple Patterns,
Diamonds, Snowflakes,
Granny Squares gave
slow birth to doilies,
afghans, blankets in
pinks, greens, yellows,
blues; a rustic rainbow
of multi-chromatic rayons
bedecked out chairs, sofa
mismatched end tables.
Swirls of blue-grey haze
lingered lazily overhead,
a toxic incense expelled
from an endless chain
of cigarettes, the ever present
Melmac ashtray piled with
asymmetrical mounds of
crumpled paper cylinders
as aged tobacco leaves
were inhaled in ritualistic
endeavor to keep
her demons at bay.
All projects in her life
thrived in cyclic spurts,
filler material to tide her
between...episodes.
A manic madness possessed
her as she crafted for hours
in weathered armchair,
worn from years of placing
elbows and ass
just so, calloused feet
draped over the edge
while over-the-top
soap opera heroines,
toothy game show hosts,
ads for dutiful housewives
invaded the room in varying
shades of grey blaring, droning,
an endless parade of characters,
caricatures, hand models
for soaps that paid
for the soaps.
All habits, every hobby
had a primed directive:
fill the unseen void,
deny the secret truths
of yesterday's patronly
violations, suppress
darkling recollections,
the unwanted recall
of nighttime visitations.
All were archetypes for the
cycles of self-destruction
that claimed her in the end.
There was a prefigured predictability
to it all as days turned to weeks
turned to months 'til time
rolled round for another breakout,
to seek oblivion in a glass.
Then a different pattern emerged,
one of self-immolation as threads,
needles, yarns all quietly awaited
her return...as did we all.
- - -
Charles is a survivor of so many things the telling would fill a book.
- -
Stubby nicotined fingers
moved rhythmically,
crochet crooked for hours,
possessing a deftness
that belied their round
and rotund posture,
they mesmerized
as colored thread
snaked past her
chubby index finger,
a hummingbird
dining on nectar
forming Bind-offs,
Single-knits, Trebles
as Pineapple Patterns,
Diamonds, Snowflakes,
Granny Squares gave
slow birth to doilies,
afghans, blankets in
pinks, greens, yellows,
blues; a rustic rainbow
of multi-chromatic rayons
bedecked out chairs, sofa
mismatched end tables.
Swirls of blue-grey haze
lingered lazily overhead,
a toxic incense expelled
from an endless chain
of cigarettes, the ever present
Melmac ashtray piled with
asymmetrical mounds of
crumpled paper cylinders
as aged tobacco leaves
were inhaled in ritualistic
endeavor to keep
her demons at bay.
All projects in her life
thrived in cyclic spurts,
filler material to tide her
between...episodes.
A manic madness possessed
her as she crafted for hours
in weathered armchair,
worn from years of placing
elbows and ass
just so, calloused feet
draped over the edge
while over-the-top
soap opera heroines,
toothy game show hosts,
ads for dutiful housewives
invaded the room in varying
shades of grey blaring, droning,
an endless parade of characters,
caricatures, hand models
for soaps that paid
for the soaps.
All habits, every hobby
had a primed directive:
fill the unseen void,
deny the secret truths
of yesterday's patronly
violations, suppress
darkling recollections,
the unwanted recall
of nighttime visitations.
All were archetypes for the
cycles of self-destruction
that claimed her in the end.
There was a prefigured predictability
to it all as days turned to weeks
turned to months 'til time
rolled round for another breakout,
to seek oblivion in a glass.
Then a different pattern emerged,
one of self-immolation as threads,
needles, yarns all quietly awaited
her return...as did we all.
- - -
Charles is a survivor of so many things the telling would fill a book.
Sunday, November 22, 2015
Her Trip Back There
Contributor: Donal Mahoney
- -
You were gone
before you left.
Now you’re happy
you're back home.
I can hear
you singing
in the shower
but I know now
you’re still there.
Make yourself
a cup of coffee.
The kids are still
at school.
They'll be happy
you've come back.
I'll be dozing
in my chair.
We know now
despite your smile
I'm no longer here.
- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
- -
You were gone
before you left.
Now you’re happy
you're back home.
I can hear
you singing
in the shower
but I know now
you’re still there.
Make yourself
a cup of coffee.
The kids are still
at school.
They'll be happy
you've come back.
I'll be dozing
in my chair.
We know now
despite your smile
I'm no longer here.
- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
Saturday, November 21, 2015
Sharkskin
Contributor: JD DeHart
- -
We made sure to make
plenty of time for the sound
of the ocean, leaving the life
of flickering images behind
and neglecting the busy
eateries
In the deeper waves, dark
forms began surfacing, birds
dove in plumes of salt water
Dolphins, I said, but no,
the fins were different, the
bodies a shadow of rising
and plunging, disturbing
the calm, creating images
of rows and rows of teeth.
- - -
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available from RedDashboard.
- -
We made sure to make
plenty of time for the sound
of the ocean, leaving the life
of flickering images behind
and neglecting the busy
eateries
In the deeper waves, dark
forms began surfacing, birds
dove in plumes of salt water
Dolphins, I said, but no,
the fins were different, the
bodies a shadow of rising
and plunging, disturbing
the calm, creating images
of rows and rows of teeth.
- - -
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available from RedDashboard.
Friday, November 20, 2015
Le coffee Salon
Contributor: Linda Barrett
- -
The ring of the door chimes sing:
“You are welcome here!”
The black and gold Chinese characters
On the wall
Advertise gold and tea
The cafe’s warmth rises from its seat
To reach out to embrace you.
Stacked magazines
And coffee table picture books
Await for you to read them
Otis’s paintings hang on the walls
As family members awaiting
To be adopted.
The Beatles show themselves off
In oil and canvas snapshots
Of how they grew from Liverpool lads
To long-haired and bearded adults.
Coat hangers hold clothes
Made for human consumption
Yin and Otis will let you use WiFi for free
As long as you don’t make too much noise
They give you your coffee and sweets
All the while conversing with you
About what’s going on in your life
They tell you stories about everything
And even about themselves
It’s a living room place
Where no one has to be reserved
And mind their manners
Music of all kinds plays in various forms
From all centuries and cultures
When the store closes around ten,
Yin brown paper wraps up left overs
For you to take home
The door chimes sing “Good-Bye”
And have a nice evening
Because you are not just a customer
But a part of the family.
- - -
Linda Barrett has been writing all her life. Her first written work was a medieval romance handwritten and put in her elementary school's library. She lives with her mother in a small town outside of Philadelphia.
- -
The ring of the door chimes sing:
“You are welcome here!”
The black and gold Chinese characters
On the wall
Advertise gold and tea
The cafe’s warmth rises from its seat
To reach out to embrace you.
Stacked magazines
And coffee table picture books
Await for you to read them
Otis’s paintings hang on the walls
As family members awaiting
To be adopted.
The Beatles show themselves off
In oil and canvas snapshots
Of how they grew from Liverpool lads
To long-haired and bearded adults.
Coat hangers hold clothes
Made for human consumption
Yin and Otis will let you use WiFi for free
As long as you don’t make too much noise
They give you your coffee and sweets
All the while conversing with you
About what’s going on in your life
They tell you stories about everything
And even about themselves
It’s a living room place
Where no one has to be reserved
And mind their manners
Music of all kinds plays in various forms
From all centuries and cultures
When the store closes around ten,
Yin brown paper wraps up left overs
For you to take home
The door chimes sing “Good-Bye”
And have a nice evening
Because you are not just a customer
But a part of the family.
- - -
Linda Barrett has been writing all her life. Her first written work was a medieval romance handwritten and put in her elementary school's library. She lives with her mother in a small town outside of Philadelphia.
Thursday, November 19, 2015
Hope of Bright Mornings (Mirror Sestet)
Contributor: Ayoola Goodness Olanrewaju
- -
Yesterdays bloat with hays
Hays once green in the rays of the sun god of yesterdays
Past present stench of wars stains the peace of nostrils
Nostrils that desire sweet aroma from the meals of the past
Regrets mock at us with teeth of ancient days in grey coats
Coats soaked in the unceasing drools of froward regrets.
Democracy bears us yesterdays of still stillborns
Stillborns of agony in the deception of a dark democracy
Regressions flaunt over our failed brows of forwardness
Forwardness from chains of the blacksmith of regressions
Ours is the tale of the baskets tears of harvests
Harvests infested with weevils of the bigger ‘ours’.
Cursed be the paradoxes of peace
Peace that clamours entry in fisted wars be cursed!
For the mothers are done with tears, they shed bloods
Bloods of vanished hopes, sons and suns uncared for
How shall I sing and dance to these stringed rhythms of sorrows?
Sorrows in the cosmetics of constant groans and pains, how?
The young maidens are now beasts; martyrs of dooms
Dooms in apostles’ clothes mumbling the
Deadly prayers to become celebrated angels
Angels of darkness in shells’ straps beeping deadly
And again for many years passed, our nurture is yet within
Within the confinement of haunted past in ghostly scars and...
Tears of hapless hopeless dying hopes
Hopes drowned in the libation of unceasing tears
Freedom fleets in bruises across the borders of thorns
Thorns sprouted from the decayed residues of failed freedom.
Tarrying, we hope on for the time that changes yesterdays
Yesterdays redeemed by bright mornings and absence of tarrying.
- - -
Ayoola Goodness Lanre is a teacher of English and a poet.
- -
Yesterdays bloat with hays
Hays once green in the rays of the sun god of yesterdays
Past present stench of wars stains the peace of nostrils
Nostrils that desire sweet aroma from the meals of the past
Regrets mock at us with teeth of ancient days in grey coats
Coats soaked in the unceasing drools of froward regrets.
Democracy bears us yesterdays of still stillborns
Stillborns of agony in the deception of a dark democracy
Regressions flaunt over our failed brows of forwardness
Forwardness from chains of the blacksmith of regressions
Ours is the tale of the baskets tears of harvests
Harvests infested with weevils of the bigger ‘ours’.
Cursed be the paradoxes of peace
Peace that clamours entry in fisted wars be cursed!
For the mothers are done with tears, they shed bloods
Bloods of vanished hopes, sons and suns uncared for
How shall I sing and dance to these stringed rhythms of sorrows?
Sorrows in the cosmetics of constant groans and pains, how?
The young maidens are now beasts; martyrs of dooms
Dooms in apostles’ clothes mumbling the
Deadly prayers to become celebrated angels
Angels of darkness in shells’ straps beeping deadly
And again for many years passed, our nurture is yet within
Within the confinement of haunted past in ghostly scars and...
Tears of hapless hopeless dying hopes
Hopes drowned in the libation of unceasing tears
Freedom fleets in bruises across the borders of thorns
Thorns sprouted from the decayed residues of failed freedom.
Tarrying, we hope on for the time that changes yesterdays
Yesterdays redeemed by bright mornings and absence of tarrying.
- - -
Ayoola Goodness Lanre is a teacher of English and a poet.
Wednesday, November 18, 2015
Give Me A Wind
Contributor: John Ogden
- -
Trees
So many dead, dull trees
Resist the urge to tie myself
To a tree
Any tree
Better than
No trees.
No
Not better than no trees
Not better anymore
I can walk for ages now
I don't need trees
I need a wind
I need a steady breeze
Constant companion
Through the summer's heat
The winter's chill
I need a wind
A deep rumble
Up from the depths of the Earth
Up beneath the feet
Cradling steps
Guiding me
Carrying me
On, onward
Without end
Without end.
- - -
John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.
- -
Trees
So many dead, dull trees
Resist the urge to tie myself
To a tree
Any tree
Better than
No trees.
No
Not better than no trees
Not better anymore
I can walk for ages now
I don't need trees
I need a wind
I need a steady breeze
Constant companion
Through the summer's heat
The winter's chill
I need a wind
A deep rumble
Up from the depths of the Earth
Up beneath the feet
Cradling steps
Guiding me
Carrying me
On, onward
Without end
Without end.
- - -
John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
Clock Maker
Contributor: Michael Lee Johnson
- -
Solo, I am clock maker
born September 22nd,
a Virgo/Libra mix insane,
look at my moving parts, apart yet together,
holes in air, artistic perfection,
mechanical misfits everywhere,
life is a brass lever, a wordsmith, an artist at his craft.
Clock maker, poet tease, and squeeze tweezers.
I am a life looking through microscope,
screen shots, snapshot tools,
mainsprings, swing pendulum, endless hours,
then again, ears open tick then a tock.
Over humor and the last brass bend,
when I hear a hair move its breath,
I know I am the clock waiter,
the clock maker listens-
a tick, then a tock.
- - -
Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. He has been published in more than 875 small press magazines, in 27 different countries, and he edits 10 poetry sites. He has 74 poetry videos on YouTube.
- -
Solo, I am clock maker
born September 22nd,
a Virgo/Libra mix insane,
look at my moving parts, apart yet together,
holes in air, artistic perfection,
mechanical misfits everywhere,
life is a brass lever, a wordsmith, an artist at his craft.
Clock maker, poet tease, and squeeze tweezers.
I am a life looking through microscope,
screen shots, snapshot tools,
mainsprings, swing pendulum, endless hours,
then again, ears open tick then a tock.
Over humor and the last brass bend,
when I hear a hair move its breath,
I know I am the clock waiter,
the clock maker listens-
a tick, then a tock.
- - -
Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. He has been published in more than 875 small press magazines, in 27 different countries, and he edits 10 poetry sites. He has 74 poetry videos on YouTube.
Monday, November 16, 2015
MAYBE UNDER THE MOON
Contributor: Stacy Maddox
- -
This is not the first time, or the last we have shared
A lifetime as mates, passing through the Cosmos
From world to world we have danced and loved
Laugh and cried, daring to live life untethered
Do you remember the ghosts of the Civil War
When I was your girl, with a newborn babe
You had to do your duty for your country
I never lost hope for your safe return
Have you thought about the nights at Court
The dangerous games we played in secret
A roaring fire licking over our naked skin
Our bodies entwined in passionate loving
I often dream of our days in the Sun's rays
We were born in the same Clan, six months apart
Friends, lovers and destined to be married
We were the happiest with our ten children
We ruled as King and Queen in the Water World
Where peace and harmony thrived through our reign
For five-hundred cycles there was music and joy
Generations to come will carry our names to heart
Our longest and richest years were spent in the skies
As Dragon-rider and Dragon, our spirits were one
We rode the wind on your silver-tipped wings
Bonding in a way only a chosen few know how
They are just now uncovering our small village
Long forgotten symbols in the depths of ice and snow
Artifacts we left behind when our Tribe died out
We were a proud people braving the harshest conditions
We shined the brightest as lights in the Heaven's
Traveling to the farthest and darkest reaches
Through glass prisms as rainbow beams and colors
There to guide the dreamers and star catchers
Sometimes touching for only a brief moment of measure
Assured by the recognition and knowing each other
That we will be together again, maybe under the Moon
Be it land, sea, or air, our destinies are always meant to be.
- - -
“Stacy Maddox lives, dreams and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS. She loves to soak up the sun by the river and feel the rush of water over her feet while spending time with her family and pets. Stacy has been published in over 15 books, print magazines and online websites. She has been passionate about Art in any form for over 30 years."
- -
This is not the first time, or the last we have shared
A lifetime as mates, passing through the Cosmos
From world to world we have danced and loved
Laugh and cried, daring to live life untethered
Do you remember the ghosts of the Civil War
When I was your girl, with a newborn babe
You had to do your duty for your country
I never lost hope for your safe return
Have you thought about the nights at Court
The dangerous games we played in secret
A roaring fire licking over our naked skin
Our bodies entwined in passionate loving
I often dream of our days in the Sun's rays
We were born in the same Clan, six months apart
Friends, lovers and destined to be married
We were the happiest with our ten children
We ruled as King and Queen in the Water World
Where peace and harmony thrived through our reign
For five-hundred cycles there was music and joy
Generations to come will carry our names to heart
Our longest and richest years were spent in the skies
As Dragon-rider and Dragon, our spirits were one
We rode the wind on your silver-tipped wings
Bonding in a way only a chosen few know how
They are just now uncovering our small village
Long forgotten symbols in the depths of ice and snow
Artifacts we left behind when our Tribe died out
We were a proud people braving the harshest conditions
We shined the brightest as lights in the Heaven's
Traveling to the farthest and darkest reaches
Through glass prisms as rainbow beams and colors
There to guide the dreamers and star catchers
Sometimes touching for only a brief moment of measure
Assured by the recognition and knowing each other
That we will be together again, maybe under the Moon
Be it land, sea, or air, our destinies are always meant to be.
- - -
“Stacy Maddox lives, dreams and writes in the fast-paced city of Lawrence, KS. She loves to soak up the sun by the river and feel the rush of water over her feet while spending time with her family and pets. Stacy has been published in over 15 books, print magazines and online websites. She has been passionate about Art in any form for over 30 years."
Sunday, November 15, 2015
Lotus
Contributor: JD DeHart
- -
Not an island
as might be imagined
but still a place
of sedate longing
perfect geographical
expression of that feeling
in the legs before rising
when one has awakened
and is yet to be ready
Denizens floating by,
dazed, offering us fluffy
drinks with toys in them,
their own swirl of nectar.
- - -
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available from RedDashboard.
- -
Not an island
as might be imagined
but still a place
of sedate longing
perfect geographical
expression of that feeling
in the legs before rising
when one has awakened
and is yet to be ready
Denizens floating by,
dazed, offering us fluffy
drinks with toys in them,
their own swirl of nectar.
- - -
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available from RedDashboard.
Saturday, November 14, 2015
LETTER TO THE SHERIFF
Contributor: Ajise Vincent
- -
I.
Not all fathers
are efficacious, Sheriff.
Don't revere all.
II.
Some are emissaries of addiction:
They are ambulatory chimneys
that sacrifice their children's tuition
to the greedy god of marijuana.
III.
Some are financiers of impropriety:
They buy then slough crevices of preteens
till marginal utility begins to have pity. Pedophilia.
IV.
Wirra! There are many
who smile illustriously, but like
pestles that flog mortars
with oscillatory vigour,
they re-create the faces
of their wives with blows.
Lo! Their wives are now new creations.
V.
The father of the boy next-door
falls in all categories, sir.
- - -
Ajise Vincent has been through the turmoil, love and anomalies of this world. His works have been published in various literary outlets. He writes from Lagos, Nigeria.
- -
I.
Not all fathers
are efficacious, Sheriff.
Don't revere all.
II.
Some are emissaries of addiction:
They are ambulatory chimneys
that sacrifice their children's tuition
to the greedy god of marijuana.
III.
Some are financiers of impropriety:
They buy then slough crevices of preteens
till marginal utility begins to have pity. Pedophilia.
IV.
Wirra! There are many
who smile illustriously, but like
pestles that flog mortars
with oscillatory vigour,
they re-create the faces
of their wives with blows.
Lo! Their wives are now new creations.
V.
The father of the boy next-door
falls in all categories, sir.
- - -
Ajise Vincent has been through the turmoil, love and anomalies of this world. His works have been published in various literary outlets. He writes from Lagos, Nigeria.
Friday, November 13, 2015
Meeting Dad Again
Contributor: Donal Mahoney
- -
Thirty years later, Dad came back
and we met for ham and yams at Toffenetti’s.
Pouring his tea, he told me he had
to restore power once
at a newspaper warehouse
and the storm broke again
and the lightning cracked his ladder.
He spent the whole day, he said,
sitting in that dark warehouse,
waiting for the lightning to stop
and for the truck to bring a new ladder.
He had a great time, he said,
sitting next to a flickering lantern
and reading for hours the Sunday comics
printed and stacked
six months in advance.
- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
- -
Thirty years later, Dad came back
and we met for ham and yams at Toffenetti’s.
Pouring his tea, he told me he had
to restore power once
at a newspaper warehouse
and the storm broke again
and the lightning cracked his ladder.
He spent the whole day, he said,
sitting in that dark warehouse,
waiting for the lightning to stop
and for the truck to bring a new ladder.
He had a great time, he said,
sitting next to a flickering lantern
and reading for hours the Sunday comics
printed and stacked
six months in advance.
- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
Thursday, November 12, 2015
Big Apple
Contributor: Nikhil Nath
- -
I have the night
written on my face,
the evening tattooed
to my body,
I have shadows
that cast their
spell on those
small mom and pops,
I have a gift
France gave me,
I have a nightlife
where the night
does not sleep
a wink
and my half buttoned
shirt makes me
celebrate summer
in the swindling hours
of dawn, when many legs
and many voices
go chasing
that big apple.
- - -
Nikhil has been writing poetry for eighteen years. He has been published in various magazines in India, the USA and the UK. Nikhil Nath is his pen name. He lives and works from Kolkata, India. “Write rubbish, but write", said Virginia Woolf. This is Nikhil's maxim for writing.
Allegro, Aji, Ink salt and Tears, Laughing Dog (Poem of the Month), Ehanom, Ithica Lit, Germ Magazine, Leaves of Ink, Linden Avenue, Pif magazine have all recently accepted his work.
- -
I have the night
written on my face,
the evening tattooed
to my body,
I have shadows
that cast their
spell on those
small mom and pops,
I have a gift
France gave me,
I have a nightlife
where the night
does not sleep
a wink
and my half buttoned
shirt makes me
celebrate summer
in the swindling hours
of dawn, when many legs
and many voices
go chasing
that big apple.
- - -
Nikhil has been writing poetry for eighteen years. He has been published in various magazines in India, the USA and the UK. Nikhil Nath is his pen name. He lives and works from Kolkata, India. “Write rubbish, but write", said Virginia Woolf. This is Nikhil's maxim for writing.
Allegro, Aji, Ink salt and Tears, Laughing Dog (Poem of the Month), Ehanom, Ithica Lit, Germ Magazine, Leaves of Ink, Linden Avenue, Pif magazine have all recently accepted his work.
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
Summer Rain
Contributor: Linda Barrett
- -
The sun shines white hot
On the chrome of cars
Scorches human flesh
Until sweat courses down
from our bare pores
Drink water and cold drinks
But the liquid boils within us
And we are still parched for more
The skies are bare but for the sun
Clouds puff up by late afternoon
Resemble Man of War sail boats
Preparing themselves for battle
They gather across the sky
Plump themselves up until deep purple
Perhaps with suppressed rage
Thunder rumbles from within them
Like cannons ready to fire
We mere mortals take cover
As lightening flashes from
Hidden muzzles within clouds
Hurl sticky sweet scented rain drops
In gallons upon our near naked bodies
Heaven’s naval battle ends
Clouds part after a celestial truce
The heat rises from wet earth
In white ghost fashion
Rainbows arch overhead
And cool green relief comes once again.
- - -
Linda Barrett has been writing all her life. Her first written work was a medieval romance handwritten and put in her elementary school's library. She lives with her mother in a small town outside of Philadelphia.
- -
The sun shines white hot
On the chrome of cars
Scorches human flesh
Until sweat courses down
from our bare pores
Drink water and cold drinks
But the liquid boils within us
And we are still parched for more
The skies are bare but for the sun
Clouds puff up by late afternoon
Resemble Man of War sail boats
Preparing themselves for battle
They gather across the sky
Plump themselves up until deep purple
Perhaps with suppressed rage
Thunder rumbles from within them
Like cannons ready to fire
We mere mortals take cover
As lightening flashes from
Hidden muzzles within clouds
Hurl sticky sweet scented rain drops
In gallons upon our near naked bodies
Heaven’s naval battle ends
Clouds part after a celestial truce
The heat rises from wet earth
In white ghost fashion
Rainbows arch overhead
And cool green relief comes once again.
- - -
Linda Barrett has been writing all her life. Her first written work was a medieval romance handwritten and put in her elementary school's library. She lives with her mother in a small town outside of Philadelphia.
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
Urban Fox
Contributor: Christie-Luke Jones
- -
Through gritty, parched eyes I squint,
As hazy boulevards wind ceaselessly ahead.
The soupy June air weighs heavy on my shoulders,
A cruel curse befitting of a cruel hour.
I snarl and thrash and seethe.
I pray for a swift end.
Highgate lovers, swathed in crumpled bedsheets,
Gaze down from high windows in dreamy, post-coital nonchalance.
The soft light emanating from their cigarettes reminds me where I should be,
Where I should have stayed.
Her cascading onyx locks and melting stare, so far from here,
Snatched away in a frenetic dusk.
In the murky, nocturnal depths of this Hadean Borough,
The thought of fusing my weary torso to the elegant curve in her back is a blissful escape.
To sweetly kiss the nape of her neck,
And watch that sensual smile paint joyously across her sculpturesque face
...for a brief, heavenly moment, I'm there.
But mine is the oppressive still of a North London night,
Where bountiful summer trees loom black and menacing over deserted pavements.
But lo, wrapped in my internal struggle I have omitted another.
One who neither pines, nor laments, nor regrets.
A weightless astronaut, he skulks through the night air with a humble grace.
His sinewy frame, that restless, twitching muzzle,
An opportunist cat burglar, thriving in his concrete woodland.
He slows as I approach. A cautious arc. His marble eyes reflecting the street lights above.
What does he see?
We halt in unison, we share the stillness.
His keen nose analyses my scent, his pointed ears flinch at my slightest movement.
Such devotion to the senses is something I've long forgotten.
Suddenly I feel my heavy feet beneath me, notice my short, agitated breaths.
This wild animal has coaxed me out of my own head, made me living again.
He watches intently as I find the strength to move forward. Down this path I myself chose.
And as I glance back, I ponder his sentience...did he share in my epiphany?
Succumbing to sleep I envy the fox. Long to dream his savage, unquestioning existence.
- - -
Christie-Luke Jones is a poet from Oxfordshire, England. He is fascinated by the more macabre aspects of the human condition.
- -
Through gritty, parched eyes I squint,
As hazy boulevards wind ceaselessly ahead.
The soupy June air weighs heavy on my shoulders,
A cruel curse befitting of a cruel hour.
I snarl and thrash and seethe.
I pray for a swift end.
Highgate lovers, swathed in crumpled bedsheets,
Gaze down from high windows in dreamy, post-coital nonchalance.
The soft light emanating from their cigarettes reminds me where I should be,
Where I should have stayed.
Her cascading onyx locks and melting stare, so far from here,
Snatched away in a frenetic dusk.
In the murky, nocturnal depths of this Hadean Borough,
The thought of fusing my weary torso to the elegant curve in her back is a blissful escape.
To sweetly kiss the nape of her neck,
And watch that sensual smile paint joyously across her sculpturesque face
...for a brief, heavenly moment, I'm there.
But mine is the oppressive still of a North London night,
Where bountiful summer trees loom black and menacing over deserted pavements.
But lo, wrapped in my internal struggle I have omitted another.
One who neither pines, nor laments, nor regrets.
A weightless astronaut, he skulks through the night air with a humble grace.
His sinewy frame, that restless, twitching muzzle,
An opportunist cat burglar, thriving in his concrete woodland.
He slows as I approach. A cautious arc. His marble eyes reflecting the street lights above.
What does he see?
We halt in unison, we share the stillness.
His keen nose analyses my scent, his pointed ears flinch at my slightest movement.
Such devotion to the senses is something I've long forgotten.
Suddenly I feel my heavy feet beneath me, notice my short, agitated breaths.
This wild animal has coaxed me out of my own head, made me living again.
He watches intently as I find the strength to move forward. Down this path I myself chose.
And as I glance back, I ponder his sentience...did he share in my epiphany?
Succumbing to sleep I envy the fox. Long to dream his savage, unquestioning existence.
- - -
Christie-Luke Jones is a poet from Oxfordshire, England. He is fascinated by the more macabre aspects of the human condition.
Monday, November 9, 2015
Jesus in a Nighttime City
Contributor: Michael Lee Johnson
- -
Jesus walks
Southwest side
Chicago nighttime city
in bulletproof vest
barefoot
broken
beer
bottles
glass,
stores closed,
blasted windows,
mink furs stolen,
a few diamonds for glitter-
old parks, metal detectors, quarters, nickels, dimes,
coins in the pockets of thieves, black children
on Merry go rounds, Maywood, IL.
danger children run in danger
in spirit, testimony,
red velvet outdates Jesus' robe.
- - -
Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. He has been published in more than 875 small press magazines, in 27 different countries, and he edits 10 poetry sites. He has 74 poetry videos on YouTube.
- -
Jesus walks
Southwest side
Chicago nighttime city
in bulletproof vest
barefoot
broken
beer
bottles
glass,
stores closed,
blasted windows,
mink furs stolen,
a few diamonds for glitter-
old parks, metal detectors, quarters, nickels, dimes,
coins in the pockets of thieves, black children
on Merry go rounds, Maywood, IL.
danger children run in danger
in spirit, testimony,
red velvet outdates Jesus' robe.
- - -
Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. He has been published in more than 875 small press magazines, in 27 different countries, and he edits 10 poetry sites. He has 74 poetry videos on YouTube.
Sunday, November 8, 2015
Lunatic, Liar or Lord
Contributor: Donal Mahoney
- -
He has to be
one of the three--
lunatic, liar or lord
but don't ask me
which of the three
I know Him to be.
I've known forever
faith is a gift
He alone can give.
"Ask," He said,
"and you shall receive.
Knock, and the door
will be opened."
If I didn't know,
I'd keep asking.
I'd knock down doors
till I discovered
which of the three
I know Him to be--
lunatic, liar or lord.
It's important to know
while breathing.
Find out now.
Not then.
- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
- -
He has to be
one of the three--
lunatic, liar or lord
but don't ask me
which of the three
I know Him to be.
I've known forever
faith is a gift
He alone can give.
"Ask," He said,
"and you shall receive.
Knock, and the door
will be opened."
If I didn't know,
I'd keep asking.
I'd knock down doors
till I discovered
which of the three
I know Him to be--
lunatic, liar or lord.
It's important to know
while breathing.
Find out now.
Not then.
- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
Saturday, November 7, 2015
Grandfather
Contributor: Susan Sweetland Garay
- -
I heard stories
of his harshness,
but never felt it -
how could I have,
I was just a little girl,
always able to charm him
into opening the jar
of candy
even when it
was only minutes
before dinner.
- - -
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).
- -
I heard stories
of his harshness,
but never felt it -
how could I have,
I was just a little girl,
always able to charm him
into opening the jar
of candy
even when it
was only minutes
before dinner.
- - -
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).
Friday, November 6, 2015
Connotations
Contributor: Richard Schnap
- -
I hear the wind
And think of a has-been chanteuse
Singing to an empty room
I see the rain
And think of an old widower
Dropping tears on his wedding photos
I watch a fire
And think of a laid-off worker
Receiving his last unemployment check
I listen to a siren
And think of a middle-aged divorcee
Pouring whiskey on her broken heart
But then I find a flower
And think of a young child
Who still believes in Santa Claus
As I smell its scent
And think of a rare perfume
Whose fragrance never quite goes away
- - -
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.
- -
I hear the wind
And think of a has-been chanteuse
Singing to an empty room
I see the rain
And think of an old widower
Dropping tears on his wedding photos
I watch a fire
And think of a laid-off worker
Receiving his last unemployment check
I listen to a siren
And think of a middle-aged divorcee
Pouring whiskey on her broken heart
But then I find a flower
And think of a young child
Who still believes in Santa Claus
As I smell its scent
And think of a rare perfume
Whose fragrance never quite goes away
- - -
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.
Thursday, November 5, 2015
Roadkill
Contributor: Ruth Z Deming
- -
My sister’s new house
sits on a busy street in Jersey.
At all hours cars, trucks, and
motorcycles fly by.
I’ll show you, she says,
as we walk on the shoulder
our backs to the killing vehicles
and with a stick she pokes what used
to be a mother, a lover of the
garbage can, there to find scraps
of honey-glazed ham, barbequed
ribs, orange rinds, potato peels
thin as the new moon.
Where’s mama now, wonders her family.
She’s here on the side of the road
the better part of her eaten by
vultures that roost like witches
in black hats on neighboring trees.
All that’s left is her DNA, for
scientists to explore
the bottom row of her grinning
pointed teeth – as Donna pokes further
and mumbles, “Her claws.”
Five tiny fingers, small as
baby David’s, but with a deadly
clutch, lie peacefully on the
road. Donna and I look
at one another
thinking the same thing. We
outlived Daddy but wonder
when we, too, will be removed
from the earth.
Rest in peace, mama raccoon,
our days are numbered
like yours.
- - -
Ruth Z Deming has had her poetry published in Mad Swirl, River Poets and Eunoia Review. She lives in Willow Grove, a suburb of Philadelphia.
- -
My sister’s new house
sits on a busy street in Jersey.
At all hours cars, trucks, and
motorcycles fly by.
I’ll show you, she says,
as we walk on the shoulder
our backs to the killing vehicles
and with a stick she pokes what used
to be a mother, a lover of the
garbage can, there to find scraps
of honey-glazed ham, barbequed
ribs, orange rinds, potato peels
thin as the new moon.
Where’s mama now, wonders her family.
She’s here on the side of the road
the better part of her eaten by
vultures that roost like witches
in black hats on neighboring trees.
All that’s left is her DNA, for
scientists to explore
the bottom row of her grinning
pointed teeth – as Donna pokes further
and mumbles, “Her claws.”
Five tiny fingers, small as
baby David’s, but with a deadly
clutch, lie peacefully on the
road. Donna and I look
at one another
thinking the same thing. We
outlived Daddy but wonder
when we, too, will be removed
from the earth.
Rest in peace, mama raccoon,
our days are numbered
like yours.
- - -
Ruth Z Deming has had her poetry published in Mad Swirl, River Poets and Eunoia Review. She lives in Willow Grove, a suburb of Philadelphia.
Wednesday, November 4, 2015
Ferry
Contributor: Nikhil Nath
- -
I fall from
an exclamation
and face a
tiger, who
is more sudden
than lightning,
I run and
jump onto
a large bracket
that carries me
to the end
of a ferry boat,
that mistakes
me for a mark
of interrogation and casts
me to catch fish
and I lose
a secret I
had eloped with
in a gossip
within
inverted commas.
- - -
Nikhil has been writing poetry for eighteen years. He has been published in various magazines in India, the USA and the UK. Nikhil Nath is his pen name. He lives and works from Kolkata, India. “Write rubbish, but write", said Virginia Woolf. This is Nikhil's maxim for writing.
Allegro, Aji, Ink salt and Tears, Laughing Dog (Poem of the Month), Ehanom, Ithica Lit, Germ Magazine, Leaves of Ink, Linden Avenue, Pif magazine have all recently accepted his work.
- -
I fall from
an exclamation
and face a
tiger, who
is more sudden
than lightning,
I run and
jump onto
a large bracket
that carries me
to the end
of a ferry boat,
that mistakes
me for a mark
of interrogation and casts
me to catch fish
and I lose
a secret I
had eloped with
in a gossip
within
inverted commas.
- - -
Nikhil has been writing poetry for eighteen years. He has been published in various magazines in India, the USA and the UK. Nikhil Nath is his pen name. He lives and works from Kolkata, India. “Write rubbish, but write", said Virginia Woolf. This is Nikhil's maxim for writing.
Allegro, Aji, Ink salt and Tears, Laughing Dog (Poem of the Month), Ehanom, Ithica Lit, Germ Magazine, Leaves of Ink, Linden Avenue, Pif magazine have all recently accepted his work.
Tuesday, November 3, 2015
Tequila
Contributor: Michael Lee Johnson
- -
Single life is-tequila with lime,
shots of travelers, jacks, diamonds, and then spades,
holding back aces-
mocking jokers
paraplegic aged tumblers of the night trip.
Poltergeist define as another frame,
a dancer in the corner shadows.
Single lady don’t eat the worm…
beneath the belt, bashful, very loud, yet unspoken.
Your man lacks verb, a traitor to your skin.
- - -
Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. He has been published in more than 875 small press magazines, in 27 different countries, and he edits 10 poetry sites. He has 74 poetry videos on YouTube.
- -
Single life is-tequila with lime,
shots of travelers, jacks, diamonds, and then spades,
holding back aces-
mocking jokers
paraplegic aged tumblers of the night trip.
Poltergeist define as another frame,
a dancer in the corner shadows.
Single lady don’t eat the worm…
beneath the belt, bashful, very loud, yet unspoken.
Your man lacks verb, a traitor to your skin.
- - -
Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. He has been published in more than 875 small press magazines, in 27 different countries, and he edits 10 poetry sites. He has 74 poetry videos on YouTube.
Monday, November 2, 2015
Falling Out of Bed
Contributor: JD DeHart
- -
There is no good way
to fall out of bed except
to not fall at all. The first
time was when I stayed over
and woke up in a tumble
of sheets, writhing in a cocoon
on the floor, tearful and unsure
of where I was. I remember
figures in the dark, crying
softly like me.
Now I tumble out each morning,
met with the same old me.
Not falling is not an option.
- - -
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available from RedDashboard.
- -
There is no good way
to fall out of bed except
to not fall at all. The first
time was when I stayed over
and woke up in a tumble
of sheets, writhing in a cocoon
on the floor, tearful and unsure
of where I was. I remember
figures in the dark, crying
softly like me.
Now I tumble out each morning,
met with the same old me.
Not falling is not an option.
- - -
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available from RedDashboard.
Sunday, November 1, 2015
I Was a Teenage Psychopath
Contributor: Justin Holliday
- -
You may as well rip a cloud from the sky
and twist it into a set of diaphanous semicolons,
a promise never to stop
trying to figure me out. Like most grammar,
I could easily puncture your logic, show you
the failure to hook me
lies in your inept grasp
that I can keep moving.
There are no signs; to lead you out of this,
you had to first be sucked in. Was it my face?
Or the way I handled a drink
though I looked sixteen?
You must believe me: I am careful.
Always. Someone may pause and think
I simply play games.
Have you played Never Have I Ever?
Take a drink for what you haven’t done.
This head reveals nothing
but assurances:
Never have I ever coveted my neighbor’s pony.
Never have I ever believed in profiling people.
Never have I ever stolen a candy bar or toy.
Never have I ever tortured an animal to death,
blood drying on the cuffs of my shirt. I swear
that I’m boring, that you’ll forget me.
After tonight, there is nothing to hold onto
except the thoughts of a young man
who bought you shots. The vodka was not
the only pleasure; there was also the smell
that will linger on my wrists
like a musky perfume
when you are exsanguinated.
My only jealousy will be that
the coroner will have the honor
of recording you, preserving you
with a toe tag, a memento
of adolescent games
for a body that gave me all
while I soberly shared
my company and my razor blade.
- - -
Justin Holliday has been published in HelloHorror, Up the Staircase, Main Street Rag, and elsewhere.
- -
You may as well rip a cloud from the sky
and twist it into a set of diaphanous semicolons,
a promise never to stop
trying to figure me out. Like most grammar,
I could easily puncture your logic, show you
the failure to hook me
lies in your inept grasp
that I can keep moving.
There are no signs; to lead you out of this,
you had to first be sucked in. Was it my face?
Or the way I handled a drink
though I looked sixteen?
You must believe me: I am careful.
Always. Someone may pause and think
I simply play games.
Have you played Never Have I Ever?
Take a drink for what you haven’t done.
This head reveals nothing
but assurances:
Never have I ever coveted my neighbor’s pony.
Never have I ever believed in profiling people.
Never have I ever stolen a candy bar or toy.
Never have I ever tortured an animal to death,
blood drying on the cuffs of my shirt. I swear
that I’m boring, that you’ll forget me.
After tonight, there is nothing to hold onto
except the thoughts of a young man
who bought you shots. The vodka was not
the only pleasure; there was also the smell
that will linger on my wrists
like a musky perfume
when you are exsanguinated.
My only jealousy will be that
the coroner will have the honor
of recording you, preserving you
with a toe tag, a memento
of adolescent games
for a body that gave me all
while I soberly shared
my company and my razor blade.
- - -
Justin Holliday has been published in HelloHorror, Up the Staircase, Main Street Rag, and elsewhere.