Jason E. Hodges- A Poem

The Flake of Snow

Sometimes the good moments in life can be measured in seconds
Seconds, smearing into minutes
Minutes clicking through the clock wheels of time
Falling from the hour hand that moves quickly toward the mundane everyday
But these minutes lived far out weigh the everyday
Moments lived much like the life of a snow flurry
Weightless stars of ice floating in perfect beauty
Glistening crystals suspended
Drifting in a snowdrift
Unstressed by the hand of the dealing
Untouched by the world at that moment
A moment that can’t be taken away
But away the moment will fade
Or melt by time passing too quickly
By circumstances out of our control
But as one moment fades
The next is starting to build
Perfect conditions to float on nothing but feeling
Coast through the day
Waft wildly without restrictions that sometimes clutter our sight
One tiny moment
One tiny flake of possibility
One after another
Moments of happiness are built by the building
The goodness will eventually keep coming
Changing your life for the better one moment at a time

Melanie Browne- A Poem

Texas Gothic
 
At the head shop,
we buy incense,
skull beads,
tarot cards,
 
She starts to cry
 
“I’m lost,” she tells me
 
“I feel like I'm
in a corn maze
but all the corn is
on fire,” she says
 
I try and guide
her out,

we take all
the wrong turns
 
but in the end,
I discover
its more
fun being
lost,
 
we stand there,
searching the sky
for the southern cross,
smoking cigarettes
in another crowded theater 
of the absurd

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

The City Editor

Each morning,
he sits at his desk,
lights a cigar,
starts looking around

like a bear on a waterfall
looking for salmon. He growls
for raw copy, anything typed,
anything with errors in it.

Each day he comes to the office
honed to rectify wrongs.
Suffer the little stories
to come unto him.

----------------------------------------------------

Before computers were invented, Donal Mahoney worked as an editor for the The Chicago Sun-Times. During that era and since then, he has had poems published in The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Beloit Poetry Journal, Commonweal Magazine, Catapult to Mars (Scotland), Public Republic (Bulgaria), Revival (Ireland), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey), The Camel Saloon, Dead Snakes and other publications. Revising poems on a computer, he says, beats the hell out of revising them on a typewriter.

Sarah Gamutan- A Poem

Sarah Gamutan's poems have been published in many online literary journals including Carty's Poetry Journal, Western Australia Poets Inc. , The Beat, Literary Kicks, Haggard and Halloo Publications, The Camel Saloon, Rainbow Rose, Voxpoetica and The Sound of Poetry Review. She lives in Philippines where she works as a Customer Support Associate by night and a poet at heart by day.



Anti- Light, Down

The thunders are all creeping
in the dark thinking I can't hear
them. They peer into the window like
small monsters begging for some light.

I keep shooing them away- the howl they
make and the way they uproar the oceans
nearby. At night, I keep listening to the radio
to subdue the music that these corpuscles produce-

their grin makes the kittens at the pet room sick
and their loud cries make my eardrums burst into
animalistic craziness. They do the same thing
all over, in this dungeon, where my soul is trapped.

Jason E. Hodges- A Poem

The Thief

The Thief who steals a moment from your day
Leaves behind something wonderful
Your innermost feelings in a fluttering bliss
Emotions once held so tightly
Bound in your heart for safekeeping
But this Thief needs no key
For he swings in on your heartstrings
Pulls them in a way you adore
No fingerprints to be found at the scene
Just memories of happiness left in return
He pries with love lasting leverage
Stirring you into a spiritual awakening
Self-aware of the self longing inside you
To be wanted completely is what you were needing
So the Thief steals all of you
Holds in his hands the jewels of your soul
For the thief has not picked your pocket along a crowed street-way
He’s merely stolen a moment from your everyday life
Because it was necessary
Necessary for his very survival
A moment so precious to him
A moment never taken for granted
Like the ones that turn a deaf ear to your days voice of frustration
The ones that look at you blindly, simply unable to see
See the weight of the world bearing down on your shoulders
But the Thief sees the treasures of need that are there for the taking
He sneaks past all of the bars put up by the barring
Creeps over the walls that surround you
Into the depths of your soul locked away for far to long

　



Bio for Jason E. Hodges-
I began writing in 1989. Shortly after I began, I saw the movie Drugstore Cowboy with William S. Burroughs. After reading his books, I was hooked. I would go on to discover Charles Bukowski, Harry Crews, Janet Frame, Anais Nin, and Anne Sexton. My most recent work can be found at The Fringe Magazine, The Camel Saloon, Indigo Rising Magazine, Raven Images, The Dirt Worker’s Journal, Daily Love, The Rainbow Rose, CrossTIME Science Fiction Anthologies Volumes 8, 9, and 10, as well as an article based on an interview I did with Harry Crews that appeared in Our Town Gainesville Edition, Spring 2011.Leaves behind something wonderful

Joan McNerney- Three Poems

All Fall Down

  

Leaves toppling from trees fiery
leaves red yellow green flames.  Only this
remains...smoky ends of days.

Days like leaves crumbling, shriveled,
tumbling down, falling to the ground.
Scattered into an acrid mound.

An acrid mound of sour roots. Our garden
was seeded from the wrong side of the moon.
Brackish vines will be harvested there.

Flowers of despair grew a single fruit.
It tasted bittersweet. My laughter became
harsh.  My eyes grew oblique.     

I want to curse and cry against this world.
Fine dreams stolen...ragged and torn
like leaves blown in storm.

Storm winds strangle treetops, shaking,
foliage pulled from boughs.  Broken
by thunder pummeled through long nights

Long nights heavy rains spilling black ink
stains.  There is no solution, another day
done, another piece of the puzzle gone

Ashes ashes all fall down
what is lost can not be found. 

The Search

We are the lost who have
climbed hillsides...gathering
innumerable and unnamed
stumbling over sharp rocks
searching for our long shadows.
 

Tracing darkness with
vagrant fingertips
tasting the disdain of dust
we are long shadows
moaning with open mouths.

Eating bitter food grown
on the wrong side of this moon
our hearts caged in fear
fearing we have been cast off
fearing we have no destination.

Sands burning our feet
whipping our unnamed faces
we are long shadows crossing
this dessert longing for
an end to our thirst.

We are losing our shadows
entering empty caves
now listening for echoes
now finding wells of memories
innumerable and unnamed.

When the Moon Is New

If you touch Medusa
her serpents will wrap
themselves around you.
She soars through water
with giant wings gold fins.
Hundreds of snakes
crawling from her head.

Some long to be near
Medusa to hear her hissing
lisping songs forgetful.
She can suck blood from
throats coiling minds
past infinity before
they breathe again.

Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Blueline, 63 channels, Spectrum, and three Bright Spring Press Anthologies. She was recently nominated for "Best of the Net". Four of her books have been published by fine small literary presses.

Devlin De La Chapa- A Poem

Yellow Bus
 
Rock paper scissors,
your hand on my knee
I stare out the fingerprint stained window

people are staring at our tiny yellow bus
trapped beneath the rain
mud puddles kick up, staining clothes

pretending I don’t feel you
I occupy myself with thoughts
that don’t pertain to you

only to your touch
now easing its way
sluggishly up my bare thigh

I wonder what my mother would say?
Or what my father would do
to you. . .us?

Or if our family priest will force me
into countless ‘Our father’s’ and ‘Hail Mary’s’
if I confessed enjoying this-you touching me?

I want to say something
about the rain, about you
but the bus skids to a sudden stop

and one of your fingers
accidentally pokes through
my flimsy cotton panties

I catch my breath
you catch yours
time stops, including the rain

except for your sweet
berry glittered lip gloss-
it continues to sparkle



DEVLIN DE LA CHAPA has been featured in Mademoiselle, Fangoria, Bloodlines, Orion Headless, The Camel Saloon, The Rainbow Rose, Catfishgringoriver, PostCard Shorts, The Carnage Conservatory, Black-Listed Magazine, and is scheduled to appear in Horror Sleaze Trash, Daily Love, Weirdyear, Drunken Absurdity, and Raven Images.  She was recently awarded Editors Choice at The Camel Saloon.  Devlin edits at http://boyslut.wordpress.com.  

Ben Nardolilli- A Poem

Give Me Some Twilight

All the warm spots of you are gone,
I search for pictures
But there is always a third beside us,
Or your back is turned,
Or you have red eyes
And I can’t see the rest of you.
I make do with some common objects,
Things you probably have in your home.

You must have a fork,
A knife, and a spoon, I imagine
You seeing yourself upside down
As I am now seeing myself,
And maybe thinking
How good it would be for someone
To look ugly with right now.

I remember you in the water,
When I ran to you with a towel
And we were strangers,
Can you think of me now
As anything other than an enemy?
I am scared I can remember it so well,
Not knowing you, your name,
Your weight, the color of the hair you were hiding.

You told me you loved me once,
It was just once,
And it was on the phone,
Without me in the room with you,
You let it slide out, like a button popped
From the front of your favorite blouse,
Something you didn’t expect me to pick up.

The shell from the beach,
Salty reminder of an ocean trip
We said we would repeat,
In my ear it sings
With the ambient noise
It brings the sea to me,
And I’m happy waiting for it to come.

I hold the phone
When it is a cold little rectangle,
A prism of telecommunications
And I feel I can hear you
Trying to reach me, trying to come through,
There is ringing in my ears
And I hope it never stops.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

 

Husk of a Horsefly

It's the last day of September

as I carefully toe

the husk 

of a horsefly

out of my office

onto bright tiles

Stella will buff

to a sheen

while I am at home

surveying my supper.

But now I have time

to sit at my desk

till it's time for my train.

I can lean back in my chair

and listen to the day

drone near the ceiling.

Soon it will

helicopter down

like a horsefly,

touch ground

and taxi awhile

before braking.

Donal Mahoney

-------------------------------------------------------------

Donal Mahoney has had poems published in Dead Snakes and other publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.

Vivian Faith Prescott- 3 Poems

Vivian Faith Prescott lives in Sitka and Kodiak, Alaska. Her poetry appears in Catapult to Mars, Yellow Medicine Review, Gutter Eloquence and Turtle Quarterly. Follow her on Twitter @poet_tweet  Her website is http://www.vivianfaithprescott.com and she blogs at http://planetalaska.blogspot.com  

Smolder

            For Charlene

Winter in this island town where dreams are spent

like snapping kindling, the cold shakes us into the

roar of hoses spraying, water falling in sheets, red

emergency lights rotating across snow. We wait

until the firemen find her body—our niece. Not

another one—another one. The expectancy of fire

ignites within us, around us—our old houses, faulty

wiring, wood heat, and empty pockets, rage through

us with a flash of heat and choking ash, and the

New Year's siren hail.

Captain Jack’s Head

I passed the fire-eaters, the fat lady,

sword swallowers to stare at your head,

Kintpuash—Red Judas—Captain Jack,

your closed eyes searching inward

following the Lost River.

Yet, I thought of another: St. John,

his head parading around the tent revival

circuit; their halleluiahs, his war cry.

St. Jack, embalmed in history, a guest

of betrayal at King Herod’s banquet

in the Smithsonian Carnival.

The Real Story Is Not What She Told Her Father

How she met Raven in the forest,

when she first heard his invitation

croaking through trees—low-throated cluck,

ear tufts upright, his black eyes pooling

like paint in an artisan’s cup. She felt

the brush of hair feathering across her back,

tree-pitch sticking her thighs.

He plucked a hemlock needle from her

slickened skin, placing it upon her

tongue and with it she swallowed earth,

allowing his flight toward her center.

Inside, his wings caressed those ancient

carvings, plucked clusters of red berries

dangling from branches, tasted the tang

of her luminosity—an explosion loosened

from the bentwood box. And later he would

remember that the flash of light carried

a scent of freshly carved cedar, that he cried out

as the floor beneath him shifted. It was

not the lover who let slip, but her father

who altered her myth—tattling on Raven,

that trickster who stole the sun, moon, and stars,

releasing her light into all the world.

*In Northwest Coast myth, Raven transforms himself into a hemlock needle

and falls into the Head-man’s daughter’s drinking cup, and the girl becomes pregnant.

Raven is then born into the household holding the sun, moon, stars in a box, where he

uses trickery to release their light into the world.

Brigitte Barton- A Poem

~A Quick Note To Misogynist Poets of the Underground~

Why don't you get a damn job,

work with the homeless,

spend some time with

your kid,

learn to fold napkins

into works of beauty,

walk out into

the night sky

and be thankful

for all the other

misanthropes 

that came before you,

will come in droves after,

your bones

have become

brittle,

just some powder

in another pine box