Sarabjeet Garcha- Three Poems

What Makes Me Believe in Reincarnation

a memory that sings

of sepia nights

ghost fingers that touch

the gossamer of spent days

a heart that seeks asylum

in the igloo of imagination

icicles that prick

the ageless heat of the body

dreams that ripple

with recollection

a meteor that hovers

on the edge of her nose ring

Your Handwriting

the silt of

an ink-river

rolling into

a relic chamber

painted with

the heart’s hieroglyphs

the soul’s trompe l’oeil

(for Sudhanshu)

Gogglecast

Two glass curtains

veiling your eyes

showed me to me

in two neat pieces

Images

dipped

deep

in mirrors

and unearthed

my bipolar personality

while my singularity

toppled

into the water bodies

of your vision

Sarabjeet Garcha published his first book of poems, The Half-Moon Halo, in 2004. His work has appeared in The Vocabula Review, Foundling Review, The Literary Burlesque, and Indian Literature, among others. He also writes in Hindi, and his first book of Hindi verse, Vaani Phir Bhi Shoonyamanaa (Even Then Voice Is Tranquil Hearted), was published in late 2011. His English translation of selected poems of the award-winning Marathi poet Hemant Divate is in press. Sarabjeet lives in Delhi, where he works as an editorial manager for an international publisher of scientific, technical, and medical books. He can be reached via www.sarabjeetgarcha.com.

Sara Fitzpatrick Comito- A Poem

Spill

No tag and pull, nothing approaching a downward

yank, just a dawning awareness of a heavy current

counter to the attitude of my rod’s reaching tip. A

partial reel to check, and as suspected, rising in a

mound, the turtle grass prop-sheared or dissuaded

by the brown algae, given advantage from runoff

upriver. But amidst those grey-green blades, a clown

grimace of grouper. It is an unexpected catch. The

biggest fish I’ve ever had on, and besides little rocky

structure, I’m fishing from shore. The beachy slope

never draws such goliaths. My trudging revolutions

bring him near faster than reasonable. Is the thing

swimming toward me?

Ashore now, the fish gives way to an upright form. Tall,

lithe, with flashing eyes, he speaks with apology in his

strangely accustomed tenor. We are together until the

turning of the tide, this new love and I.

In the morning, all the tourists are evacuated. A breach

at the plant, for too long under wraps, has been proven

by the loudmouth researchers to cause mutations among

the sealife. The health effects to humans remain unknown.

Felino A. Soriano- Poetry

While

mentioning

                                    toward what naturally escapes            a

certainty of angles multiplying age within cyclic

devotion

                        to

a

                                                gathering of happenings, occurrences

occultation

recovers shades of shadows’ ancestry

covering with handed brands

heat-etch manifest

                                                                        a

trickling of sound serenading absence’s artificial self

arching away

                                                           from

reactive notion of the serial

abbreviations

While

observing the child hiding her face in elation

game with

            mother’s laughing prism (her hands a continued melody of rocking, rocking)

highlighting

                        theory of this moment a

never-return to the again of hope

                                    and

perhaps mother reinvents within silence

of a daydreaming spectrum the

child into her growing quick, wait

then the laughter of joy outlines pattern of

familial exultation

While

gathering appearance of the window’s perspective

touch

                        of the whirl’s electronic spiral

touches

                        opportune exposure indenting

                                                                                    understanding

of dragonfly’s personable cliché

Felino A. Soriano has authored 50 collections of poetry, including Analyzed Depictions (white sky books, 2012) and Intentions of Aligned Demarcations (Desperanto, 2011).  He publishes the online endeavors Counterexample Poetics and Differentia Press.  His work finds foundation in philosophical studies and connection to various idioms of jazz music.  He lives in California with his wife and family and is a case manager and advocate for adults with developmental and physical disabilities.  For further information, please visit www.felinoasoriano.info

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

 

What Purpose Does A Rabbit Have

The same nightmare woke my father 

every night for years. 

He had no idea what it meant 

and so he wrote the story down 

and saved the note and hoped 

some day he'd understand it.

But a note like that 

can be misplaced. 

Decades later Father 

found the note 

in a drawer of socks 

he hadn't worn in years.

He found it underneath 

his old glass eye the night 

Mother came back on the Harley 

to "make their marriage work."

He reminded Mother they had 

been divorced for years

and then, despite her tears, 

he told her, "After all this time, 

we both know now that you 

were gone before you left. 

But now you're back so 

let me tell you all about 

the nightmare I've had every night 

since you took the bike and left. 

I wrote the story down to tell the kids

when they grew up but they ran off 

before I had a chance to ask them

if they knew what my dream might mean. 

You'd like the kids. They're pretty smart.

Anyway my note says this: 

'What purpose does a rabbit have 

other than as prey?

What difference does a rainbow make 

in a rabbit’s day?'

You tell me now you love me, 

always have and always will. 

But the kids are gone forever 

so take the Harley now and go."

Doug Draime- Two Poems

A Stormy Night As The Electricity Goes On And Off

The falling rain

sounds like a

huge crackling campfire

and the dog is

under the bed pretending

to be the cat

Everyone on tv

is dancing a weird tango

(especially the politicians)

and the radio refuses

to be coherent

A Brahms sonata

is waffling up from

the garbage disposal

and the thunder is

plummeting through the

Oregon wilderness,

screeching like Big Foot

with a shovel jammed

up his anus

The Earth Is Exploding Where Lawrence Of Arabia Once Slept

where he fought

and fornicated

where he turned

his heart to blowing sand

blood lust

running through

his aristocratic veins

his blue eyes full of

the murderous

future

Doug Draime emerged as a presence in the small press and underground literary movement in Los Angeles in the late 1960's. Most recent books: "Rock 'n Roll Jizz" (Propaganda Press) and "Los Angeles Terminal: Poems 1971-1980" (Covert Press). Awarded PEN grants in 1987, 1991 and 1992. Nominated for several Pushcart Prizes in the last few years. He lives in the foothills of Oregon. Forthcoming, "More Than The Alley", a full-length collection form Interior Noise Press.

 

"A Stormy Night As The Electricity Goes On And Off" was first published in Zygote In My Coffee.

Ross Vassilev- Three Poems

everything but the floppy shoes

well, I’m unemployed

I don’t shower as often as I ought to

don’t brush my teeth as often as I ought to

I’m a sad, sad case in the middle of

nowhere America

and I’ve got no one to blame but myself (and my parents)

but all the same, it’s nice lying here in bed

this morning:

white sheets, white walls

a white ceiling with brown water stains

and the sun coming in through the windows

like Eternal Buddha

my friends think I’m crazy

and I suppose maybe I am

but I tell them this head is nothing more

than a half-empty box

(I like to think it’s purple on the inside)

and every once in a while

when some grunge falls out of it

I clean it up

email it to the editor of some magazine

it’s what I do best

all that I can do

so really,

it’s not such a bad life

afterall.

dogma

I’m a slacker

and a loser

and I like to stare at the clouds for hours

I read a lot of books

and don’t know anything at all

I like ladybugs

someone told me

I should put myself

in the hands of

God

but I’d rather be in the hand

of some high school cheerleader

I’d rather be a white birch

in the Russian forest

or a Chinese monk on pilgrimage

to India

and God is

wind chimes when a breeze picks up.

a taste of the Orient

the place had red Chinese lanterns

and a Chinese barmaid

I asked her

how much for a shot of tequila?

she said

fo’ dolla’s

it was dark

and the tequila burned a little

and the sunlight was coming in

from the street

it was just me and the barmaid

and no one else

with the bottles lined up

against the back wall

so that the whole thing looked like

some kind of altar

a bar is a place holy as any other

just without all the dogma

and other bullshit

I even thought I saw

Buddha

sitting under the red-and-blue neon

counting how many drinks

I’d had.

Linda M. Crate- A Poem

you’re haunting 

 

your face is haunting,

it peeps out at me from

behind bluebells; I see

it behind wisps of lilting

white fog, I see it in the

faces of the rocks; but

you’ve been gone for

more than a hundred

years; I know you’re not

here, but you haunt me

everywhere I go, I do

wonder if the lilies are

not your missives that

send me slants of light

courtesy of your heart;

I see your face dancing

in every mountain stream,

I see you beckoning me 

with the wizened hands

of trees; you are void yet

an intangible tangible that

evades me on butterfly wings.

A.g. Synclair- A Poem

Among

They appear in moments of silence

in the maddening tick

of another dim day

a small pebble in your shoe

brings an assassination

a firing squad

a hanging

monsters under the bed 

want you dead

rotting among the ruins of other men

among the debris in your ribcage

in the crumble of decaying lives

to replace you would be victory

so you open the windows at night

sleep on a small stone set to music

in the house where you live your life fiercely

among assassins

among angels

among monsters

among milestones

among fragments that become small gifts

like apples

like sleep

like carbon.

© 2012 A.g. Synclair

A.g. Synclair is the editor & publisher of The Montucky Review, a journal of poetry and prose. His work has appeared in numerous online an print publications. He lives, writes, and otherwise collaborates in southwestern Montana with his partner in crime, the artist and poet Heather Brager.

James D. Quinton- Two Poems

these late night london streets, infectious

  

midnight draws

a breath

exhales

mysterious

beautiful

enchantments

wonders and charms

intoxicated

roaming pavement

after pub and club

distant sirens

scream a melody:

in the darkness

there are

cries of danger

drama and delight

tower blocks loom

warm

lights radiate

from the homes within

above

a glimpse of stars

below

the rumble of

an underground train

ahead

a hint of paradise:

the smiles

and joy of a

culturally diverse

band of brothers

and sisters making

for an all night party

a beat

box perched

on a shoulder

sounds blazing out

these late night

london streets,

infectious…

we don’t say a word

tender kisses

harsh words

parting hands

last expressions

strangers now

shared life

discarded

divided

secrets

dreams

laughter

treasured intimacy

touches

sensual moments

memories

to be forgotten

we made love

a thousand times

clinging passionately

all night

now I see you

walking towards me

on the opposite side

of the road

there’s no

acknowledgement

no

eye contact

we don’t say

a word

 

 

 

BIO: James D Quinton is a British fiction and poetry writer. Recent accepted work has appeared in Burner Magazine, Red Fez, Zygote in My Coffee, Blacklisted Magazine, Heroin Love Songs, Chiron Review and Spudgun Magazine. www.jamesdquinton.co.uk

 

John Grochalski- A Poem

apples

the drumbeats of war

the caterwaul coming from

the inept and starched houses of washington

again and again and again

and the fruit vendor

apologizes for the cost of his apples going up

premium, he tells me

we buy premium apples now

used to be ninety-nine cents a pound

but now a dollar thirty

i don’t care, i tell him

it’s like passing oil through

the strait of hormuz

i have no real choice in the matter

an apple a day…..

but you notice the difference, he says

wrapping them up in wasted plastic

not really

but i smile and nod anyway

premium, he tells me again

handing me my bag

premium, i say back to him

shaking my little sack of gold

had to raise costs, he admits, waving

because, in the end, the fruit vendor

is way more honest

than any chamber of congress

and maybe we should throw him up there

with the rest of the fools

come any gray and gloomy november.

Jeffrey Park- Two Poems

THE SPLINTER

The splinter, do you remember

the little sliver

of something you had in your foot, so

small that you

couldn’t even see it

and I had to dig it out with my penknife

while you squirmed

and I dug and you moaned and gritted

your teeth

and I just kept digging because otherwise it

would get funky

and marinated in puss but in the end I

got it out and then I kissed

the hurt away?

I’ll let you in on

a little secret I’ve been keeping.

There was no splinter.

But later I did find a tiny thorn outside

and put it in

a little jar that I keep on my nightstand

and I often gaze at it

and think of you.

VEG

Eat your damn vegetables, my pop used to yell at me

like it was some kind of fierce wisdom, damn

vegetables, scrape them off the plate, bite them, chew them,

swallow them all, eat them up now.

And what would they do for me anyway– make me

grow up into a clean-living man?

Build moral fibers?

Keep my teeth from falling out, my bones

from splintering, my snot from turning all runny.

Then again: could there be more?

Maybe veggies well digested would surrender up insights

into the secret lives

of growing things, trees and weeds

and stinging nettles, hanging vines, sad backyard shrubs.

At its greenly pulsing heart

every celery stalk could be a primeval redwood, every turnip

a forest denizen from the misty dawn of time.

To digest them would be to know them all.

On the other hand: eat

your damn dessert, my dad also used to command. Lick out

that bowl, I’m watching you.

Eat your damn napkin, you little termite, eat the table,

eat the walls.

Leave the veggies on your plate, I tell

my kiddies, leave them lie as if they were poison. Go on

outside and put them back in the ground. Set them free.

Who knows, maybe

they’ll be able to do you a good turn someday, too.


Bio: Jeffrey Park is a native of Baltimore, Maryland. He currently lives in Munich, Germany where he works at a private secondary school, as well as teaching business English to adults. His most recent poems have appeared in Subliminal Interiors, Danse Macabre, Punk Soul Poet, Mobius, Darkling Magazine and elsewhere.

Bryan Murphy- A Poem

Nicosia

Showers that would extinguish forest fires

smother both sides of the sundered city.

Safe over Greek or Turkish coffee,

we eye the storm.

At the crossing, passport-holders saunter

through innumerable degrees of separation.

The young, reluctant to be told

whom they have drawn in the lottery of hate,

will close them, or die to keep them wide

for elders who order back

the tide of consumer history

that makes the salient divides civil –

Old City / New City, trader / buyer –

and offers those who may be called

upon to kill the chance instead

to wallow in the beauty of banality.

Bryan Murphy is a former teacher and translator who currently lives in Turin, Italy. His work has recently appeared in The Camel Saloon, Eunoia Review, Indigo Rising, The Pygmy Giant, Transparent Words and The View from Here. A volume of his short stories, provisionally entitled "Goodbye Padania" is forthcoming.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Father: Visiting Hours

To have him see me

see his face, tree roots

ripping through the clay,

branches out, supplicating,

 

I can’t take.

Better that I wait.

Better that he one day have

one last chance to feel

 

his one son’s son

tug a block beside him.

Jamie Grefe- A Poem

GONE, RISEN, STAY GONE

Kitchen licked: we wake to sour sleep-thoughts and ache
when throats burn; acidic sputters swell, and men nibble teeth around
your inked nape, pain inglorious.

So, lay it down, sister: cross-legged, soft sleeper, train tracks

of Old China: grey brick to brick, mountain heap,
slats of snow, the doom: those precise thirty-six hours when
the train sank back to Beijing like a cow to slaughter.

And the kitchen tunnel, mind’s vortex, a spaceship deserted in the Yellow 

River, rotten mist. Into the wife’s slumbering night-visions of a half-daughter. 

Until then, again, we say good-bye, kiss lips and call later. I’ll run to the bus, 

run to the train, run to school, to the river and back again;
our chosen home is ten legs long plus mine: twelve steps, two hands,
one bed: gone, risen, stay gone.

Sarah Gamutan- A Poem

Unbeknownst

 

I want to be the most wanted that day,

perhaps within top ten list of best shitheads.

Ladies kissing my pictures. My life - their music.

Stereos rambling, twitter tweeting. Knock- offs

 

of my dresses sold out. All database relative to

my profile. Nothing better than being followed

at. I wonder, does it make any better when your

name is at the top ten trends in Yahoo? More

 

paparazzi and the worst is gruesome style. "You

have to look unique to be remembered." Why

love. Why impeccably flawless. What about us

knuckleheads who only get notorious at night, or those

introverts who are noticed only when called. People

 

from unwanted nature? or from the dangers of

castaway who got consumed by greed? Lovers

who secretly love? Humans who secretly live.

They will be the most trending. They are my stars.

 

 

 

Sarah Gamutan's poems have been published in many online publications including The Scarlet Sound, The Legendary, Subliminal Interiors, Poetry Bulawayo, Every Writer's Resource and Ygdrasil. Her works are scheduled to appear in Negative Suck and Crack The Spine. She hails from Philippines where she works as a Customer Support Associate at  night and a poet at heart by day.

Linda M. Crate- A Poem

oil spill

 

you treat me like an oil spill,

you squeeze your eyes shut

pretending to see the problem

yet ignoring it in the hopes that

I will drift away, yet like oil I

paint your life in inky black and

I will not float away like a piece

of driftwood bobbing in the sea;

you will clean up the messes

you’ve made, you will change 

the way you’ve treated oceans or

I shall leave you in the cold and

lonely beams of moon silver.