Monday, July 27, 2015

Daniel Wilcox- Three Poems

One Dog Night 

After we drove


a ranch road into pasture
by the frozen stream,

I sat in the truck cab looking...


splotch-starred darkness,
through the cracked, pitted windshield,

while the ranch cook grimaced and cursed.

He jumped from the driver's seat,
back to the pickup bed,

shot the pensive dog,
and dumped him
into a snow bank

—for vultures and the rot of spring.

And, me, sitting in the cab,
feeling like Lenny.

First pub. in Unlikely Stories 2.0

Film Over Our Eyes

We ‘dry’ Baptists
Got guts and minds
Immersed in
The ocean of no-nothing,
New ‘cawled’
Wet with innocence
In the dawn of don’t;
Y’u no know do knows
Of both spellings
Including no film
Except (“see no…”)

Over our youthful eyes
Not only did we no fast
Moving… but picture this:
No poesy, no do-si-do,
No rolling rockabilly,
Only Billy the Graham, “Just
As I Am” that is,
Not the Graham of Fillmore’s
“White Rabbit”;
No Slick, but grace, yes.

Oh, the film over our eyes


My first date
Wanted to see Hailey Mills. Wheeling,
Dizzy (not Walt or Dean) with worry
I walked her down
With trepidation
Under the glaring marque
Into that pit wallow of wrong

(“Abandon hope, all who enter here…”)

Only to find the Disney film
Summer Magic,
Rather moving, a picture
Of overly decent fun,
Not dangerous at all, not like
The images in my own mind
Mined deep into surging lava;

Oh, the film over our eyes

Fast frame a few
Years into our Medusa’d future,
And projectors gone wild,
R-shuttering eyes strange
Wide into
The restricted blazoned
Display, Beyond PG
(Pretty Gross), so graphic;

And many a theater
Became an ‘easy ride’
For this Bible belt boy
Into carnal knowledge,

Graphic blood-letting,
Words never Scriptur’d,
Negative nude scenes
Razing our senses,
And vicarious mayhem;

Oh, the film over our eyes

Gazing (“see no, know…”);
I been through the mills
Thrown too many times down
Into the sea,
Those millstones around our necks;
Next stop,

(Not Hailey’s picture show,
Or that last one down
Texas-mixed way,
Nor Cecil’s 'B' Mills),

But the brain(swine)wash
Of a ‘Last Tango’d’ mind--
Been ‘Brando’d’, thanks Simon,
(Not Simple, but the Paul’d one)
Down the starred Walk of Fame,

Oh, the film over our eyes

Glazed, cataract-vague vision
Unholywood’d, Ash-shamed
Y’u know,

First pub. The Camel Saloon


She said, Never
Have I a single evil urge
And argued urgently, so ardently,
Yes, really sincerely
In her secular innocence.
Or was that self-chosen
Ignorance, blind-sided?
The bar so minimally debased
That only the vile need apply
For infamous, wicked status--
The debauched ones
An open conduit to debouch
The pit?

He said, Always
Have I had a mingled evil urge
And grieved urgently, so dejectedly,
Yes, really repentantly
In his sacred guilt.
Or was that self-chosen
Obsession, blind-sided?
The star so supremely zenithed
That only the pure need apply
For exalted, righted status--
The chaste ones
An open conduit to deliver
The peak?

First pub. The Camel Saloon

Brief Bio: Daniel's wandering lines have appeared in many magazines in the United States, Canada, and overseas including Contemporary American Voices, Write Room, Static Movement, vox poetica, Fish Food, Poetry Pacific, Counterexample Poetics, and Unlikely Stories IV.

Before that Daniel hiked through the University of Nebraska, Cal State University, Long Beach (Creative Writing), Montana, Pennsylvania, Europe, Arizona, and Palestine/Israel. He now lives on the central coast of California with his quilting wife.

Noel Negele- A Poem

Present Memories

Her hair’s short-
A tomboy beauty
She always shares her cigarettes
And she can handle silence,
A girl with an indie heart
Self educated more than system educated
A rebel at every chance
Despises drama
But somehow draws plenty of it

She rubs you when you feel awful
She drinks with you and as much as you
And in the morning she always sleeps more than you
She loves you and doesn’t mind telling you
She shares her socks and gives you money
And asks for sex just as easily

She stares at you while you sleep
With adoring eyes
Her fingers streaming from your forehead
To your lips to your neck
To your chest
And you want to open your eyes
So you can see her smooth, dreamer smile
But you enjoy the feeling 
Of her finger tips too much

While the rays of the afternoon sun
Make their way through the shutters
Giving untouchable orange to the room

And your breathing
And hers
Like a prologue to a symphony
And the sound of the far away waves
And the cicadas on the trees
Taking their place
And the stillness of joy
And the surging of happiness
Into the moment
Stretching left and right
Engulfing body and soul
And the world entire

As something close to perfection
Coexists with us both.

Joe Brennand- Three Poems

Three Sweet Haiku

my heart melts
in our dance of love
Champaign on ice

on bended knee
a ring in my hand
will you marry me?

autumn sunrise
through the passing years
I stand by you


small poems can be found at The Camel Saloon, Plum Tree Taven and Writers Haven

Robert Demaree- Three Poems


Cold Cuts

In the deli line:
Lebanon bologna, please,
Half-pound, sliced quite thin.
The man in line next to me
Says, “I love Lebanese food.”

Waiting Room

Morning TV shows:
The only people who watch:
Customers waiting
At the Chevrolet dealer:
An oil change, Steve Harvey next.

Calm Water

A cloudy Sunday,
No power boats on the pond:
Three generations
Kayaking single-file:
Paddles rotate like windmills.

Robert Demaree is the author of three book-length collections of poems, including After Labor Day, published in April 2014 by Beech River Books.  In 2013 his poems received first place in competitions sponsored by the Poetry Society of New Hampshire and the Burlington Writers Club He is a retired school administrator with ties to North Carolina, Pennsylvania and New Hampshire, where he lives four months of the year. His poems have appeared in over 150 periodicals. For further information see 

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Going to Planned Parenthood Again

“We had the other ones done there,” says Tammy. 
"Why not go there again? Everything went well.
No complications. Who cares about the publicity? 
Bunch of do-gooders with hidden cameras.

“I don’t care about the publicity,” says Jason. 
“But if I’m the father and they’re going to sell 
the heart, brains and liver of my fetus, I want 
a share in the proceeds. There would be no
fetus, parts or proceeds if it weren’t for me. 
They wouldn’t have anything to sell.”

“You’re absolutely nuts,” says Tammy, 
“absolutely nuts. If they pay you, 
they’ll have to pay every other 
guy who gets a girl pregnant. 
What about me? I’m the pregnant one. 
I’m the one they’re taking it from. 
Why shouldn’t I get paid, Jason?”

“We should both get paid,” says Jason. 
"Let’s go down there and tell them 
either we get a share of the proceeds 
or you’ll have the baby instead. 
Then we’ll add to the population,
use disposable diapers, flush the toilet 
too often and eventually make 
the world warmer than it is.

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Sunday, July 26, 2015

Bradley Williams- A Cartoon

                                         See my website at:

Richard Schnap- A Poem


Sometimes people just vanish
Never to be seen again

As if they’re abducted by aliens
Taken in the middle of the night

The girl you courted in high school
Disappearing without a clue

The beggar on the sidewalk each morning
Becoming just an empty space

The man with the guitar on the corner
Whose music is nowhere to be heard

The woman who’d wave as she passed you
Gone before you learned her name

But the worst is when you encounter
A friend that you thought was dead

With the same face you remember
But eyes that are light years away

Linda M. Crate- Three Poems

in pursuit of truth 
everyone tells me
that i am strange as if that's the 
worst insult you can 
but i still dive into the wreck
into the me and she and he and all the blues
and greens and blacks;
i prefer the golden scarlet carnelian kisses of
sunsets burning against my flesh
and dancing in my hair,
but sometimes just sometimes
i embrace the darkness and the void
they always want the sunshine but i revel in the rain
washing against my skin as i descend the ladder
and leap into the inky waters of 
maudlin faces greet me beyond the surface and so i 
dig deeper
because there is always something more
than what is anticipated
i find peace in the eyes of dead ships and mermaid fins
to see the light kiss the water
like a lover,
and i wonder if the moon is jealous of the sea
so she crashes her angrily against the rocks out of mere
jealousy and spite because she knows the sun
has been untrue;
no one joins me on these voyages
they are too wild for them to reckon but i have always been
sitting on the teeth of the most ferocious eloquency
ready to cut into the truth.

wicked wolf 
bones are heavy to carry
i refuse to remember
it would serve no purpose
except to make me cry,
and i've already
have birthed enough rivers of grief
into existence in the vanity
that is your name;
nothing i could say or do would make
you love me the way i loved you
because you never did even
care not even a little bit
you don't destroy people you love—
all you ever offered me
were the silences that cut my heart
i gave you all of me and carried your bones
so many moons simply so you could shrug mine off
like snakeskin and bite into my throat
with fangs 
so merciless even a vampire would cringe
before using them,
you are the most profound monster;
even other monsters wouldn't rip scars so deep as you—
remember the bad guy always dies in the
novel and in the movie and in life
they say the good die young but sometimes so do the
and i hope for once life is fair
makes you lose faith in a love you never believed in
as she rips you petal from petal so none of the
roses you have stolen are yours.

forgetting your name 
i'll color the roses
with your blood,
and paint the moon in the silver
of your soul;
will rip you apart and feed your
bones to the wolves
you claim are your fathers—
i'll let the carrion
feast upon your flesh for ravens are
my brothers and crows my
and your mocking lips shall fall into
no longer shall anyone hear
the song of the
mocking jay and the world will sleep more
restful knowing one monster has
been slain because
i am a monster slayer 
capable of tying her own corset and everything
my heels will be at your throat
you'll see the fury in my eyes you always
denied was there—
i will burn you in the fires of your own lust
until you can stand no more,
and watch as the universe forgets
your name.

John Pursch- Three Poems

Bright Mnemonic Neutral

Legs excuse a verbal winter,
loose and fractionated
by gawking peasants
in rapt anemic paucity,
clipped daily from
newly seated staggerers.

Insteps leave a slum,
hobbling to be sedated
by cans of panhandled grapes.

Shins hum feverishly,
siring irate underlings
in shining ubiquity’s
faded screen of shout.

Parking up the Congo’s
corrugated pound seraphim,
somewhat acoustic children
whimsically recover from
mollified beneficence,
shopped in churning visuals.

Modified attention sums it up
with puppy love viscosity,
shedding bright mnemonic
neutral in amazement.

Forever Mannequins

Uremia skips the rustic dross
for probabilities of an exorcist’s
polite refusal,
scenting him with formless ale,
minting deferential gauze
for sadly glimpsed parental retries.

He took a slug of toothy clock
and scaled hedonic garden swells,
coping with plopped urchins
in alleyway brachistochrones
of chronological emotion.

Sobs drift out of scenery,
rendering cosmic sickness 
at easily specious wolverine pecans
in cardboard cupcake sail recision,
putting a model executive through
slumping shaven couch pulsations.

Sodden heroes herd a captured ankle
into cuticle hubris at diced the peat
of lounge gizzard plutocrats,
from phlegm to falsely fingered
crouton itches.

She just kept swimming down
motionless tires of temporal heresy,
fixed to rinds of grinning facemasks,
going high to lopped-off west
in quintessential moon bait lossage,
forgiving stolid mannequins
whenever doves emerged
from stucco blinder horse cart rage
or twosome stones
or flapping Frappuccino consonants
of raw frenetic underwhelm
in tow truck buccaneer embrace.

Above Denuded Flames

Upshot fees imbue the minted
logo minds of bullion speakers,
courting dynamic truncation bins,
wracking barks for hewed syllabic tinder.

Chalices flutter in gummed natal fruit
of vowel excision statue heirs,
glistening to skylight escalation floors
in gone horizon euphony
of torrid plastic gyrations
and hinged generational prolapse.

She smiles as only the severely
cramping pedestal of stunned
humility can infer,
from burping fountain travesties
above denuded flames.

Chimerical embarrassments,
cod spread disgrace
on teepee chandelier repairmen,
pocketing a wealthy commiseration flea

(whose life expectorates
in sopping purple qualities
of sallow gully dwellers).

Clowns hum naked folly pies
to crabby childhood citizens
of goodness gravel gumdrop gaffers
grown garrulous in gargled
gabardine gazebo gowns,
gruffly governing gelatinous gentlemen.

Chin-ups churn chelated cherubim,
chortling at chimney champions.

John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and has appeared in many literary journals. A collection of his poetry, Intunesia, is available at Check out his experimental lit-rap video at He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

The Time I Shamelessly Used Christopher Lee’s Death
As A Promotional Vehicle For My Poetry

It was a stone cold stroke of Narcissistic Genius,
I beat every other opportunist
by a longshot, to the front.
With razor sharp unfeeling wit
combined with electric shock, insensitive charm.
I crashed through those doors of common decency
with a Majestic and Megalomaniacal ‘Tra-da!’  
I crowd-surfed the Nation’s mourners,
one hand on Gloriously, palpitating chest bone,
T’other beseeching the tumultuous Heavens above.
I Hammered my Ode to the coffin lid of Horror,
then rammed My stake straight through its heart.
(Breaking off two Exquisitely sculptured nails
in the Magnificent process…Oh, how I suffer for My art!)

© Paul Tristram 2015

Anarchy, I Tell Thee!

My Aunty Nelly & Betty were sisters,
never married and not a child between them,
far too sensible, I guess?
I used to go ‘round there as a boy in the ‘80’s
whenever I wanted a bit of peace and quiet
and a plate of expensive food and treats.
They were Dear Old Sweethearts, the pair of them,
always calm, smiling and contented
except when the news came on of an evening
on one of the three channels on the TV.
My Aunty Nelly would shake her head
whilst looking over at me and say
“Here we go again mun, you just watch now!”
My Aunty Betty would stare at the screen
like a falcon searching the undergrowth for prey
until the dreaded ‘Iron Lady’ appeared.
Then she’d turn beetroot, sit rigid in her seat,
raise and shake her fist in the air and roar
“That Fucking Thatcher…The Bitch!
ooooh, I could throttle her with my bare hands.
There’ll be Anarchy, I tell thee…my lad
and it can’t come around quick enough, neither!”
I’d smile affectionately, it was the only time
that I ever heard that Wonderful Woman swear.

© Paul Tristram 2015

Shits & Giggles

They are both seventy four years old,
have two alcoholic sons
in their late forties
whom he can still drink under the table.
She’s had four heart attacks
but still chain smokes roll-ups
and drinks whisky straight up and down.
He’s in the pub everyday
from noon until three
come Hell or high-water,
where he refuses to help the barmaids
with their crossword puzzles,
claiming it interferes with his drinking
and if he arrives home sober
his poor wife would only worry.
They still play ‘Strip Jack Naked’
every Friday evening
with the curtains wide open,
to give the young passers-by an eyeful.
Their Golden Wedding Anniversary
was last year in the Autumn,
they had both male and female strippers
at the three and a half day party.
When asked the secret to their success?
he replied sagely “Shits & Giggles!”
She added “He’s Shits & I’m Giggles!”
and that, my friends is wisdom in a nutshell.

© Paul Tristram 2015

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Buy his book ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at
And also read his poems and stories here!