Chris Butler- A Poem

Sunday Mourning

Sundays don’t always shine

and I can’t always find

the bright side

to the horizon line’s

sunrise.

But like a moth to a flame,

I always fly too close to

supernovas.

Anthony Ward- A Poem

Sluggish

Are you surprised to hear from me so soon?

My nails scratching against your conscience-

Causing your shoulders to shrivel

And your face to drop,

As you look to the ground to swallow you.

But you’re much too bitter,

It would spit you out,

Unable to stand you,

While you ball into yourself             

Playing dead until you can set yourself straight.

Anthony tends to fidget with his thoughts in the hope of laying them to rest. He has managed to lay them in a number of literary magazines including Enhance, Drunk Monkeys, Speech Therapy, Thousand Shades of Grey, Turbulence, Torrid Literature
Journal and The Rusty Nail, amongst others.

Robert Demaree- Three Poems

HARD DRIVE

He would have willed

His brain to Science

Except for what they might find

Recorded, as if upon

A computer hard drive.

He had heard of people

Chopping them up,

Sacrifice of Knowledge.

Browsing history, he saw,

Could be erased.

Memory might be like that,

Vanished with a single click.

But he rather thought

It was always somewhere

Deep inside

And someone knew how to find it.

GOOD YEARS: A LOVE SONG

August 24, 2011

I wrote a haiku

And put it out

For her to find that day:

August twenty-fourth:

Wedding anniversary

Forty-eight good years.

I worried about not saying

Great, or wonderful,

Both of which were true.

But great rhymes and

Wonderful doesn’t scan.

I meant good the way

The Army speaks of good years,

Or Social Security:

Years that count,

That count for something.

In any case,

They are the years that

We have had,

So far.

AT MY OLD SCHOOL

Things that have not changed:

Cheerful earnestness,

Cell phones turned on, BlackBerries.

Things that are new:

Faculty sign-out sheet,

Hazelnut syrup

By the coffee maker.

Robert Demaree, a retired educator, is the author of four collections of poems, including Mileposts (2009), published by Beech River Books. He has had over 550 poems published in 125 periodicals, including The Aurorean, Avocet, Cold Mountain Review, Dead Snakes, Foliate Oak, Louisiana Review, The Louisville Review, MediaVirus, miller’s pond, Schuylkill Valley Journal, Tipton Poetry Journal and in the 2008 and 2010 editions of The Poets’ Guide to New Hampshire. He lives in Wolfeboro, N.H., and Burlington, N.C.

Jack T. Marlowe- Two Poems

still life with sunflower

by Jack T. Marlowe

o yellow

corpse of

summer

roadside 

martyr

now re-

born on

a kitchen

table

a mere

parasol

for coffee

and cig-

arettes

your sad

petals

begin to

shed the 

pretense

of light

but the

flies still

love your

fading

sunset

face

and your

killer

faithfully

tends

to your

yet

undying

thirst

---

big dreams, small change

by Jack T. Marlowe

wanderlust:

you can

domesticate

that big dog

but the wild

yearning for

the open road

cannot be

bred out of

his genes

sniffing at

the tracks of

freedom, his

instincts urge

him to follow

but he is made

obedient by

insufficiency

a short leash

held by

the tight fist of

responsibility

his master's

voice is not

reassuring

it is not

consolation

it is imbalance:

the deficit

between

big dreams

and

small change

between

the bark of

have and

the bite of

have not

the big dog's

ears droop

his tail

does not

wag

he digs

holes in the

ground of

obligation

and buries

the bones of

his dead

aspirations

perhaps

another day

he thinks

i will dig them

back up and

chew on them

for awhile

---

bio:

Jack T. Marlowe is a gentleman rogue from Dallas, TX.  A writer

of poetry and fiction and a veteran of the open mic, his work has

appeared in Handful of Dust, Visceral Uterus, Red Fez, Thunder

Sandwich, Napalm and Novocain, Underground Voices and else-

where. Jack is also the mad editor of Gutter Eloquence Magazine

(www.guttereloquence.com).

James Babbs- Three Poems

I Didn’t Have Anything

I didn’t have a job

or a place to live

and sometimes

I borrowed someone’s car

or I bummed a ride

when I had some place to go

and I slept on people’s couches

I took turns

staying at different houses

some nights

I even slept outside

underneath the stars

twenty-one or two and

I didn’t have anything

but I felt pretty good

walking around

the warmth of the sun

pouring on my skin

and whenever it rained

finding somewhere to stay

I was young and strong

and indestructible

felt like I was capable

of doing something great

I never felt like

I was missing out on anything

except

maybe the touch of a woman

every now and then

and sometimes

I went for long stretches

without having enough to eat

the hunger like a hot blade of steel

burning through me

and those were

some of the best days of my life

Something About Windmills

the windmills kept turning

slowly in the sky

I started thinking about you

watching the windmills

slowly turning and

I was wondering about

the last time I saw you

trying to remember

what I said to you

while I was driving past

the windmills turning

slowly in the sky

I remember

you were crying

and calling my name

but I don’t know why

and there was something

about windmills

I kept seeing them in my mind

and I couldn’t stop thinking about you

A Hole

it’s not like a hole in the ground

but the emptiness I feel

somewhere in my heart

since she’s been gone

a hole in the wall

where the light shines through

but this room still gets dark

it’s like a hole

where I bury myself

sometimes

another place I can go

when I feel the need to hide and

it’s been a long time

since I dreamed anything good and

I don’t know

how many years have passed

since the last time

I wished upon a star

now

I get tired and

I just close my eyes

but there’s nothing left

nothing there

for me to see

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.  Recent poems have appeared or are forthcoming at Camel Saloon, Horror.Sleaze.Trash., and Word Riot.

Larry Jones- A Poem

PMS

She said,
I think my period
is about to start.

How's that?
I asked.

I'm craving pizza,
she said.

I thought you always crave chocolate,
I said.

That too,
she said.

Translation:
I don't care
what you're doing
I don't care
what time it is
get off your ass
go out and get me some
chocolate and pizza
immediately,

I thought.


Bio:  Larry Jones lives with his wife in Utah. He is retired.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

The Girls in Steno, 1970

 

When it’s break time

the girls all walk together,

cigarette-protector cases

clasped between their index

 

tapers and their thumbs.

On each girl’s fingers glow

iridescent lacquers.

When break time nears,

 

they peek at each other,

twinkle, giggle, nod.

When break time comes,

a bell rings and the girls rise

 

like Lazarus. High on heels

they click in couples down the hall

to fill an elevator.

They get off at One. There

 

they float across the cafeteria,

men everywhere,

eyes everywhere.

(Is he the one?)

 

When a new girl’s hired

the old girls

put her to the test:

Will she join them

 

for the coffee break?

If she does, she joins them forever,

even after she marries,

retires or expires.

Ross Leese- Two Poems

sit with me

and we'll tear the bricks from government buildings
we'll let ladybirds crawl onto our fingers
and then pull their legs off
one by
one.

don't go anywhere

just sit with me and we'll shoot down planes
we'll flatten the tyres on every emergency
ambulance

we'll tell the young kids ghost stories
until they
cry.

you and
me

while the sun sets on
this gunshot
town--

we'll sit and swim the pool
of each others
eye.

 

these are the days of our lives

scour the skies for god
night after sodden
night

believe in a fairytale
where the good
guys win
again

remain
romantic

smile as the blood
explodes away
from your
veins.

sleep with your
favourite
teddy
bear
as the world
implodes
around
you.

wake up and do it
again and
again.

call it
life
and learn
to live
with
it.

Ally Malinenko- A Poem

Possessions

 

I’m going to clean the apartment, today, I say to no one

I walk from room to room in my pajamas.

The cats follow.

I’m going to clean the apartment today, I tell them.

One of them runs away, the other just meows at me.

 

She doesn’t believe me.

 

I wander from room to room, stopping to wipe

stray cat litter off my feet.

I stare at the piles of books and papers, the chicken scratch writing.

I watch small bits of errant cat hair slide over the desert floor.

 

But I am. I’m going to get everything up and clean.

I’m going to scrub the floor,

the walls, the ceiling. Everything.

All the clothes will be washed,

the dishes sparkling.

It will be like a new place.

and then when I’m done,

I’m going to push the books out the window

and then the pictures and paintings.

I’m going to hurl every dish we own out onto 75^th street

and listen to cars run them over with a satisfying crunch.

Then our bed, our dresser, everything. Last the couch.

I’m going to leave everything sitting on the sidewalk

and close up the windows.

 

Then I can lay down on the cool floor,

in an empty apartment

and try not to think about the next couple of months.

The dark space that is the fall.

 

Afterwards, I’m going to write this poem.

And I’m going to send it to you.

Or at least I would, if I could find any paper.

 

 

 

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 and her first novel for children, Lizzy Speare and the Cursed Tomb is forthcoming from Antenna Press. She currently lives in the part of Brooklyn the tour buses don't come to and rambles on and on over at allymalinenko.com

Seamas Carraher- A Poem

THE PALACE OF LOVE

for Niall Quinn, on his journey

i’m walking in my dream

through a fabulous palace

of touch

the courtyard hums

with the

electricity of longing

danger dances

outside

the walls

but

i am not this old man now,

my skin is fresh

and the cells

of my mind

shiver with newness

the nightmare has ended

and i’ve woken up new!

only i sleep

and this world

is a dream

and in my dream

down a long corridor

my mind stills tells me

“you must...you should...you better...”

and in that dark prison

all the dead men of my youth

hang from twisted ropes

from light fittings and ceilings

but here

my skin is fresh

my cells tingle

with the electricity of life

and everything is lit

with the ache of longing.

In my dream

only my body can speak

its words lit with wonder

their tongues spitting fire

this must be a language

that knows fear

but not war

so i lay down

i lay down deep

inside

and i am a river

that can never be stopped

a dance of light and touch

and desire

of mingling and miracle

both body and soul.

Now my hands

are like birds

and they fly through the rooms

of your soul

their wings beating

beating

i calm your fears

in the only way i know

and we are lost forever

in this place

we have somehow

never forgotten.

In the Palace of Touch

i am not this old man

with a heart of stone.

i am sensuous

and music

and my limbs are supple.

my words are lips

see how they swell with desire!

my words are a river

like rain or water

see how they soar like birds!

And i am always

travelling

endlessly

across the emptiness

to meet you here.

i wake.

And the room

is filled with birds falling

to the floor

and the news is harsh and peels

the wallpaper from the walls

and i am heavy and cold

and i reach

for

a

cigarette.

Séamas Carraher was born in Dublin, Ireland in 1956. He lives on the Ballyogan estate, in south County Dublin, at present.

Recent publications include poems in Carcinogenic Poetry, Naphalm & Novacain, The Camel Saloon, ditch, Bone Orchard Poetry, Istanbul Literary Review and Pemmican. Previously his work has been published in Left Curve (No. 13, 14 & 20), Compages, Poetry Ireland Review, & the Anthology of Irish Poetry.