Kushal Poddar- A Poem

 Apparent Dissociation

The father stoops over the perambulator

and examines his child with lab precision.

Her nonsense words weigh less than

twenty-one grams.

His face reappears in the floating position

one day, while dusting a cabinet,

to no apparent association.

He comes down from whatever he is.

How much does he weigh now?

Kushal Poddar (1977- ) resides in the city of Kolkata, India. Apart from poetries, he has written fictions and scripts for television mini-series as well.

His English poems have been published in the online and print magazines all over the world. He is the author of “All Our Fictional Dreams” and been published in “Poor Poet’s Pantry: Collaborative Poems”. The forthcoming book is “Surviving Cyber Life”.

Kevin Ridgeway- Three Poems

Dispatches from the Meat Locker

I used to cut the meat

at the town co-op

slicing the prosciutto

and dicing the preservative-free

locally grown ham

I didn’t know what prosciutto was

and I didn’t know the difference

between my hams

cutting away at

roast beef arteries and

smoking Newport’s in the alleyway

coughing up blood and sweat and vomit--

I was a vegetarian.

Sloppy nauseous

luncheon surgeon that I was,

I dazzled with my

product presentation that they

taught during orientation,

holding my hand up

in the air with of a hunk of cow

but faltered when told

they wanted thin sheaths

and not the bulging slab

rudely breathing in

my outstretched palm.

I don’t know why I stayed

on for two weeks,

or why I didn’t deck the

old, balding pony tail New Age stallion

who admonished me for

not changing my rubber gloves

as I stood there

with bacon

covering my arms

and shoulder blades

like wartime cold cut medals

Roughhouse Mind

within the depths
of my weary skull
ferries boats
of ill repute
steam along
rivers of blood
coursing through my brain
where artificial horses
round the bends of
dwarf track races
surrounded by
wooden shanty walls
adorned with
winking dollar ale signs
beer batter slowly
boiling off from
last night

women with long silk
stockings and salty mouths
keep rooms at
the front of my mind
sailors bite beer bottle
caps off of with their teeth and
spit them on the floor
amidst the stale peanut shells
drifting toward the back
of my mind and
down my spine
into no man’s land

these snub nosed
cracker jack box
cartoon crooks,
sloppy hot belly gamblers,
and beautifully ugly prostitutes
fight over the
winning horse’s ticket
slowly burn my mind down

and put it out of business

America the Weird

The older, weirder America is

what sends my seceding mind

into the clouds

above a continent

that holds

a mammoth anthology

of wisdom’s misadventure

my head scratched into chipped

dandruff queries regarding the mystique

of the music in its bayous, its rivers

its trains, its highways, its mountains,

its deserts, its decorations, its corner

liquor store politicians, its hustle

bustle in funk urban mazes, its rallying

cries of freedom from every direction.

When I can smell America,

when I can taste it coming

off a Greyhound regardless

of north-south east-west

those are the times when

the art that lurks behind

its wide curtains surges

through the veins leading

to my third-generation

mutt immigrant heart

and a flow of joy and 

rivers of rage and grief

join together in unity--

these are the times

when I’ve had my eternal

passport stamped

and I’m an American

again.

  

Bio:  Kevin Ridgeway is a writer from Southern California, where he currently lives in a shady bungalow with his girlfriend and their one-eyed cat.  Recent work can be found in The Camel Saloon, Underground Voices, Dark Chaos and The Legendary. 

 

Lee Stern- Two Poems

MOBILITIES

I am afraid there are mobilities
upon which I can no longer stand.
And telling you this doesn’t upset me as much as I thought.
I thought that I would be able to stand there
with both feet on the ground,
using up my energy as a last resort.
When it became apparent that it wasn’t going to work out like that,
I panicked and started shredding all of my favorite books.
And I was so used to doing that, and saying that,
that every time I tried to move away from you
I only ended up further away from myself.
What the mobilities needed, I guess,
was a different way of determining if life
was to be lived full of advantages.
Or, if not advantages, reasons
that left when the world was restored.




THE LADY IN THE RED DRESS

Maybe the lady in the red dress knows what to say.
It’s been my experience that, if they’re wearing
a red dress, they know exactly what’s going on.
And the shoes don’t even have to match.
Or the bonnet or the gloves.
It’s the red quality of the dress.
And you can trust me on this.
I’ve investigated this very carefully.
Because once there was a woman who saved the world.
And she was wearing a red dress.
And when she took it off there were daisy chains
looking for mementos in cabinets that couldn’t be stilled.


Bio: Lee lives in Los Angeles. On average he writes ten poems for each one that is submittable.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Caseworker: Yams and Plantain

     Cabrini-Green 

   The Housing Project

     Summer in Chicago

Bienvenido’s comin’ over,

says his wife,

to ‘splain me

why the kids

have got no rice,

no beans,

how the landlord’s

shovin’ notes beneath

the door again.

In Puerto Rico Bienvenido

dug up yams,

was paid in plantain,

came over here,

brought his wife,

then his kids.

First New York,

then Chicago,

gave up yams,

gave up plantain,

just to drum

and make a living.

Oddly, this is another poem that came out of real life. When I was a pup fresh out of grad school and didn't want to teach, I took a job as a caseworker in the projects--458 families in two gigantic buildings. Kennedy was president and there was hope, real or false, in the land. But I'll never forget talking to those families. Believe me, times were tough for them back then but times right now are tougher for the country and especially for people like Bienvenido and others. They seem to have no hope. Today, white as I am, I could not go into those buildings if they still existed because I'd be robbed or shot. I understand the problem but I have no solutions. I simply fear that things will continue to get worse. And I see no solution in either political party. Some day I hope to do a piece about the guy in the projects caught barbecuing in his bathtub on the 14th floor. That was a humdinger. 

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

Donal Mahoney has had work published in Dead Snakes and other publications in the United States, Europe, Asia and Africa

Sarah E. White- A Poem

Honey

He calls her Honey
In a casual way
Out of habit really
From years of practice
It rolls off his tongue without thinking
About the meaning
She has been his Honey for a long, long time
Now he speaks the word
Without emotion
Saying it without feeling
Honey is just who she is
Or rather who she used to be
His sweet, sweet love
Something delicious
Something pure
Through each passing year though
His Honey has turned sour
Age and anger have changed her
Until all that sweetness was gone
Curdled and turned
Into something he can’t quite describe
Something without beauty or love
Something different
With a strange and ugly name
So he calls her Honey
For lack of anything better to say

Melanie Browne- A Poem

Effigy

I drag you
in from the field,
you tell me
you swallowed
a crow,
it tickles your throat,
causes a tightness
in your chest,
I meditate
on the word
Snow,
then walk you
back to the field,
lie down beside you
and wait for the
wind to sing,
 for the straw to fly
through the air,
until we disappear,
our shoes
still warming
beneath
the tangerine
sun

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

 

Mostly Basie with a Little Bach

Whenever I see a new woman, I know 

I should look at her hair and her eyes and her smile  

before I decide if she's worth the small talk

and the dinner later 

and whatever else she may require 

before she becomes taffy, 

pliant and smiling. 

But that never works for me.

Whenever I see a new woman, 

what matters to me is never 

her hair or her eyes or her smile;

what matters to me is her saunter 

as I stroll behind her.

If her moon comes over the mountain

and loops in languor, left to right, 

and then loops back again,

primed for another revolution, then

I introduce myself immediately

no matter where we are, 

in the stairwell or on the street

and that's when I see for the first time

her hair and her eyes and her smile  

but they are never a distraction since

I'm lost in the music of her saunter.

Years ago, tall and loping Carol Ann

took a train to Chicago, 

found a job and then one summer day 

walked ahead of me on Michigan Avenue 

while I surveyed her universe amid 

the cabs screeching, horns beeping, 

a driver's middle finger rising. 

Suddenly she turned and said hello 

and we shook hands and I saw her smile 

dart like a minnow and then disappear 

as she frowned and asked   

why was I walking behind her. 

 

I told her I was on my way to the noon Mass

at Holy Name Cathedral and she was welcome 

to come along. The sermon wouldn't be much, 

I said, but the coffee and bagels afterward 

would be plentiful, enough to cover lunch.

And Jesus Christ Himself would be there.

She didn't believe me, not at all, 

and she hasn't believed me since. 

That was thirty years ago and now

her smile is still a minnow

darting here and there but now 

it's more important than her saunter 

which is still a symphony, 

mostly Basie with a little Bach.

And I no longer traipse Michigan Avenue 

as I did years ago looking for new moons 

swirling in my universe. Instead, 

I take my lunch in a little bag 

on a long train from the suburbs

and I marvel at one fact:

It's been thirty years since I first heard 

the music in her saunter

and Carol Ann and I are 

still together, praise the Lord. 

Who can believe it? Not I. 

Carol Ann says she knew 

the ending from the start. 

Lord, Almighty. Fancy that.

Sarah E. White- A Poem

Coats of Paint

Thick coats of paint, white paint
Can make anything look clean
Slathering it on
Cleaning it up to a shiny new beginning
Globing it into the holes and crevices
Letting it seep down in
Filling in the darkness
Making it all so fresh and new
Paint
Painting
Starting again
A brand new layer of layering is done
The thickening of your skin
The sound it makes as you slop it around
Is a sound of music
So fulfilling
Conducting this symphony
Covering up what’s dirty
Covering the dust with utmost perfection
Sealing in its secrets
History is now another level deeper
Stroke after heavy stroke
As you lay them smoothly down
Coats of paint
How many of these have you worn?
Painting until your hands ache
Can’t stop until it’s done
Paint
Painting
Starting again
Another coat of paint
On an already thick old skin



Bio for Sarah E. White
My first published work was in 1994. I’m influenced by the works of Anne Sexton, Zora Neale Hurston, Shel Silverstein and Ogden Nash. My previous work can be found in The Devil’s Advocate, The Camel Saloon, The Fringe Magazine,The Rainbow Rose, Books On Blog and Going Dark.

Craig Scott- A Poem

GIMMIE GIMME GIMME

I want a theme song that plays every time I enter the room. I want
raspberry-flavored frozen yogurt. I want to be prolific. I want to
take a nap. I want to go camping. I want to drive across country. I
want to see Iceland. I want to sell you a bridge. I want for once to
be in the loop. I want to rip someone’s throat out like Dalton in Road
House. I want to fake an orgasm. I want to hike more. I want to fart
less. I want avocado on my sandwich. I want to chase away the geese. I
want to burn my credit cards. I want a less awkward smile. I want my
dog to miss me when I’m gone. I want to help. I want a new car. I want
to go where no one knows my name. I want to find a good Indian
restaurant. I want to be taller. I want a newly discovered bacterium
to be named after me. I want a cool nickname. I want to stop snoring
in my sleep. I want to witness the year 1 Billion. I want to read Moby
Dick. I want baklava for breakfast. I want clear skin. I want to kick
a hole in the tv. I want to know what you’re thinking right now.


Bio: Craig Scott recently saw the publication of his collaborative
collection Tales From a French Envelope, written with Catfish McDaris.
It is available through Lulu.com.
 

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

 

So Fingertips Kiss

 

Five kids, eight years. 

And then one day my wife 

shouts to me on the tractor

roaring in the field:

 

“I’ve had enough.”

And like a ballerina,

she rises on one foot, sole

of the other foot firm

 

against her knee

and with arms overhead

so fingertips kiss,

she smiles,

 

pirouettes,

and then like a helicopter

lifts into the air,

whirls over the garage

 

and keeps rising.

I can do nothing now

but curse

and be proud.

 

As if at the ballet,

I applaud from the tractor

and blink at the inferno

as she hits the sun.

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

Donal Mahoney has worked as an editor for one publication or another for most of his life, probably because words are the one thing he can handle without making too many mistakes. Tools and mechanical things have always buffaloed him. But give him a blank page, and he'll happily step back and throw words at it like buckshot. And then he'll step forward and keep rearranging them until the deadline, real or imagined, arrives.

David S. Pointer- A Poem

Among The Unhired

Employment deprivation

unequally applied

throughout the society

to certain invisible

individuals-applicants

more likely to taste

Snakeslayer .45 lead

than lead a life thought

to be guaranteed by

their academic credentials

any small paycheck

could put one of these

people back in the bi-weekly

pressure chamber world

of low paid life, but some

have wives, or parents

or inheritances: others

fend off bottom level

boredom and stress by

sporadically hearing the

spray of bone spreading

bullets peppering their

dilapidated neighborhoods

Bio: David S. Pointer has recent acceptances at "Popshot," "Ottawa Arts Journal," and seriously misses "Beatlick News" since the passing of Editor Joe Speer.

Jason E. Hodges- Three Poems

Windows　　　　

Drips of rain slid down my window
The hospital’s window in the room of my waiting
Waiting in my room
Waiting and watching for what is to come
Looking out this pane of glass high in the skyline
It holds my refection all too well
Showing me off without any shyness
My life as real as reality gets
Stranded stares from nights of unrest
Lines of time now show in my face
Wavy from the water and rain
Running down the window’s outside
But not nearly wavy enough
Distorted but far from disillusioned
Of the task ahead of me now
For the rain keeps falling outside and in
Storming on both sides of the window
Once again storms have blown into my life
Breached the levees that have held in my mind
Moaned and creaked from the stress I’m under
But sometimes it’s good for the dam to finally give way
Spill into the spillway of new beginnings
Holding no more hidden secrets of hiding
For one day it has to stop raining
And the sunsets of hope will set in the sky




Seeing The Unseen

Seeing the unseen is sometimes difficult
What matters most to the writer
Should be
The art of the unspoken word
The only thing that matters at all
Speaking and thinking the new idea
The dream that lives in your head
If written on a napkin
For only a waitress to find at the end of her shift
When her legs want to give out
Write it
Uplift her
Move her
Or the busboy scraping unwanted food for minimum wage
Wondering how he will pay rent and tuition
Wondering how he will eat as he throws good food away
Write it
Express it
Give him hope tomorrow will be better
Your audience will find you
This is the life I’ve chosen to live
Writing for the world of the blue-collar
The world of the scarred not of the scarring
Scratching the earth with my poet’s plow point of words
For living your life on a path not of your choosing
Is not living your life at all
Ruled by the ruler
From the kingdom of timecards
The land of quotas and cubicles
Is a land not really alive




Those Dirt-Hearted Blues

The strings of my guitar bend and moan
Stretch with sound
Slide with the glass bottle that covers my finger
Melt away into the backwoods of Mississippi
The back woods of The South
Melt and flow into the sweet water of the delta
Mix with the fog that creeps in on the dance floor
Slides around long legs a dancing
High heels a stepping
Men and women movin’ with all that they got
To the sound I’m playin’ tonight
My fret board covered in sweat
Dripping from the hot air around me
And the lights casting the stage
My guitar sings out
Speaks so clearly to the people in the crowd
As my fingers move with all of my feelings
Good?
Bad?
None of it matters tonight
For tonight is takin’ what we're given
The worries of that day smear into the night
Into the notes I’m a playin’
Notes carried on the exhale of a cigarette
Up to the tin roof that shakes from the bass drum behind me
Notes carried from the first sip of the last drink of the night
When the dew settles on the bud of a blue morning-glory
Waiting patently for the new day to arrive

Lee Stern- A Poem

DANCING

Maybe there’s somebody dancing tonight
And he seems to enjoy it.
Maybe the music, because it’s just right for him,
is encouraging him to dance like he’s a dreamer.
Maybe this person that I’m talking about
is dancing because everybody else is dancing
and he doesn’t want to be left out
and made into an example.
And, yes, maybe, if you asked him,
what the purpose of dancing was,
he’d stop for a few minutes and have to think about it.
He’d have to think what it was like to move from one place to another.
And then move back again to the place where you may have started;
the place where motion was born.
The place where distance became a commodity that never ran still.


Bio:  Lee lives in Los Angeles and tries to write a poem a day.  He's published over 200 of them, many on the internet.