Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal- Two Poems

ENDLESS BEAUTY

Her cadaver hair
grew long and firm.
Through the ages
her beauty was
endless.  Death
only stopped her
heart and silenced

her voice, but her
beauty remained.

Through some curse
or gift she did not
rot or decompose.
Her eyes were blue
as the day she died.
It was haunting

to see her sitting
in the cellar with
her long black hair
dressed in her best
summer dress.

THE DAMAGE IS DONE

Behind these sad walls
like prisoners
growing old
without knowing
if you and I will find
more pleasant walls.
Scorpions crawl from under
a rock into our dreams.
Far from lovely

the damage is done.

I kiss your mouth,
but you don’t kiss me.

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal is the author of two recent poetry collections, Songs For Oblivion, published by Alternating Current Press, and Peering Into The Sun, published by Poet's Democracy.  He works in the mental health field in Los Angeles, CA.  His poems have appeared online and in print in journals such Penny Ante Feud, Tryst, and Zygote In My Coffee.

Bryan Murphy- A Poem

Ruling Out The Equaliser

Tinpot dictator? Capable enough to snuff out

the Thatcher brat’s attempted coup,

to woo a Swiss dictator who understands

the need for PR stunts

like this award of half a Cup of Nations

to a microstate where oil flows like blood.

Face is all, money the make-up to salvage it.

From his second-best purse, the dictator’s son

empties a year’s earnings of half the population

at the feet of the “National Lightning”,

151^st best team in our world.

Opponents, like officials, calculate their due,

and duly act as though they’ve got it.

Lightning strikes Libya and Senegal

from the path to glory,

before orange-shirted “Elephants”

trample the usurpers,

restore a semblance of merit

to the spectacle,

which no-one watches live.

The circus moves on. South Africa next.

The world’s attention floodlights fail.

A shroud once more encases

Equatorial Guinea’s heart of darkness.

What happens now? History regurgitates.

Oil powers the wheels of bulldozers,

clearing shanties for developers,

not for the souls who live there.

Migrants get harassed by bribe-sucking cops

with inflated stop-and-search concessions.

Students are acquainted with jails,

the continent’s worst, lest they protest

when summit-bound dignitaries

come from afar, some months hence.

A news blackout leaves the rest

to our imagination.

The sport itself still searches

among warehouses full of its gold

for the beauty it has sloughed:

cynical, corrupt, creeping

every day closer to the apex of its hubris,

every moment more akin to Equatorial Guinea.

Bryan Murphy is a former teacher and translator who now concentrates on his own words. A lifelong soccer fan, he divides his time among England, Italy and the wider world. His work has recently appeared in Descant, Eunoia Review, Indigo Rising, Rose & Thorn, The Camel Saloon, The Pygmy Giant, The Rainbow Rose, The View from Here and Transparent Words. A novella of ideas, Goodbye Padania, is forthcoming. www.bryanmurphy.eu

Felino A. Soriano- Poetry

from Quartet Dialogues

Of piano

|14|

if or when-if

(delineated fractions of possible interaction)

            the

child indents space within a laughing lean of

hilarious momentum, a specified

            meander into swing of woven spirals, spinning

as with the dizzy proclamation of game-game

doubling

jumping

examining

sectioned freedoms

for

discovering experience as learn or

acquire

fulcrums

aspiring dedicated reality and

running exhilaration, play

Of drums

×16×

in increments of imbalance

the sporadic evolves

ocular pronouncement the

heard/aware /\applaud/adhere

becoming in the strength of benign

movement a

surgical elation involves

modular timeframes as

desolate findings

away from the tributary

frequency hands donate as

vulgar tools of misplaced

conjuration

×17×

|accolades|

interpret the fade of focal yelling

in the

            center of strength’s underlining fathoms of space, nor of space

the

dialectic

affects mirror of following(storm)though

couldn’t thus can’t is the true pastime

plagiarizing

emotional productions, the tear of the swell

inflames every cheek of redundant

responsive foundation

Felino A. Soriano has authored 51 collections of poetry, including Of language|s| the rain speaks (quarter after press, 2012), Of oscillating fathoms these nonverbal chants (Argotist Ebooks, 2012), and Analyzed Depictions (white sky books, 2012).  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.

John Tustin- A Poem

 DRINKING IN JAGGED LIGHT

drinking in jagged light
from a broken bottle
and the lips and gums bleed a bit

it’s no fun to drink alone
it’s no fun to bleed alone
these fucking shards of light

like splinters in my eye
the last thing I need right now
is sight

as I pass out in the basement
wedged between
the washing machine

and penetrating slivers
of past, present
and future

scotch
broken glass
broken me


First appeared in Thirteen Myna Birds.

Ross Vassilev- A Poem

noise and fury

watching all the smoke and ashes
on TV on 9/11
I didn't feel much of anything
I watched all the noise and fury
like anyone else would watch a movie
I canceled my appointment
with the dentist
I checked out for the day
like I do most days
I felt cut off from all the people
crying on TV
and contempt for all the ones
demanding revenge
I wondered which country or
countries would get it this time
maybe Sudan
maybe Iraq
maybe Serbia again
and for some reason
I recalled a night when I was 16
we had each retired
to our separate rooms
all three of us trapped
in a lost place
in a small town at the edge of
nowhere
and I remembered
lying on my bed
wondering
where the fuck am I
and how the hell did we all get here?

A.J. Huffman- Three Poems

Liquid Skies

I want every rainbow

to die

right alongside my own.

I want all their colors gone.

I want to watch

as they drip

down the cosmic drain.

Clogging it.

Gray.

Is the future.

So perfectly dull

and lifeless.

Promising nothing

as it devours everything.

To keep itself alive.

To keep myself alive.

I need its tragedy

to breed.

Covering me.

Covering you.

Until we are the same.

Two twins.

Lost.

In the stain

of a pain

the sky

will never forget.

Emotional Effigy

I am like an elevator

with every button pushed.

I am afraid to meet the ground.

There is nothing there for me.

I will always be empty.

My passengers -- just temporary memories.

Pitiful attempts at swallowing life.

They always leave.

Or I spit them out.

They can see I am closed

for repairs that will never be complete.

It’s okay.

They have other ways.

I have even seen them once.

Those optimistic stairs.

Coming or going.

They say “always up.”

Too much.

I cannot take the strain.

My cables are fragile.

I live every moment

an inch away

from “forever down.”

The Future’s Glare

I am terrified.

But complacency is the killer

I refuse to fall to.

There are other angels

more worthy

of my mind

and my body’s bloody death.

Sin for instance.

And silence is another.

In fact, my battle

between those two

could be a utopian dream.

An epic tale.

Full of scars and scales.

And a hero?

Well, maybe not.

I am too flawed.

And prefer to be alone.

With the wind

as the only witness.

To my violent trends.

A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida.  She has previously published four collections of poetry: The Difference Between Shadows and Stars, Carrying Yesterday, Cognitive Distortion, and . . . And Other Such Nonsense.  She has also published her work in national and international literary journals such as Avon Literary Intelligencer, Writer's Gazette, and The Penwood Review.  Find more about A.J. Huffman, including additional information and links to her work at http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000191382454 and https://twitter.com/#!/poetess222. 

Christopher Oie Keller- A Poem

Blue
in memoriam M.S.

How many times can we say there are no words
before the words themselves reproach the silence?

A Muslim in Arizona ran his daughter down
in a Jeep Cherokee for being too “Americanized.”

The Oregon fall has been more beautiful this year
than any other in recent memory: orange leaves, crisp air –

a student where I substitute teach hung himself
and was put on life support, dying. He is gone,

people claim blues music is sad, but the hope
of continuing on sings in every minor seventh.

After giving millions to Pakistan, their government
refuses to hear our female Secretary of State,

and what color is the sky? What color our
oceans? What color is the blood in our veins?



BIO: “So You Think You Can Dance” reject Christopher Oie Keller earned his MAT from Western Oregon University. A former Victoria’s Secret supervisor, he now substitute teaches in Portland. He enjoys gardening and still thinks he can dance. His work has appeared in publications such as The Delinquent, Leveler, and Fogged Clarity and will be appearing in The James Dickey Review and The African American Review. He also got engaged March 5th of this year to someone who understands the writing process.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Fresh, Tinned Or Frozen

 

 

Father was a snap bean,

that’s all, Sis,

nothing more.

Fresh, tinned or frozen,

the greens of snap beans vary.

 

Neighbors in the yard,

clerks at the store,

folks at church,

you and me and bawling Ma,

for years we fed his strange chameleons

 

so we can swear, on the Bible,

Father was a snap bean,

that’s all, Sis.

Nothing more.

Fresh, tinned or frozen.

Robert Demaree- Two Poems

DATABASE

Somewhere a database

Holds the names,

Linked perhaps to a short bio,

Longer if you wish to pay,

Of all those living

At any given moment.

In another file,

All who have ever lived.

Clever software makes

Instantaneous changes.

One file will grow some,

Then contract a bit;

The other only grows.

NORTHERN VIRGINIA

A subdivision morning,

In the part of Virginia that is not really the South,

In the part of March that is not quite spring:

Slivers of sunlight angle around clouds

In a sky of washed-out blue,

A dull glint on slate-gray waters (not a real lake).

Master Sergeants keep their boats here.

Pines, some ice-snapped, some in arabesque

Before a solitary daffodil, tinged with frost.

Frances and Paul (not their real names) are packing to move again,

Up the interstate, an hour farther north.

Children of this waning American century,

They carry little furniture but lots of sweaters, compact disks,

Wedding gifts in boxes they came in,

To a warren of townhomes,

Each with a shallow-rooted tree

Set in soil fortified with fratricidal blood,

Where the builder’s shovel has turned over Minie balls,

Pieces of bayonets, buckles,

Belongings of other sojourners

In this now accentless land.

“Northern Virginia” appeared in Thorny Locust March 2001

Robert Demaree is the author of four collections of poems, including Fathers and Teachers (2007) and Mileposts (2009), both published by Beech River Books. The winner of the 2007 Conway, N.H., Library Poetry Award, he is a retired school administrator with ties to North Carolina, Pennsylvania and New Hampshire in the eastern U.S. He has had over 550 poems published or accepted by 125 periodicals in the U.S., Canada and U.K., including Cold Mountain Review, Red Wheelbarrow, Miller’s Pond, MediaVirus, Bolts of Silk, Louisville Review and Paris/Atlantic, and in four anthologies including the 2008 and 2010 editions of Poet’s Guide to New Hampshire and Celebrating Poets over 70.. For further information see http://www.demareepoetry.blogspot.com 

Neil Ellman- A Poem

The Earth is a Man

(after the painting by Roberto Sebastián

Antonio Matta Echaurren)

Not like any you know

not with a face

but nevertheless

gapes surprise

at its own odd shape

or with a mind

it somehow sees

reason in its

thoughtless seas

it almost remembers

in its shale and schist

the infant child

then man

craggy-eyed

pitted on wobbly feet

confused

by its own conceit—

the earth is a man

or was.

Neil Ellman lives and writes in New Jersey.  His poems, many of which are ekphrastic and based on works of modern art, appear in numerous print and online journals throughout the world, from Australia to Zimbabwe.  The latest of his eight chapbooks, Convergence & Conversion, is now available from The Knives Forks and Spoons Press.

John Grochalski- A Poem

humanity

sometimes

i want to love

humanity

get to know it

love thy neighbor

as thyself

but on the buses

the streets

in the stores

the bars

and cafes

we seem to fail

each other

with every breath

humanity

and there is nothing

that either of us

can really do about it.

James Babbs- Three Poems

May of 83

I went to see his car

the one he was driving that night

when he got drunk and drove it

off the road at high speed

the night he never came home

I went with my uncle and my father

somebody’s farm outside of town

where my father said they could leave it

I went with them to see it

because

I needed to know for myself

I didn’t believe it

even when they kept telling me

I knew it had to be

some kind of mistake

shivering as we walked behind the barn

before I saw the mangled body

the windshield shattered to pieces

the pain twisting in my stomach

that took my breath away

Beautiful Silence

I’m an asshole and don’t know

how to talk to people

she screams at me

before slamming the door

leaving me alone

sitting in the darkness

reaching for the bottle

pouring myself another drink

the beautiful silence

so soft and warm around me

maybe she’s right and

I am an asshole

but there are far worse things

than this in the world

My Heart Beating

the first time I told her

I loved her

we were lying together in bed

naked beneath the blankets

awash in the afterglow

her fingers brushing my arm

she didn’t look at me

but I heard her say

okay

I guess

I expected fireworks

going off in my head

I wanted some kind of

beautiful music playing

but all I got was laughter

spilling from the television

the sound of my heart

beating like a drum

I have published hundreds of poems over the last several years in print journals and online.  I live in the same small town where I grew up.  I work for the government but don’t like to talk about it.  I have a cherry tree and two grapevines in my back yard and several pesky rabbits.  My books are available from www.xlibris.com, www.lulu.com & www.interiornoisepress.com.

Linda M. Crate- A Poem

mantle of truth

the embrace of calamity engulfs me,

the putrid scent hugs me to its bosom -

I never go looking for the black bones

of trouble, but sometimes they find me

and pull me into their gaping jaws; today

will be different from the other days I

have decided to march in pursuit of truth,

I will unearth him from his grave

allowing him to spill his light brighter

than the eyes of sun star shimmering on the

dew; you tell me a secret and it

unravels me to my deepest mantle of life.