Jason E. Hodges- A Poem

Technicolor Eyes

Out on the sidewalks
The sidewalks of this dirt covered town
I found myself fortunate
To find who the good book calls Christ
At least this is who her mind said she was at that moment
And her pills when she took them were as sweet as sugar-stick-candy
Their bright colors made them slide down with ease
They covered her world in bright Technicolor
Tunnel vision she said would allow me to see her
In the lower atmosphere
For now she was an astronaut
She was floating with her little box-doll and could see St. Frances
Along with St. Mary who was standing beside her
I smiled so kindly as she began to explain
I told you I’m on a different atmosphere
I feel fine in this place
Where my hair looks like Rose-Colored-Platinum
You can laugh and play with the stars up here
I tell you, I can sit in the curve of the moon
If you had tunnel vision you could see me up here
You have to have Technicolor Eyes
But you have to watch out for the devil
He’ll shoot you in the back
He did that to me
Then he stole my silver dollar
But now I’m okay because I am Moses
I’m not hungry at all
I’m in a different atmosphere with Technicolor Eyes

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal- 3 Poems

THE SHADOWS KNOW MY NAME

The shadows know my name.

I go by bird brain. I am not a bird,

but the shadows don't care.

When it's hot outside I always

find some shade by a tree or

a building. There the shadows

call my name in a soft low tone.

Sometimes it's the wind that talks.

I can't tell the two apart. I do not

listen to what the little birds say.

They gossip too much.

TREMULOUS SHADOWS

You cover me

with oblivion.

My heart is bare,

cold like the winter.

I feel nothing.

Life is precarious.

You cover me

with oblivion.

I’m the ashes

brought to be buried.

I feel transparent

like life’s silences.

Twilight shadows

fill my travels.  You

cover me with

oblivion.

At night I contemplate

love’s nostalgia,

love’s oblivion.

Tremulous shadows

inhabit my dreams.

RED SUITCASE

I am only here to clear up a warrant

and then I am gone.

Do not mix me up with some crazed

lunatic, because

I am sane. I need to get my red suitcase.

My paperwork is

in it. My record contract is there.

I don’t want the cops

to continue to get away with their story

about me being

naked on the beach. That’s just bull.

I would say shit, but

I don’t talk like that unless I am mad.

You would not like to

see me get mad. I will do terrible things

to this place if I

do. I’m like The Incredible Hulk, but

I won’t get green or

big. I’ll keep my shirt

on. But don’t test me because I’m a hard

woman to handle.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

PTSD

In the waiting room, I squeeze 

this old rosary a nun gave me 

the day I got back from Iraq.

I was still in a daze on a gurney

and I still had sand in my hair.

Some of it remains, no matter 

how many showers I take. 

Sand from Iraq lingers, I'm told,

until you go bald, and then

you are able to concentrate

on other things.

What might they be, I wonder.

But today, in this waiting room,

I squeeze the rosary tighter  

when I hear, louder than 

the gunshots crackling in my dreams, 

the real screams of that little boy 

right over there, the one who's 

rapped his elbow off the radiator.

Lord, listen to him scream! 

Each week he comes with his mother 

for her follow-up appointment. 

He sounds like the jet 

that takes me back at night

to that little village in Iraq

where the sand puffs up  

in mushroom clouds

above the bullets

as the children scream 

in their hovels louder 

than that little boy  

screaming over there.

Maybe everyone 

in this waiting room

listening to him scream  

can come with me now 

to that village in Iraq.

Sitting here, I know 

that boy's pain so well 

that in my fist 

this rosary no longer

knows my prayers. 

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

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

Sarah E. White- A Poem

Through the Forest

I was walking with you though the forest
You holding my hand in the most gentle way
But not just holding it
Caressing it, loving it as we walked
Your touch fills me with such sensation
A tingle that starts so small
Radiates from my hand that you hold so genuinely
It flows into my chest and pounds away at my heart
Pulsing, pumping, flowing
I breathe, try to breathe it in
The trees sway softly in the breeze as we walk
Soft morning light sparkles through the light green hue of the maple leaves
Sparkling all around us in this dazzling moment
Time standing as still as my eyes stare into yours
I am swept away by you and the way you hold my hand
It’s like you have held it for a lifetime
A lifetime that we have yet to live
The way my heart pounds at the thought of simply walking with you once again
Thinking about the next walk, next time
The joy of a stolen moment
This is our time
This forest is our place, the sanctuary where we hide
Where we are alone
Alone together
You and I and this forest
The sunlight and the trees
Hand holding and hearts pounding in the safety of this moment

Jason E. Hodges- A Poem

Elephants

At times honesty a bitch
It seems now
There’s no comfortable room in my home
For there are elephants of unspeakable pain lurking in most
Sitting waiting
Waiting to pop into my mind
Waiting to crush me with all of their power
Push me down to the floor
So I walk
Quietly I walk past them
Tiptoeing while carrying this heavy burden
Ever so quietly I walk
Through the rooms that hold teardrops of sadness and uncontrollable shaking
For I have to keep walking through this place of my living
I have no where to go
Their dark eyes fall upon me
Their smiles pull softly as they wait for the discussion to begin
Their long gray trunks point at me
Gently, they motion to me
But I keep walking
I try not to see them
I’m thinking of how not to think at all
So I can make it into the few rooms that are left
That have no elephants
With memories of mind changing images
Rooms of safety where I can retreat
To my writing
To my Art
To anything that keeps these creatures at bay
If only for a moment
If only for a night

Jeffrey Park- A Poem

PATTERNS

Watching him shuffle along the aisle
you think perhaps he sees things
that I never would see: hidden patterns,
designs created by the cigarette butts

and chewing gum wrappers
all this – unless – unless he’s just
a sly fox playing us all for fools
his bowed posture nothing more than a nod

to our expectations. Easier to just go along
with his little game. But if you ever
found a private moment between stations
you might have a quiet word,

not overplaying it, keeping in mind that less
is always so much more –
I share in your secret, friend. I won’t
be the one who spills your clever beans.


Bio:
Jeffrey Park currently lives in Munich, Germany, where he works at a private secondary school and teaches business English to adults. His latest poems have appeared in Subliminal Interiors, Mobius, Punk Soul Poet, The Corner Club Press, FortyOunceBachelors and elsewhere.

Amit Parmessur- Two Poems

You Are No Cartoon Gal

Your hair is so curled in innocence

that it has fallen all over your right eye.

Or, is it an intended half

Peek-a-boo of a new, lively girlie?

I can see the milky moon in your face;

I can see your virtuous visage in the moon.

There is a plethora of magical black rivulets

going & tangoing all along your beautiful hair,

without your consent. There’s a wild

reverie in your veiled eye too but

I know you’ve learnt life’s not a comic cartoon.

On your lovely, naïve cheeks the wounds

of unfair battles and misfortune are still visible,

but now your melodic smile will flourish,

furtively, making you a most merry woman.

Always be as childish and multi-colored

as your Sammy & Molly tee-shirt, poetic gal.

Behind you it is blue paradise, behold,

filled with long episodes of freedom.

Whatever episode you choose you’ll

taste your dreams, and your scars will fade.

Your tight lips wrapped in pale pink wax

are singing so many hymns nowadays— lemme

hear you a bit tonight, before you start dreaming,

charming flower.

Remember, many men would love to be

your lucky wristwatch, without your consent…

Snake Hunting

As if he’d thrown his toned body

into the lush grass,

like a lame stone flying.

To see those shining muscles—

what if he were to coil around our ankles!

I had to ask myself why

he should dangle on

that mossy rock like that. He

was intimidating.

See, see if you understand the

watercolor stripes he’s

proudly sporting.

The burn in his throat,

I see nothing more mighty.

You care nothing for

his youthful eyes that plead

for a life smooth as the pieces

of Kraft Cheese left in our battered bags?

African friends, abandon this snake.

I am not a seasoned hunter—

let’s chase something else.

I’m just a few meters from him—

Wake up, now, big snake.

I’m holding the trembling stick,

running like a mad crab

towards him.

As if he would plunge into

the sound of the dull forest now!

There I go.

There he slithers away.

We followed.

Born in 1983 Amit Parmessur is one of the editors of poetry magazine The Rainbow Rose. Since 2010, his poems have appeared in around 100 literary magazines, such as: Ann Arbor Review, The Camel Saloon, Calliope Nerve, Damazine, Zouch Magazine and many others. He is nominated for the Pushcart Prize and lives in Quatre-Bornes, Mauritius.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Whinny and Spit

When a man’s young,

this work is hard

but it pays well

and he can feed

the wife and kids.

In the morning

he throws crates off trucks,

and after lunch

throws crates again

till five or six o’clock.

But as he grows older,

and some say

ready to retire,

he has to stop

in the late afternoon,

mount his throne of skids,

let his legs drip over the side,

toss his head, inhale,

whinny and spit.

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

Donal Mahoney's father came to America from Ireland just before the Great Depression. A legal immigrant, he had jobs like the one described in the poem. That is why, many decades later, it is difficult for Mahoney to worry about whether an immigrant is legal or not when he sees one working his buttocks off in the noonday sun.  

Jason E. Hodges- A Poem

The Hyena

In this world, this world of ours
The Hyena stands with a sharpened grin
Gnashes his teeth, and digs in his claws
All while preaching his words and making his profit
Mother Mary, do they read your son’s words at all?
Or do they speak to the flocks with prewritten text of what better words might be? Promising plenty the Hyena will do and using all that he can
Then dropping from his followers heavy and full
Like a tick stretched to the limit by his consumption
How strange it all is to me
For I’m not one of these beasts, nor do I follow their way
So I naturally struggle when I encounter their masses
Constantly choking on all that they feed me
What they show me
For a Paper Rose looks like the best smelling flower
Perception is seeing what they want you to see
Like stained-glass telling its story with all of its bright and wonderful colors
Yet dull when the sun doesn’t shine its way
And the cast shadows of candles wash over beloved Mother Mary
But still we pray to her
Beg of her
Hoping she will reach out and touch us
Come to life in some miraculous way
Hold us
Reassure us
Make our world feel better than what our eyes see day after day
In this world
This world of ours
Where the hyena gnashes his teeth and the weak follow his way

Sarah Gamutan- A Poem

Living With Avengers

 

Dilated capillaries were looking for you.

They wanted home deep inside your green

varicose veins. They crawled on such thin

bones, gargled blood and chewed marrows.

They gnawed like rats, spun around your

 

knees and gave so much pain each time your

head was  higher in altitude. The mind and

heart debated as to “who should kill the rust in

you”. The way you tossed and turned like an
impish slug was hideous. But you were that

 

careless. That’s why they wanted to kill you -

Like another tell- tale heart. That’s why they

resided in your system, said you were special

but only crushed your  bones slowly but surely.

That  time, vengeance was hurtful and coercible.


Bio:
Sarah Gamutan's poems and stories are forthcoming in Poetry Space and Microstory a Week. She lives in Philippines where she works as a Customer Support Associate by night and a poet at heart by day.

Lee Stern- Three Poems

A SPACE IN THE MISSING RAIN

Maybe there’s a space in the missing rain that I don’t know about.
And maybe you tried to tell me but I didn’t pay any attention.
Maybe there’re some directions I should have known about.
And if I had listened carefully to what you said,
I would have known what was going on.
But it’s the space in the missing rain
that compels me to tell you that I don’t know anything about the clouds.
If I knew anything about the clouds
I would stand on my feet and shout it out clearly.
I would write a new chapter about even the smallest ones
so there would be no misunderstanding.
And I would do all of that without even requesting payment.
Without standing in a place of benign memories.
Without asking why winter’s voices were lost
when the sounds of the faces were wet.




 BREATHING

Maybe it was the strange way of breathing
that brought me to this place.
I was used to breathing with my mouth and my nose.
But these people used their words to inhale the air.
And it was that reason alone
that caused me to be attracted to them.
And sometimes the biggest words brought in the least amount of air.
In other words, just the opposite of what you might have thought.
It was like a whole language that was dedicated to their lungs.
And in between checking out other possibilities, that was what I thought.
And I also thought that the smallest words
held onto the air for the longest time.
And I didn’t want to become bedridden so I had to agree.
I had to measure the words I inhaled.
And the simple cloth upon which I recorded the edge of their days.




 I CAN REMEMBER

I can remember most of the things you told me.
I can remember the playful things and the serious things.
When you told me that an oak tree
had to be planted somewhere,
I went out of my way to remember that.
When you told me that everybody had to ring a bell,
and not mistake it for anything else,
it was the same thing and the same reaction.
And when you told me that you were going to love me until the end of tomorrow,
I had no choice but to keep those words in front of me like little parachutes.
Dangling in the weather.
Colliding with hopes wearing thin.

Sarah E. White- A Poem

The Creek

My life has come full circle

I have made it finally back

To my favorite place in the world

This place where my childhood was lived

Paths of adventure and intrigue

Where I romped and ran

Within the cool clay walls of the earth

This place was home

The cool water rippling through the hillside

Continually carving its path

The earthen smell of safety

Fills me with such life even now

Such security

A place where I felt most free

To be one with the earth, one with myself

Truly seeing the many layers

Finally eye level with the world

As time stands still

I gaze at the landscape from the creek bottom

I feel the energy around me

The trickle of water flowing beneath me

Beside me

Flowing through me

Washing over the bare bones of my soul

The crunch of rocks shifting under my feet

I trudge onward

My life flows forward

But my childhood is encapsulated here

In memory

In the creek

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

 

Griggs' Bar and Grill

In two more hours I'll have to shower,

shave and coffee-prop my lids

and otherwise prepare for day. It's 4 a.m.

and now the barkeep, Griggs,

is rushing me, the first 

to come, the last to leave, 

the lad who just an hour before

was coaxed to quaff one more.

At work I'll cummerbund a smile,

hold my head and sit all day,

play another endless game

of solitaire or tic-tac-toe. 

Griggs' apron's off. The neon's out

and now he'll set the locks in back.

The spittle, butts and half-slain beers

he'll leave for Willie who'll soon be here

to dance his broom between

the tables and the scattered chairs

as smoothly as Kelly or Astaire.

At 6 a.m., he'll climb the ladder 

near the door and aim his broom

through the transom toward the sky.

Each morning Willie puts another 

bullet through the eye of sunrise.

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

Donal Mahoney quit drinking many years ago as a preface to marriage. Today he doesn't miss the liquor, but he does miss the people he would see late at night while sitting at the end of the bar. At times, even when he was sober, the later it got, the more the whole scene seemed like a ballet, despite the raucous music from the juke box.