by Cindy O'Nanski
I love the view at Oasis Beach
As I lay my blanket down
This steamy afternoon
And position myself just so
To get a closer look
At those golden locks
Blowing gently in the breeze
Cascading over a sun kissed face
Followed by the perfect core
Rising and falling
With each and every breath.
Above crimson shorts
Sporting a distinct bulge
Leading to muscular legs
And the rest
I rub in with my lotion
On a hot summer’s day.
Thursday, October 9, 2014
October Heart
by Ben Rasnic
Time of year
light fades quickly,
a southwest wind scatters
leaves of brittle vermillion.
Hybrid shades of auburn
embrace the good earth.
Shadows flare
from jagged snow-capped peaks,
frame windows facing west.
Light filters to absence;
enter darkness
of days gone by.
Thinking of distant
people, places,
beyond & before;
night train passing
sustains a lonesome refrain,
takes me traveling,
clutching memories like ticket
stubs, mapquest highlighting
destinations along the road life leads me.
Fifty-nine, then again
stroke of midnight past Halloween
brings sixty,
shadows flickering
in the hollow flames
of butchered pumpkin skulls.
Growing old-
er than years, sometimes don’t know
what keeps me moving--
perhaps the serenity that is the Chesapeake,
the stillness of white sailboats
against a pale blue sky;
or night trains wailing
a blues mantra in the distance
that takes me somewhere beyond
misty miles of dark terrain
& glacier sheen of plains
where the light lifts gently over the hill;
thoughts of
finding place
to call home.
Time of year
light fades quickly,
a southwest wind scatters
leaves of brittle vermillion.
Hybrid shades of auburn
embrace the good earth.
Shadows flare
from jagged snow-capped peaks,
frame windows facing west.
Light filters to absence;
enter darkness
of days gone by.
Thinking of distant
people, places,
beyond & before;
night train passing
sustains a lonesome refrain,
takes me traveling,
clutching memories like ticket
stubs, mapquest highlighting
destinations along the road life leads me.
Fifty-nine, then again
stroke of midnight past Halloween
brings sixty,
shadows flickering
in the hollow flames
of butchered pumpkin skulls.
Growing old-
er than years, sometimes don’t know
what keeps me moving--
perhaps the serenity that is the Chesapeake,
the stillness of white sailboats
against a pale blue sky;
or night trains wailing
a blues mantra in the distance
that takes me somewhere beyond
misty miles of dark terrain
& glacier sheen of plains
where the light lifts gently over the hill;
thoughts of
finding place
to call home.
Safe-Keeping
by Amy Soricelli
We collect the dead in our closets here - the back rooms filled with boxes piled high;
sheets of paper whisper thin; hard breath on the back of your neck.
The cousins lingering eyes; black and white on the stairs of The Capital
ice cream cones dripping in the sun.
Long gone from this earth having disappeared many years ago -they curl up at the edges now/one on top of the other.
Great aunt lives in a jar/its outer box wrapped in soft tissue paper layered deep -
all that is left collected in barbaric ritual.
She was not scattered across the landscape of some determined mountain/sulky stream.
There is a suitcase with letters- notes; dried flowers bits and pieces -
if i gathered them up they would flutter like dust- leaving no proof they were there.
I can keep the dead in a box under the bed-shadows black/
lingering long growing wings.
wild ghosts wrapped tight in string.
We collect the dead in our closets here - the back rooms filled with boxes piled high;
sheets of paper whisper thin; hard breath on the back of your neck.
The cousins lingering eyes; black and white on the stairs of The Capital
ice cream cones dripping in the sun.
Long gone from this earth having disappeared many years ago -they curl up at the edges now/one on top of the other.
Great aunt lives in a jar/its outer box wrapped in soft tissue paper layered deep -
all that is left collected in barbaric ritual.
She was not scattered across the landscape of some determined mountain/sulky stream.
There is a suitcase with letters- notes; dried flowers bits and pieces -
if i gathered them up they would flutter like dust- leaving no proof they were there.
I can keep the dead in a box under the bed-shadows black/
lingering long growing wings.
wild ghosts wrapped tight in string.
Dead Brother’s Note to Our Dad
by Donal Mahoney
Dad, happy to see
you’re taking a nap.
I’m down at the pier
so give me a shout
when you wake up
and I’ll come running.
The fishing’s been great--
three coolers of pike
iced in the trunk.
You always tell Mom
before we leave
you won’t be drinking
and she lets Tim and me
go with you but
you drink all day
here at the lake.
I'll get my license next year
so things will be different.
I'll drive back at night so
you can nap in the car.
I’ll keep the radio off
so you won’t wake up.
It’s always good
to see Mom.
Dad, happy to see
you’re taking a nap.
I’m down at the pier
so give me a shout
when you wake up
and I’ll come running.
The fishing’s been great--
three coolers of pike
iced in the trunk.
You always tell Mom
before we leave
you won’t be drinking
and she lets Tim and me
go with you but
you drink all day
here at the lake.
I'll get my license next year
so things will be different.
I'll drive back at night so
you can nap in the car.
I’ll keep the radio off
so you won’t wake up.
It’s always good
to see Mom.
Tuesday, October 7, 2014
Marshall County
by James Babbs
I was willing to drive
for more than an hour
because
I wanted to see her
but she kept looking through me
I don’t think
she ever really saw me
I don’t think
she ever knew who I was
or who I wanted to be
her beautiful green eyes
catching the light and
throwing it around the room
I remember
how I held her
the way we kissed in the dark
desperate
waiting for morning to come and
the warmth of our bodies
trying to protect us
the cold relentless and
I dreamed
I could hear it
hammering against the walls
some kind of warning
I should’ve known
it was only a matter of time
I was willing to drive
for more than an hour
because
I wanted to see her
but she kept looking through me
I don’t think
she ever really saw me
I don’t think
she ever knew who I was
or who I wanted to be
her beautiful green eyes
catching the light and
throwing it around the room
I remember
how I held her
the way we kissed in the dark
desperate
waiting for morning to come and
the warmth of our bodies
trying to protect us
the cold relentless and
I dreamed
I could hear it
hammering against the walls
some kind of warning
I should’ve known
it was only a matter of time
Playing Chicken
by A.J. Huffman
with a vulture in the middle of Hope
Road, defending its find,
some butchered necropsy
of undecipherable origin. I slowed
to give warning, time for flight. Surely
even this small-brained carrion could decipher
the outcome of this equation:
2 ton vehicle + 1 large bird = double road kill. Obviously,
I was incorrect. It flared its wings, faced me
head on. Stunned by the savage audacity of this creature,
I caved. Stopped
my car. Watched in continuing awe as it cawed
in triumph, carried its carcass into the sky.
with a vulture in the middle of Hope
Road, defending its find,
some butchered necropsy
of undecipherable origin. I slowed
to give warning, time for flight. Surely
even this small-brained carrion could decipher
the outcome of this equation:
2 ton vehicle + 1 large bird = double road kill. Obviously,
I was incorrect. It flared its wings, faced me
head on. Stunned by the savage audacity of this creature,
I caved. Stopped
my car. Watched in continuing awe as it cawed
in triumph, carried its carcass into the sky.
Frank Zappa was right
you are what you is
by Wanda Morrow Clevenger
the meek won’t inherit
the earth, hornets will
burrowed in high rise
condominiums
hidden in plain sight
that one sentry
ready eager
for battle
that fatal
pheromone radar
bearing down
they make a mockery
our being, theology,
space station squatted
on our shed
on our magnolia branch
they know they
don’t need a god
to create
orchestrate, obliterate
they are already
omnipotent
the meek won’t inherit
the earth, hornets will
burrowed in high rise
condominiums
hidden in plain sight
that one sentry
ready eager
for battle
that fatal
pheromone radar
bearing down
they make a mockery
our being, theology,
space station squatted
on our shed
on our magnolia branch
they know they
don’t need a god
to create
orchestrate, obliterate
they are already
omnipotent
Sunday, October 5, 2014
The Boy with Feather Eyelashes
by Jillian Briglia
The little girl noticed the little boy with feather eyelashes at school.
When it rained, his hair was black as a raven’s back, his eyes were bright coal, & his coat began to leave white down trailing around the playground.
When it shined, she noticed his stuttering voice, sweetened by the spring, come quick come quick come quick Elizabeth
During class she watched him scratch little black v’s in the margins of his notebook, following his eyes out the long windows.
During recess they would perch on the logs and count the number of crows on the telephone wire.
When he runs, he is falling upwards, she wrote in her secret notebook.
Once he chased a wild crow into the woods
and never came back.
The little girl noticed the little boy with feather eyelashes at school.
When it rained, his hair was black as a raven’s back, his eyes were bright coal, & his coat began to leave white down trailing around the playground.
When it shined, she noticed his stuttering voice, sweetened by the spring, come quick come quick come quick Elizabeth
During class she watched him scratch little black v’s in the margins of his notebook, following his eyes out the long windows.
During recess they would perch on the logs and count the number of crows on the telephone wire.
When he runs, he is falling upwards, she wrote in her secret notebook.
Once he chased a wild crow into the woods
and never came back.
Reincarnation
by Jeremiah Walton
Took a stab at yolo and was reincarnated
I've died twice today.
once with the Moon
& once drunk in tree tops.
Took a stab at yolo and was reincarnated
I've died twice today.
once with the Moon
& once drunk in tree tops.
A Few Other Things
by J. K. Durick
The list we prepared and
Followed religiously through
The aisles, ticking off each
Item as if it were a mission
Accomplished didn’t work,
So this is the backup plan
The one we build into most
Things we do, a do-over
A slight correction that we
Build into the day, this other
Me returning to fix things up
The better me who knows
Now what’s missing from
That first go-round, the better
Shopper with his new list
The list of the missed items
To be ticked off, a check
Next to these other things
We needed badly enough
That I return, the ghost of
Visits past, the corrective
Angel finishing things up.
The list we prepared and
Followed religiously through
The aisles, ticking off each
Item as if it were a mission
Accomplished didn’t work,
So this is the backup plan
The one we build into most
Things we do, a do-over
A slight correction that we
Build into the day, this other
Me returning to fix things up
The better me who knows
Now what’s missing from
That first go-round, the better
Shopper with his new list
The list of the missed items
To be ticked off, a check
Next to these other things
We needed badly enough
That I return, the ghost of
Visits past, the corrective
Angel finishing things up.
Thursday, October 2, 2014
Morning
by Jillian Briglia
The house is burning again.
I pass down the stairs.
Flames lick the crystal,
drop into my mother’s hair,
Flames glittering as hot rain.
Hair, she pats &
smiles.
I pass through the kitchen.
Butter slides off sooty sour dough,
coats my sister’s hand in oil,
Butter slick as bones.
Hands, she does
not eat.
I pass by the dining room.
Glass boils in its panes,
slurs the ink on Father’s news,
Glass dripping as wax.
Page, he turns &
smiles.
Dog, she dreams
of swimming
and air
I leave, shut the door.
Say goodbye—
to the house
where everything takes place
in the hallways.
The house is burning again.
I pass down the stairs.
Flames lick the crystal,
drop into my mother’s hair,
Flames glittering as hot rain.
Hair, she pats &
smiles.
I pass through the kitchen.
Butter slides off sooty sour dough,
coats my sister’s hand in oil,
Butter slick as bones.
Hands, she does
not eat.
I pass by the dining room.
Glass boils in its panes,
slurs the ink on Father’s news,
Glass dripping as wax.
Page, he turns &
smiles.
Dog, she dreams
of swimming
and air
I leave, shut the door.
Say goodbye—
to the house
where everything takes place
in the hallways.
Good Night
by Bhargab Chatterjee
When forms and colours make an impenetrable fog in the east, night is the only reality. My name is transfixed with good nights of my friends. Their fading footsteps unfold me in the abyss of midnight. My friend Sanhita strummed her guitar in the dinner. All the people cried "White Horse!" But the horseman evaporated in her satiated smile. When she departs her music turns into a glass-house in my garden; there the roots of cactus clutch all the familiar names.
At last when I brush all the names off and come out in the street for a leisurely walk, I find a barefoot silence stalking me and whistling like a street urchin.
The thing that camps out all night on the cusp of your taste buds
by James Diaz
Hid under stove light
listening, leaning in
for rain water
the latter days of a badly lived life
your brow burning
with a story you don't know how to tell
fills me
but no light in the undertow
a body asleep
in its secondary life
a home is a secret
the bruises of youth buries
up to my knees
in a row of...
west
(how blood is no foundation)
tomorrows odds,
how a mother is no mystery
God if you are so compassionate
be still,
I have many arrows to throw your way
illegible body scribble
a pulse the bones bend with
it is your day to day
whisper,
but I wont
then scream
after you,
I am after you.
Hid under stove light
listening, leaning in
for rain water
the latter days of a badly lived life
your brow burning
with a story you don't know how to tell
fills me
but no light in the undertow
a body asleep
in its secondary life
a home is a secret
the bruises of youth buries
up to my knees
in a row of...
west
(how blood is no foundation)
tomorrows odds,
how a mother is no mystery
God if you are so compassionate
be still,
I have many arrows to throw your way
illegible body scribble
a pulse the bones bend with
it is your day to day
whisper,
but I wont
then scream
after you,
I am after you.
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
April 19
by Chris Drew
i am evasive
the shut up tips communication fault
i am a scoundrel dream’s fur sweater
the purpose and less the righteousness of my words
aren’t valid
but dumb concrete
i am scalding
the milk hit with acid
into cheese
joyous occasional beast
bounding out ‘a fenced in yard
type focus
drained pool party head lice
isn’t it a mistake accepting...
i am:
doggone it
confiscate this lesion: my harm
on empty dead worlds i do not yield
on top of blankets i do not feel cold
they’ve corralled us ourselves
i am seeing it in cut grass and smoke smell
in brewing waste
minute by minute like
fresh air good,
the budding tree buzz
sure enough like this
and like this
:down the stairs flown
a few times
two at a times
and in justice roaming thoughts
crippling anxious bugs
handsome shade
i laid my little porcupine faceless crowded drowsiness into the day
and ruptured and sought out manliness
in corners that don’t exist right
furnace drugged blood engine
breaching
tendril little sewn in hypocrisy feeler
and found out
sulking away
bubbles
scrubbing uncleaned
wreathless xmas terrified thigh
let’s not forget
through evilness split little poke
of light
i am evasive
the shut up tips communication fault
i am a scoundrel dream’s fur sweater
the purpose and less the righteousness of my words
aren’t valid
but dumb concrete
i am scalding
the milk hit with acid
into cheese
joyous occasional beast
bounding out ‘a fenced in yard
type focus
drained pool party head lice
isn’t it a mistake accepting...
i am:
doggone it
confiscate this lesion: my harm
on empty dead worlds i do not yield
on top of blankets i do not feel cold
they’ve corralled us ourselves
i am seeing it in cut grass and smoke smell
in brewing waste
minute by minute like
fresh air good,
the budding tree buzz
sure enough like this
and like this
:down the stairs flown
a few times
two at a times
and in justice roaming thoughts
crippling anxious bugs
handsome shade
i laid my little porcupine faceless crowded drowsiness into the day
and ruptured and sought out manliness
in corners that don’t exist right
furnace drugged blood engine
breaching
tendril little sewn in hypocrisy feeler
and found out
sulking away
bubbles
scrubbing uncleaned
wreathless xmas terrified thigh
let’s not forget
through evilness split little poke
of light
Guessing Here
by JD DeHart
A, B, and C are clearly not the option,
but there are a myriad of other options.
The test has all the answers, we are told,
to who we will be and the measure
of our future path. I wonder which question
outlines whom I will marry, and I wonder
which essay decides my salary?
When possible, I choose All of the Above
because I feel it makes me appear
open and optimistic.
A, B, and C are clearly not the option,
but there are a myriad of other options.
The test has all the answers, we are told,
to who we will be and the measure
of our future path. I wonder which question
outlines whom I will marry, and I wonder
which essay decides my salary?
When possible, I choose All of the Above
because I feel it makes me appear
open and optimistic.
DOWN THE ROAD APIECE
by Roy Dorman
Walking on the side of a dusty road;
Carrying a backpack full of yesterdays.
Hitchhiking: Thumbing a ride into tomorrow.
Life passes me by. I smile and wave.
Tomorrow I can put today in the backpack;
It’ll be a yesterday.
There’s a whole mess of ‘em in there
That are all pretty much like today.
Every once in awhile
There’s a different kind of today
That doesn't fit well with the yesterdays
That are already packed away in there.
I can feel the rustling
Of the commotion they cause.
Walking on the side of a dusty road;
Carrying a backpack full of yesterdays.
Hitchhiking: Thumbing a ride into tomorrow.
Life passes me by. I smile and wave.
Tomorrow I can put today in the backpack;
It’ll be a yesterday.
There’s a whole mess of ‘em in there
That are all pretty much like today.
Every once in awhile
There’s a different kind of today
That doesn't fit well with the yesterdays
That are already packed away in there.
I can feel the rustling
Of the commotion they cause.
Man with a Broom
by David Chorlton
If anyone could sweep the sky clean
it would be the man who spends his days
between Third Avenue and Fifth
never far from Thomas Road,
but he can only reach the numbers
on the speed limit signs
which he dusts, day after day,
and swishes clean the sidewalk
with short and nervous movements,
left right, left right, rest
a minute and continue, square
by concrete square. He leans his bicycle
against a wall, takes down the bucket
hanging from the handlebars
and arranges what pass
for possessions on the ground
before starting. His face bears the same
expression on Monday
as on Friday, and for him there are
no weekends. Dirt settles
each Saturday, Sunday, on all
the areas for which
he takes responsibility. Back and forth,
he rides week-long, filling all his hours
while traffic passes; the pizza business opens
and closes; streetlamps
light up and go off; while the heat
reaches a hundred-and-ten; while it falls
to thirty at night in December; through
sudden rain and lightning flash;
while the ambulance rushes to save
someone’s life when it’s late; while
the mockingbird above him
perching on the power pole
sings from its little grey heart
for anyone who’ll place business on hold
and listen to the silver coated notes.
If anyone could sweep the sky clean
it would be the man who spends his days
between Third Avenue and Fifth
never far from Thomas Road,
but he can only reach the numbers
on the speed limit signs
which he dusts, day after day,
and swishes clean the sidewalk
with short and nervous movements,
left right, left right, rest
a minute and continue, square
by concrete square. He leans his bicycle
against a wall, takes down the bucket
hanging from the handlebars
and arranges what pass
for possessions on the ground
before starting. His face bears the same
expression on Monday
as on Friday, and for him there are
no weekends. Dirt settles
each Saturday, Sunday, on all
the areas for which
he takes responsibility. Back and forth,
he rides week-long, filling all his hours
while traffic passes; the pizza business opens
and closes; streetlamps
light up and go off; while the heat
reaches a hundred-and-ten; while it falls
to thirty at night in December; through
sudden rain and lightning flash;
while the ambulance rushes to save
someone’s life when it’s late; while
the mockingbird above him
perching on the power pole
sings from its little grey heart
for anyone who’ll place business on hold
and listen to the silver coated notes.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Creation stopped--for Me--
by Bill Jansen
A bullet riddled speed limit sign
was whistling Dixie by the road
when a Ford Fairlane stopped
and the petite woman driver said:
"Hee hee. Get in-- Wile E. Coyote, (I presume)."
She introduced herself
as Emily Dickinson,
comet-tailed back onto the freeway
(while lighting up a Pall Mall)
and began to converse rapidly
in aphorisms and oblique sentences.
Finally, remembering perhaps my existence,
she asked:
"so whatcha doin, Wile E."
I release my death grip on dashboard,
and repeat my favorite lie,
said I'm ticking off the requirements
for a hitch-hiking merit badge.
She gave no sign whether she
believed me or not,
but she sure was a nice change
from whatever it was
that left me earlier that day
on the same road shackled to a bee.
Her eyes were marriage ceremonies
in a Swiss Convent garden.
As twilight began to yield to night
she let me out in Tulsa.
Gave me 10 bucks for a motel,
but unfortunately I lost
the stubby yellow pencil
she said was made
from the wood of Calvary.
A bullet riddled speed limit sign
was whistling Dixie by the road
when a Ford Fairlane stopped
and the petite woman driver said:
"Hee hee. Get in-- Wile E. Coyote, (I presume)."
She introduced herself
as Emily Dickinson,
comet-tailed back onto the freeway
(while lighting up a Pall Mall)
and began to converse rapidly
in aphorisms and oblique sentences.
Finally, remembering perhaps my existence,
she asked:
"so whatcha doin, Wile E."
I release my death grip on dashboard,
and repeat my favorite lie,
said I'm ticking off the requirements
for a hitch-hiking merit badge.
She gave no sign whether she
believed me or not,
but she sure was a nice change
from whatever it was
that left me earlier that day
on the same road shackled to a bee.
Her eyes were marriage ceremonies
in a Swiss Convent garden.
As twilight began to yield to night
she let me out in Tulsa.
Gave me 10 bucks for a motel,
but unfortunately I lost
the stubby yellow pencil
she said was made
from the wood of Calvary.
My last leaf
by Reena Prasad
The heron is back. Drops quiver at the edge of a wing
I am transfixed watching the last leaf fall yet again
I am the drop easily latching on to a strange feather
yet there is life in the depths for me even if I let go
I am swept by random waves into sandy cups of sea water.
Shells mark the grave where my last desire is buried yet there I will never lie.
I am the liquid surge of the unknown bursting into bloom on a temple tree
My wilderness burbling with distilled essences dances bough and root within me
I belong to the tender rain, the rogue sea, the ephemeral mist and the
blossom-kissed tree
yet I am not destroyed by what holds me
unlike the big fish thrashing at the curve of a stabbing bill
My last leaf will never remember me
The heron is back. Drops quiver at the edge of a wing
I am transfixed watching the last leaf fall yet again
I am the drop easily latching on to a strange feather
yet there is life in the depths for me even if I let go
I am swept by random waves into sandy cups of sea water.
Shells mark the grave where my last desire is buried yet there I will never lie.
I am the liquid surge of the unknown bursting into bloom on a temple tree
My wilderness burbling with distilled essences dances bough and root within me
I belong to the tender rain, the rogue sea, the ephemeral mist and the
blossom-kissed tree
yet I am not destroyed by what holds me
unlike the big fish thrashing at the curve of a stabbing bill
My last leaf will never remember me
Lou's Mummy
by Julie Kovacs
Heeeeeeeey Abbott!
Look out for that mummy behind you!
Whose mummy it is
Not a helicopter mummy
nor an attachment mummy
(not the kind that is classified as one that grows from your side like a parasite)
The name is Klaris
not Claris or Clarie's
where pre-teen designer bandages can be bought.
Look out for that snake charmer holding the medallion!
The serpent instead of Lou could end up eating it
without the digestive aid of hamburger
then it would crawl off into the desert
and end up inside a crocodile.
Klaris would have to scare the crocodile into
coughing up the medallion
that would not be easy
when Mel Cooley is teaching the reptile
how to cook using a microwave
while the dancers and worshippers
in the nave of Klaris
hip-hop to “Muskrat Love.”
Heeeeeeeey Abbott!
Look out for that mummy behind you!
Whose mummy it is
Not a helicopter mummy
nor an attachment mummy
(not the kind that is classified as one that grows from your side like a parasite)
The name is Klaris
not Claris or Clarie's
where pre-teen designer bandages can be bought.
Look out for that snake charmer holding the medallion!
The serpent instead of Lou could end up eating it
without the digestive aid of hamburger
then it would crawl off into the desert
and end up inside a crocodile.
Klaris would have to scare the crocodile into
coughing up the medallion
that would not be easy
when Mel Cooley is teaching the reptile
how to cook using a microwave
while the dancers and worshippers
in the nave of Klaris
hip-hop to “Muskrat Love.”
Claustrophobic Closeness
by Paul Tristram
We are now a circle,
complete, compact and concealed
like an anklebone in snow.
A breathing rhythm,
with scent circulation,
warm and moist muscle padding.
Comfort in this darkness,
finger joints: chain locks,
legs: skin and flesh double bows.
Busy in our duel employment,
catching wishful stars
and weaving unrealistic daydreams.
Selfishly happy and contented
in two-seated oyster shell discipline,
revolving together as we roll.
We are now a circle,
complete, compact and concealed
like an anklebone in snow.
A breathing rhythm,
with scent circulation,
warm and moist muscle padding.
Comfort in this darkness,
finger joints: chain locks,
legs: skin and flesh double bows.
Busy in our duel employment,
catching wishful stars
and weaving unrealistic daydreams.
Selfishly happy and contented
in two-seated oyster shell discipline,
revolving together as we roll.
Thursday, September 25, 2014
S.T.F.U.
by Todd Mercer
If none of us talk,
we all walk out free,
on our own recognizance.
Don’t take the deal. Don’t blink
when they say your partners
betrayed you first, i.d.’d you as ringleader.
Police make things up,
they’re allowed to lie, to psych you out.
You must’ve seen a TV cop drama. So show sense
and invoke that Fifth Amendment.
Or better, answer, “I don’t recall,”
to the Bad Cop when he slaps
the cup of coffee from your hand,
and say it to the Good Cop also,
when he calms his fellow actor,
when he pours you a fresh java,
says he can relate.
If none of us talk,
we all walk out free,
on our own recognizance.
Don’t take the deal. Don’t blink
when they say your partners
betrayed you first, i.d.’d you as ringleader.
Police make things up,
they’re allowed to lie, to psych you out.
You must’ve seen a TV cop drama. So show sense
and invoke that Fifth Amendment.
Or better, answer, “I don’t recall,”
to the Bad Cop when he slaps
the cup of coffee from your hand,
and say it to the Good Cop also,
when he calms his fellow actor,
when he pours you a fresh java,
says he can relate.
THE BAG
by Anuradha Bhattacharyya
She collects
Her favourite things
In her bag.
Sometimes
She takes them out,
Lines them in order
And counts.
Then she
Tumbles them back
Into her bag.
Like her,
In my heart
I fail to sort out
My affections.
She collects
Her favourite things
In her bag.
Sometimes
She takes them out,
Lines them in order
And counts.
Then she
Tumbles them back
Into her bag.
Like her,
In my heart
I fail to sort out
My affections.
Birthday Poem 2 a.m.
by Will Monigold
It’s raining again.
The picnic bench
Is missing a board.
Evidence of its hard life.
The neighbors have
captured their dogs.
When I step outside
The street is quiet.
Nights are cool.
Sleep comes easily
But I avoid it.
There are times I hope
I won’t wake up.
Winter is coming.
The promise of darkness.
Ceaseless clouds
Putting to bed
A weary sun. I let the rain
Wash my face.
It’s raining again.
The picnic bench
Is missing a board.
Evidence of its hard life.
The neighbors have
captured their dogs.
When I step outside
The street is quiet.
Nights are cool.
Sleep comes easily
But I avoid it.
There are times I hope
I won’t wake up.
Winter is coming.
The promise of darkness.
Ceaseless clouds
Putting to bed
A weary sun. I let the rain
Wash my face.
FOUR MEN IN THE PUB
by Marc Carver
In the pub three men
sit on a table in front of me.
They have a beer in front of them
and all of them have lighted faces
as they all stare into their phones
as if they were looking into the oracle's eyes.
I can't help but think
they could have saved themselves a few quid
and stayed at home.
One of them eventually breaks the trance and talks
to a big guy sitting on another table who is also on his phone.
They talk about all of them being on the phone.
These three leave
and the big guy goes up to the bar
and starts shouting
The barmaid sways away from him
and the woman manager comes over.
She does the same and shrugs her shoulders,
he throws his arms about
but she still shrugs her shoulders
He sits down
and then a woman comes in and he starts to kiss her and hold her.
I can't hear the words but I know what they are saying.
"I was surprised you called I thought you said we were finished,.I thought you didn't want the baby."
"Come on baby you know me, I am headstrong I didn't mean it."
They sit down together in each other's arms,
his loneliness is gone
but his problems have not.
In the pub three men
sit on a table in front of me.
They have a beer in front of them
and all of them have lighted faces
as they all stare into their phones
as if they were looking into the oracle's eyes.
I can't help but think
they could have saved themselves a few quid
and stayed at home.
One of them eventually breaks the trance and talks
to a big guy sitting on another table who is also on his phone.
They talk about all of them being on the phone.
These three leave
and the big guy goes up to the bar
and starts shouting
The barmaid sways away from him
and the woman manager comes over.
She does the same and shrugs her shoulders,
he throws his arms about
but she still shrugs her shoulders
He sits down
and then a woman comes in and he starts to kiss her and hold her.
I can't hear the words but I know what they are saying.
"I was surprised you called I thought you said we were finished,.I thought you didn't want the baby."
"Come on baby you know me, I am headstrong I didn't mean it."
They sit down together in each other's arms,
his loneliness is gone
but his problems have not.
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
Conjuncture
by Simon Anton Nino Diego Baena
Darkness enters
through the windows
of my dilapidated room
dripping with petals of venom,
like the Hashashins of old
in Persia and Syria.
And I welcome it
with open arms. Again
I want this atmosphere
to remain morbid
with no color
of rainbows:
this house, this street,
this city,
this cathedral of bones.
As the night begins
with a parade
of cigarettes and shadows,
I seek
the skull
hidden beneath
the pallid skin.
Inside an Ongoing Prayer
by Todd Mercer
The string of days are holy to me. I fumble
for the edges, hold a bead
with the least pressure that it needs not to slip,
slide it down to count with the others.
I’m fending off the past and future,
the nature of the garden ethos
very much a Be Here Now theme.
I’m barring hungry ghosts from this place,
bulldozing re-developers,
keeping these days sacrosanct,
threading them to string.
The string of days are holy to me. I fumble
for the edges, hold a bead
with the least pressure that it needs not to slip,
slide it down to count with the others.
I’m fending off the past and future,
the nature of the garden ethos
very much a Be Here Now theme.
I’m barring hungry ghosts from this place,
bulldozing re-developers,
keeping these days sacrosanct,
threading them to string.
SHRINE
by Marc Carver
I went to the garage
and pulled two big bed frames out
and started to build a sculpture in the garden
I put all the planks around the side
so it looked a bit like a wooden tent.
Every day I would add bits to it and paint it.
Before long I realized it was not a sculpture at all
but a shrine.
Some one was going to die
but I did not know who
maybe her mother maybe mine
maybe my father, hers is already dead.
All I could hope for is that it would be my mother.
I am not sure she tried golf or listening to ice cube as they cling to the sculpture
but I think she would have liked the cube
the same as her boy.
I went to the garage
and pulled two big bed frames out
and started to build a sculpture in the garden
I put all the planks around the side
so it looked a bit like a wooden tent.
Every day I would add bits to it and paint it.
Before long I realized it was not a sculpture at all
but a shrine.
Some one was going to die
but I did not know who
maybe her mother maybe mine
maybe my father, hers is already dead.
All I could hope for is that it would be my mother.
I am not sure she tried golf or listening to ice cube as they cling to the sculpture
but I think she would have liked the cube
the same as her boy.
Sundown at the Abbey
by Donal Mahoney
After a day in the fields
plowing and sowing,
the old monks see
sundown is near so
they put away tools,
clean up for supper.
It's soup and bread
torn from a loaf,
chunks of good cheese,
a rainbow of bright
fruit from the orchard,
coffee as black as tar.
There are 20 monks left,
slow and ailing, a drop
from a hundred or so
a few decades ago.
The harvest is small,
their lives still simple.
They work in the fields
and pray in the chapel.
But birds in the air
sometimes hear prayer
rise from the fields
and soar past them.
Sunday, September 21, 2014
THEY SAY
by Jennifer A. McGowan
the course of true love never did run
marathons. It’s more a heptathlon: long, pointed
remarks flung out of bounds; hurdles; measuring up;
half-naked women and a load of balls. Only the most elite
athlete will finish with an ego, or companion. Even
you won’t remember the names of the pack.
the course of true love never did run
marathons. It’s more a heptathlon: long, pointed
remarks flung out of bounds; hurdles; measuring up;
half-naked women and a load of balls. Only the most elite
athlete will finish with an ego, or companion. Even
you won’t remember the names of the pack.
Seascape
Newgale, Wales, Winter 2014
by Robert Nisbet
The village: a pub, a forecourt, a camping site,
a few houses on the hill, two shops, a café
where we, so many of us, have watched
the steam rise from coffee cups, the butter
trickling through toasted teacakes,
looked out to see spring warm the cliff tops,
mused on the natural world.
And then (as now) the moving water and a foul wind
will rise, shattering, hurtling through the village.
Resurgence then, repair, the fresh paint licked
on window frames and gables.
And again and again,
when the village is spruced and sweet again,
the wind and the water will rise again and shatter.
And again and again,
when the water has crashed,
the village will return to lick with paint,
renew,
toast teacakes.
The village: a pub, a forecourt, a camping site,
a few houses on the hill, two shops, a café
where we, so many of us, have watched
the steam rise from coffee cups, the butter
trickling through toasted teacakes,
looked out to see spring warm the cliff tops,
mused on the natural world.
And then (as now) the moving water and a foul wind
will rise, shattering, hurtling through the village.
Resurgence then, repair, the fresh paint licked
on window frames and gables.
And again and again,
when the village is spruced and sweet again,
the wind and the water will rise again and shatter.
And again and again,
when the water has crashed,
the village will return to lick with paint,
renew,
toast teacakes.
A Banquet in Autumn
by Donal Mahoney
In the wind
a butterfly clings
to a marigold while
a bee hovers.
A hummingbird stops
then darts away.
The garden is still
a banquet in autumn.
In the wind
a butterfly clings
to a marigold while
a bee hovers.
A hummingbird stops
then darts away.
The garden is still
a banquet in autumn.
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