Steve Calamars- Three Poems

after lorca

 

an inch from

the bottom

and i’m already

rising to new

heights

but the view

induces vertigo

and i’m quickly

plummeting

back to where

the sun sleeps

and the stars

shrivel like

raisins . . .

 

 

i’m throwing money

 

out the

window

 

the crows

pick it

over

 

like stale

moldy bread

 

 

after midnight

 

a mexican girl

with thighs thick

as cough syrup

sleeps in

my bed . . .

 

 

 

short bio: Steve Calamars lives in Texas. His first collection of short stories, six years of relative happiness, is available from Calliope Nerve Media. He blogs @ dirtywordsoncleanliving.blogspot.com. He is currently looking for a publisher for his recently completed chapbook manuscript.

Stephen Caratzas- Three Poems

TUESDAY'S BRIDE

I can see taking Monday off too
to get yourself psyched up
and turn the whole thing into
a long weekend

You owe yourself that much
having bought your own ring
then convinced your mother somehow
this guy was a spectacular catch

After all her years of worry
that you might die uncleansed of sin
or abandoned just as she was
there is now a measure of relief

In the iPhone pictures taken
outside the City Hall chapel
you smile on a Tuesday like it's a Friday
your snared husband is all nerves and sweat

Your mother looks the most frightened
but not by this more by life in general
she is genuinely happy inside
that you are not yet showing

*  *  *

YOU THINK THAT IT IS A SECRET BUT IT NEVER HAS BEEN ONE

The fortune cookie thinks 

you need to be punished

for years of "in bed" codas

If you came to see the sea

well the water's closed today

and tomorrow too possibly

There is an office killer loose

crouched near the fax machine

some people call her boss

I'm a monsieur for hire

I'll give you French attitude

out the ass all day long

How many times have you

wandered beneath the dark

only to emerge into darker?

*  *  *

THEIR WILL HEARD BY THE WORLD

No I was full and nobody 

for all with a sigh

"It will be nice."

They didn't mean anything 

tying up a gay, prancing

ponderous God

seen always trotting along

tired not caring

what happened to me

in this world I feel 

that going through

whatever happens

some in society knew

how I feel with God

contempt

my spirit didn't consider

the matter at all

I feel sure like that

it settled here

a few years ago

and has been its own 

ever since the street 

spread out and mothers 

here go hovering 

to the fourth generation 

lots of young boys scramble 

out of the nests 

go off and decide

to grow up their will

heard by the world

*  *  *

Stephen Caratzas is the author of It Will Be A Train (2004), The Incredulity Tour (2005), and Past Present Suture (Drifting Man Press, 2011). His work has appeared in the tiny, Terra Incognita, Maintenant 6, and numerous online journals. He plays guitar in the band Gert Fröbe and currently resides in Hastings-on-Hudson, New York.

Nicole Taylor- Three Poems

A Dancing Dream

Janet smiles and lumbers forward.

Cheryl downstairs usually walks steps

forth, body straight, and stomps

loudly.

Janet leans right, left. We follow 

simultaneously. Arms and feet stay,

remain forward. Drum beats fill

the dance room.

Cheryl sometimes listens to loud music

or radio sermons.

Her front apartment door shuts loudly. I 

awake ignoring neighbor’s loud music

and footsteps.

Footsteps and Janet’s wheelchair

were in my dance dream.

Later I was weeding, cutting, sweeping,

I was dancing outside with rake and broom.

In Stride

in stride,

in hop.

He usually takes it 

all in stride.

He is wanting a home in California,

friends,

         a girlfriend.

He usually takes it in stride

that I have not accepted to be his girlfriend yet,

after making out again New Year's Eve.

Gothic Black

Black is her short bob

  with brown roots.

Black is her leather choke collar

   with silver rings.

Black is her short sweatshirt 

   with gray lining and stitching.

Black is zippered cargo pants 

  with zippered pullouts.

Black is her small shoes

   with black suede and laces.

Nicole currently has no MFA's, many hopeful projects, a variety of styles and a wide variety of subjects. She is an artist, a hiker, a poetry note taker, a sketcher, a volunteer, and a dancer, formerly in DanceAbility. She has been accepted at 4 and 20 Journal - online nature poetry, Camel Saloon, Denali Literary Journal, Gloom Cupboard, Hyperlexia Journal - nature and camping, Just Another Art Movement - New Zealand, KenAgain, Miller's Pond, Monkey Bicycle, Neglected Ratio - two surrealistic poems, Outlaw Poetry, Pemmican Journal, Phantom Kangaroo, Portland Alliance, Queen Bee Collective - online nature journal from Eugene, Red Fez - Canada, Snow Monkey, Symmetry Pebbles,Tiger's Eye, Wordgathering, and many other publications. She blogs at apoetessanthology.blogspot.com/, facebook.com/Pushk1n and at 

http://www.oregonpoeticvoices.org/poet/312/, a collection of Oregon poets with written and audio poetry available online through Lewis & Clark College in Portland. 

And many more in waiting, to Eugene and Oregon journals and  many online publications, journals.

"A Dancing Dream" was published in Creative Space Journal, May 2009
"In Stride" was published in Red Fez
"Gothic Black" was published in PigeonBike, February 2011

Linda M. Crate- Two Poems

citrus & arguments 

 

you sweat of citrus, I’ve always 

been fond of the fragrant fruits —

but never of you; we fight like

two pears grappling for the same

ray of sunshine, instead of taking

the high road and deciding it’s

nothing to argue about; neither of

us wishing to concede that we’re

wrong; you glare at me with the

force of walnuts dropping on my

head hurtling with the speed of time —

it’s a good thing that looks couldn’t

kill for you’d have killed me several

times now; I’d be a ghost lingering

around the smell of citrus, drinking

in it from a distance so I didn’t

have to converse with you again.

death by linnet 

 

you ate my soul, so I ate your heart;

it only seemed fair, you syphoned out

the part of me full of hope, so I would

wrench free that part of you always 

wishing that it could be freed, your

pretty white teeth flashed in fury at 

this admission of mine; just be grateful

than I can put up with you voodoo man;

not all could stand that hunchback 

wart that you call a face, I only stick

around because I like to hear the secrets

of the ghosts wailing in the wind, you

tell me it’s rude to eavesdrop, but their

lives are more enthralling than your

tales of bloodshed and terror that 

could bore an owl into an unintelligible 

stupor; linnets wings flash upon your

tongue, he traps you in his void belly;

then marries your goat and runs away —

I am left in the wake of your face hanging

in every crevice of white fog night kisses.

Jay Coral- A Poem

On Why I Don't Often See Wildness

it's not the bear
that is elusive
the sand on my throat
the frosted beats that will maul
the slumber in my lung

it's not gonna fall
not tonight - never
for you already are
the star that blankets
the song on the campfire

it's not gonna happen
to steal a cheap kiss
under the marauding pines
on this precarious night
- my tongue-tied karma

for i will always be 
doe-eyed, a listless lover
smelling the air
the damp sweetness
of a stream nearby.


Jay Coral adores fireflies and hummingbirds at rest. He sometimes blogs about winged and grounded thoughts at http://bluejayeye.blogspot.com/

A.g. Synclair- A Poem

An Ordinary Madness

There is nothing very ordinary in this madness

in the way we devour each reconstructed day.

Ordinary is the simple movement of a clock

or the weary assumptions of life that push

us upward each morning. Madness is the act

of conversing with birds, of drinking in a 

well-lit bar. One day you will find yourself

surrounded by trees, surrounded by the 

madness of a solitary life, surrounded by

a vast army of debuts and farewells.

© 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.

 

Ali Znaidi- A Poem

Sonnet 3

 

midday devoid of

sunlight full

of solar eclipse

filled with opacity & black fog

butterflies blinded

went astray

collided with each other

smashed against the walls

like colourful glasses

dead butterflies

stuck on the walls

afternoon filled with sunlight

walls filled with butterflies corpses—

a canvas astounding Salvador Dali

 

Ali Znaidi lives in Redeyef, Tunisia. He graduated with a BA in Anglo-American Studies in 2002. He teaches English at Tunisian public secondary schools. He writes poetry and has an interest in literature, languages, and literary translations. His work has appeared in The Bamboo Forest, The Camel Saloon, phantom kangaroo, BoySlut, fortunates.org, Otoliths, and is upcoming in The Rusty Nail, and Yes,Poetry. He also writes flash fiction for the Six Sentence Social Network—http://sixsentences.ning.com/profile/AliZnaidi.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Shrimp in Lobster Sauce

 

Tucked in a booth in back,

the last customer of the day

cracks a fortune cookie,

 

sips Oolong as Mr. Hong

locks up. It’s time for his supper. 

Two tall sons bear

 

from the kitchen dishes

his wife won’t allow

on the menu.

 

Platters of meat

red, green, brown

huddle and steam

 

in the middle of the table.

When the Hongs

drop in their seats

 

chopsticks fly

like beaks. So many bright teeth,

quick as piranha.

Emily Smith-Miller- 3 Poems

Firecracker to the Dome

Pulling my bones apart, fingers are supernatural beings

And the breaking is a back stab building bomb

Beaching whales with napalm flames

Loving in a heat wave

My occasional misadventure

With the wrong man

Under graveyard dirt

Rolling in the Puget Sound

Don’t you smell like a teen romance?

You can freelance me to the end

I won’t keep these secrets plain

Ill lace them in my mercury saliva

I’m alive it seems

Today is such a themed trip on daisy dukes

In your back seat, don’t we keep each other down?

Drown baby

In the coldest

Salty lungs scream silver in the moonlight

Crushing with a knife point and your crowbar

Sliding up my leg

Good thing this M80 love affair

Only packs a pinching punch

Knock my breath out

Blow my hand off

Leave me splintering,

Not until I wake up

On blood soaked carpets

Will I tell you

What it means

Inside

I lather myself with the lavender soap

I imagine the essence of a sunflower

And I hope when he spreads my legs he smells the fields of Provence

Instead of cheap cherry lube

When I was a child I had simple rules

That only a child can follow

Love

Wonder

Gratitude

We are worn husks of organic produce

We lie to ourselves about the emptiness

We use and we hate

I hate and I am used

On starch sheets

In crochless panties

With a reaching hand of hope extending from my loins

Reverse birthing

Shedding the skin of this cumbersome twat

I will be as children are

I will love without question

And I will save myself

Southern Reasons

So still breathing for Jesus

Neon red cross and fingers crossed

I don’t believe in god

I don’t believe in the earth or purpose

It’s only to be happy

I smiled

You are so naive

Don’t know nothing

That cross isn’t salvation

Listen to the brush lullaby

Listen to my heart

Beat

We’re warm blooded

So we can bring each others bodies close

When death cold spreads its

Ice cracking spider veins

Over the weak white

Flesh

I don’t believe in anything

I believe in everything

Reasons and being and you and me

We’re so wrong for each other

But I know why I'm here

Sometimes you need a little

Miracle

Proof of faith

To make them stars shine

Other wise

It’ll all go dark

And I choose the light

Always the light

On these city nights

Truck stops with your buddies

They give you different reasons

Ideas

Wild turkey and a trailer

You could do better

But you never let yourself

I take your hand

Run my Swiss knife

Down the center

I push your blood in my blood

Those headlights

They’ll bring you back to me

Run free

I can follow your blood

You’re a piece of me

And if I believe

Then you’ll believe

Preaching isn’t my job

And praying isn’t yours

That’s why we belong together

And why I've got to save you

From this field of briars you’ve thrown yourself into

G. Emil Reutter- A Poem

I travel the road

dark battered

broken

lights dim, tarnished moon

crows cackle

daffodils

bloom mist

falls, road

wet

jars unopened

fruit

pealed rots

under trees empty canopy

one bud

blooms

I travel the road

look, listen

walk as sun rises

moons

view falls

on the corner of 13^th and Chestnut

a vet stands on titanium

cup empty

grateful nation doesn’t cry

hope

fades as invisible unemployment

lines fill cyber space

university graduates hold

empty diplomas

eighty one homicides in my city

in eighty four days

and no one protests

as the blood soaked sun sets

I travel this road

under setting sun as

dim moon rises

daffodils limp fall

to ground

fruit rots

crows cackle

empty cup

on ground

shots fired

hope dissipates

promise unfulfilled

g emil reutter lives and writes in the Fox Chase neighborhood of Philadelphia. Eight collections of his poetry and prose have been published. In 2007 he founded The Fox Chase and Fox Chase Reading Series. You can find him at www.gemilreutter-author.com

David S. Pointer- A Poem

Big Apple Drones

Early economic consequences

came armed with one lone

sputtering propeller crashing

to ground before arriving in

Washington D.C. to bomb or

strafe the people caught up in

1919s race riot, but in 1921

Tulsa, some blacks had bombs

dropped on them, and lots of

rich guys now know there’s

not enough airspace set aside

for injustice as the new drones

arrive to babysit protesters in

New York, and this isn’t the old

aerial machine gun corps auditory

commentary coming on in fast

manless flight with chemical

loads possible that would crash

Lady Liberty to protect corrupt

commerce and the paymaster’s

property that an underling mayor

and a middle man police chief

would program them to do so

Bio: David S. Pointer has new work at "Gutter Eloquence" in the blues issue. He has work forthcoming in "Bleeding Ink Anthology" and elsewhere. A new chapbook "Sinister Splashplay" is coming from "Virgogray Press."

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal- A Poem

RUB MY HAND

 

When I rub my hands
together I could
manipulate the clouds
and fill the skies
with rain.

When I rub my feet
together I could
make the clouds disperse
and make the sun
flare up.

 

When I do both at
the same time, earthquakes
open up the earth and
fill our lives with
worry.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Hermit's Confession

So I never go out 

but I'm never at home

so that's why I never 

answer the phone.

You can believe me. 

I'll tell you why.

The caller might be

someone I never  

want to see, 

someone who never  

wants to see me.

Or so we agreed.

The truth can remain 

hidden for years

till hung in the sun

along with the wash

to startle the neighbors

like a red brassiere. 

So I never go out 

but I'm never at home

so that's why I never 

answer the phone.

You can believe me. 

I've told you why.

Jamie Grefe- Three Poems

THREATEN ME, GASH
 

Parted lips speak of tremolo-dusk, but:  
the whine punctures: a vibration to leak pink
silence, while we worm the heartless gash.

 

A SIMMERING
 

Grains of language: froth, fester,
coat the tongue. The abysmal other
in sound, meaning lace, blood-bites,
ginger kisses. Simmer words to none.

 

PAW
 

Sleet bites down nibbles skin
pillows affection an exploded now
awake mewling noise is all in the
stroke of a paw lick of a paw