Donal Mahoney- A Poem

A Southern Girl’s, Uncoiling

Whenever I mention you,

the doctor always asks

what do I see,

 

now that you’re gone, 

when I think of you. 

I say I see thighs,

 

tanned and gleaming,

kissed by the proper

Bonwit skirt, rising

 

through the terminal

toward me and above

your thighs

 

that smile,

a Southern girl’s,

uncoiling.

Linda M. Crate- A Poem

destruction of the moon 

 

you grew into a habit I could not break myself

of, left me bereft one day after allowing your stain

to pour forth in cherry blossom kisses as pink as your

lips which once fell over me in seasons of love; I

didn’t know what to do when you left me for dead —

my lungs burned as if I’d never breathed before,

as if the salt falling from my eyes was eroding them

instead of the vast plains of naturally rosy cheeks; 

I chopped down the trees of your love and tore down

your monoliths of lies, I watched as they shattered

to be blown away as dust by the wind; I wandered

lonely as a star hung alone in a lazuline night

with only the cruel moon for company, I crumbled the

moon into the mouth of the hungry sea because it was you.

Ally Malinenko- A Poem

Inside the Waiting House

Somewhere inside me there is a house,

with the windows thrown open.

The floorboards are split where the roots

have come through.

And both the sunlight

and the moonlight

make their home here together.

They do not argue

or vie for attention.

They bow and wend up the stairs,

polite,

with bent heads

and gentle words.

There is music playing

softly

something on violin

and it wavers in the air

like a memory

just about to surface.

There are also mice

and bent blades of grass,

there are flowers,

dew to drink.

But also

and most importantly,

inside this house

there is you and I,

untouched

by everything that is happening

outside

where I am lost miles from you

and you are thirsty

with the straw bent in the water,

slowly,

too slowly

dying.

Inside this house

is the night that I made up,

the day that I pretend,

the you I didn’t know,

and the me I should have been.

I remember the day you almost died but didn’t

and the feeling that came with that.

I thought it would last longer.

Longer than this night, at least.

Inside me there is a house,

and we wait.

We touch, lightly

and we wait.

We do not speak

and we wait.

And I want this house

to be real,

the way the song is real

the way your voice

used to be real, higher than mine, thicker.

The way

I am still painfully real.

Ally Malinenko is the author of The Wanting Bone (Six Gallery Press). Her second book of poems entitled Crashing to Earth is forthcoming from Tainted Coffee Press. She currently lives in the part of Brooklyn the tour buses don't come to and rambles on and on over at shipwreckedpoetry.blogspot.com.

John Grochalski- A Poem

aspirin bottle

aspirin bottle

on the nightstand

mingling

with the alarm clock

and my insomnia

a sure sign

that i’ve been drinking

too much again

this aspirin bottle

reflecting in the

moonlight

shows me a lack of stamina

age creeping in

inability becoming manifest destiny

like my legs getting tired

on the walk  to work

falling asleep

on the couch

to a bad book or movie

this aspirin bottle

housing the little white pill

that i must take

for the headaches

for the unrepentant hangovers

this plastic green bottle

that hasn’t left

the nightstand in months

that just plain sits there

like a statue

like home decor

like a harbinger of doom

a glittery talisman

or a beacon

letting me know

how much

i’m pushing

and pushing

and that the world

will only

push back harder

with each new

and passing

day.


Bio:  John Grochalski is the author of two books of poems The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out (Six Gallery Press 2008) and Glass City (Low Ghost Press, 2010).  Grochalski currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, where he constantly worries about the high cost of everything.

Kevin Ridgeway- Three Poems

Little Bill

standing 4 feet nine

a hundred and two pounds

the king of the psych ward

dominoes tournament

fistfuls of loose

cigarette winnings

wig askew on his head

murmuring a raspy stutter

shouting glory hallelujah

he was dodging the bookies

with a staged suicide

hiding behind the

fresh linens and

lithium tremors

of these fluorescent

hallways

seventy years of stories

and failures

and only two

hours before

his release,

he crumpled up

his phone

number in

my free hand

and said kid

let’s go

play the ponies

sometime

Plague of Fear

widespread panic

people shivering in

all corners of the world

alerts that cause them to

hide underneath

shading eaves

televisions blaring

talking heads

warning them of

the doom in the hearts

and minds of

men pulling the strings

of fear, that eternal

black art form of

angry magic

that causes societies to

fall to their knees

and for all wheels

to come to a standstill

heavily breathing

these wide masses

embrace themselves

and implode

year after year

infomercials and politicians

empty their wallets

these silently weeping souls

drown in pools of lost freedom

while Chia Pets bloom

in this empty world

of broken promises

Shut-In

hiding in a suburban cave
on a ravaged easy chair
in long underwear
stained from
a dented can
of chili
with obscure old movies
lighting
piles of scattered dog shit

alone and avoiding
the fractured energy
of small talk
and the anti-cinematic
nature of the plastic
menace of
the ugly world
beyond the front door

the black and white
worlds reflected in
ashen eyes
the swollen moonshine
nose knob hucksters
egg headed dames
and dead celebrities
keep me company
on demand


Kevin Ridgeway is a writer from Southern California.  Recent work has appeared in Underground Voices, The Camel Saloon and Carnival Literary Magazine.  His chapbook "Burn Through Today" is forthcoming from Flutter Press. 

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal- 2 Poems

NOTHING MATTERS

If I could sleep,
I would fall asleep
and never wake up.

Perhaps I am
scared of livng.
Nothing matters
without her in my life.

Things like this eat
at me. I eat my words.
But I'm not hungry.

I SHOULD BE HAPPY

I am crazy

to be drinking alone.

I should smash

my head on a rock.

Intoxicated,

it should not

hurt so much.

I should be happy

drinking sweet wine.

This thing called life

has me by the throat

with rough hands.

I should be ready

to fight against

the bad things

coming my way.

Linda Crate- A Poem

you’re the one

 

you’ve made me recall the edges of

a smile whose topography before you

was eclipsed by rocks of maudlin grey —

you chase the darkness of days away,

cutting through the darkest clouds with

your light that resounds joy like a 

Christmas carol; you’ve etched your

anthem in my heart, and the wings of hope

flutter in my chest beneath skeins of blood —

you’re the only one that I can trust;

I feel like I could tell you all my secrets,

but still you would fall over me in waves

of love, I’ve never entrusted anyone with

the key of my heart — yet I believe in

you well enough to let you crack that code.

David Pointer- A Poem

One Marine’s Tale

Mike didn’t want

destabilizing democratically

elected governments on the

other end of his sniper rifle,

so he took his place

unemployed           watching

lines grow like  lions’ tails

watching                his boys

video games making over

their easy going masculinity

into serviceable product, and

the post traumatic stress

                disorder diagnosis

following him around had

nothing to do with war time

atrocities, or a well placed

shot, rather being deployed

by upward mobility

                 mapmaker bureau

so far down range at home as 

to be a fringe area non-factor

 

 

 

David S. Pointer has recent acceptances for "The War and Peace Poetry Anthology," "Indiana Horror Anthology 2012," and "The 5-2 Crime Poetry Weekly."

Bryan Murphy- A Poem

Missionary

I.

Elke sets out her limbs

over Playa Chisme’s sand;

fitters and joiners intuit the call

to her expert assembly line.

Dark shoulders stoop to conquer;

firm hands do as they’re told;

lifeguards inspect her for danger, close-up:

beached Venus, pale as an overturned turtle.

Chismera housewives spit full and loud

at husbands’ empty shadows;

girlfriends hone nails to talons;

Elke flirts, blameless as afterbirth.

II.

Wheelchairs resound on red-earth paths,

overlaying laughter from within;

paradise’s emissary, surf-soaked mist,

welcomes them with joy.

Age has yet to set much mark

on pushing volunteers from ends of earth,

nor on their charges, who imbibe the universe

in a different light, if they see at all.

From the cool crisp edge of another world,

Elke has come to bestow her skills,

flex for them her full firm figure

in servitude, as therapy.

III.

The wheel-chaired children are loud at play;

nearby Elke flips a page.

The Maya men will soon be back

to test her concentration.

The nightclub toilet stinks. Lupita

swings it open, meets Elke’s gaze,

sees Lucy’s dark locks locked tight

between light-tanned thighs.

A pacific blue moon dazzles

Playa Chisme’s early risers, not Elke:

she’s gone on to the next hidden port;

the job was not for her.


Bryan Murphy is a former teacher, translator and frequent visitor to the Pacific coast of Mexico. He lives in Turin, Italy. A volume of his short stories, provisionally entitled "Out of Padania" is forthcoming.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Chino and Chambray

Forty years older than I,

Charles, in his tweed cap, stands starched

in gray chino and blue chambray.

 

For more than a year his broad tie

has let the same iridescent duck

fly against a vermillion sky.

 

Like a Vatican Guard

he oversees the parking lot

I cut through each morning

 

far corner to far corner

as I cleave two triangles of cars

parked in my wake.

 

I ask him one morning,

“Charles, do you mind

when I cut through your lot?”

 

“Not at all, sir,” says Charles

as he stares straight ahead

and starts the windmill

 

of his good arm to lead

the pearl Hummer

now pulling in.