Robert Demaree- Two Poems

YESTERDAY’S SNOW

Midnight: an unexpected snow

Brightens our court at Golden Pines,

Thick whiteness caught in amber streetlight,

Moist cotton balls, fluffy on our small trees

In the clear Piedmont dawn.

It’s beautiful, our neighbors say,

Thinking of other places they have lived.

On my seventieth birthday I drive into town for barbecue,

Listening to Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons,

Their soaring falsetto harmonies

From sorrowful New Jersey towns

Not far from my own,

The undertow of time,

Those unchangeable places of our birth

That took some of us a while to figure out.

At the funeral home, the casket truck,

Up from Mississippi, makes a stop:

The routineness of it.

It is afternoon, sixty degrees,

And, of course, the Carolina snow is gone,

Except for fringes in the roof’s shadow,

And by the curb, graying,

Like other snows I’ve seen.

“Yesterday’s Snow” appeared in Poets’ Touchstone, Winter 2009

NOT TAKEN

1971: moonlight, cool, blue

On crisp, lightly glazed snow;

Wool scarves, boots,

Suburbs of Baltimore.

The young headmaster

Played lacrosse, taught poetry,

His cheerful wife,

Fresh, golden blonde

Junior League beauty,

From one of those Main Line schools

Where our glee club used to sing.

In the dining hall, dark walnut

Panels, linen table clothes,

Boys in blazers raise up

A cheer for their team.

February night pierces the lungs.

He offered me a job.

Late in life I’ve wondered

If I should have said yes,

Followed reluctantly

The path that led

North toward home.

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 600 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 

Justin Rogers- A Poem

Tell Them

“Tell them I found the Lord in this microphone

and I loved him,

I loved him fiercely”

Carvens Lissaint ‘Tell Them’

Tell them
that I thought I found God in these words
but instead found an impostor
dressed with an iron vest
and arrows pulled into the curve of a bow
aimed to war with my heart

Tell them the only reason
I never backed out
was from of fear
of the rigid alleys
any other path would rape me in
with rules knotted like nooses
that only exist
as long as our dirty blue collars
follow them off of a white collar cliff.

Tell the people picketing that cliff,
still wearing their colors proudly,
that i tore my collar off,
committed it to memory
and built a plateau with the remaining fabric
so that i would be recognized
as an ancestor
who left a platform to build upon.

Tell my family
that i have been writing my obituary
since the age of 16,
so when i pass,
treat these poems as such.
give them to the media
and tell them not to waste time
creating something new
to account for what has already come and gone.

Tell them i did it for the children
who weren’t ready.
tell them there are more
than just children being left behind.
tell them there is a mother
in every abdomen
trying to beat her way out of a cave-
that there is a brother
on every tongue
trying to make arms out of teeth
to embrace the grandmothers
stitching together every backbone,
Tell them
that every man is a third world country family
searching for someone to provide for them
and that i knew where to find their provider,
that i led them there
that i lost friends
and hearts
and flesh
and pride along the way
but i wouldn’t go back for them
even if the entire universe
was calling my name

Tell them i hated the pain
but loved showing my people away from it
compare me to Moses
the way my pen parted seas,
make me sound like Harriet
the way i kept going back for more souls
Tell them I had enough tears locked inside
to sink Noah’s Ark
and that you could see waves of the flood
crashing in my feet,
that you could hear its strength
ricochet off of my tongue
that in my presence
there was either silence or roaring
and no one could ever decide
which was worse.

Tell them i treated knowledge
like an unfaithful lover-
that some things are better left unknown

Tell them i believed love
is like a river in the desert-
that it has to flow from something
or someone higher than you.
Tell them i never found that person.

Tell them
I never looked for anyone to be my everything
because everything
wasn’t enough to fill my empire of a heart.

Tell them that i was stubborn,
that i was determined to defend it alone
even if it meant being torn limb from limb
in the same rigid alley
that my detached noose lay
as a reminder of what happens
to anyone who may follow my footsteps.

Tell them i know i was imperfect
but i was never greedy enough
to claw at another man’s past
after he was too far underground to defend it
and i expect to be treated the same.

Tell them
that my existence wasn't a blessing,
it was a response to a call for reinforcements,
and my life was just a term
in the line of duty. 

"Justin A. Rogers (also known as "Jar Thepoet") is a Detroit poet, artist, and educator. His accomplishments include appearances at Youth Speaks Youth national poetry slam Brave New Voices 2009 & 2011. He has been recognized at well re-nownd venues such as the Music Hall Detroit, the Charles H. Wright Museum, and plenty more. He has been twice recognized at Detroit's Jazz Fest Rhythm, Roots, & Rhyme Poetry Slam. Rogers grew as a youth writer through Detroit's primary literary organization, InsideOut Literary Arts Project with outstanding writers like Cave Canem fellow Aricka Foreman, Internationally known Jamal 'Versiz' May, and Ann Arbor poet and educator Ben Alfaro. Rogers has been published in multiple InsideOut anthologies, the Detroit news paper 'Critical Moment', and Wayne State University's 'Wayne Literary Review'. He recently released his first Chapbook, "Sound Off" and returned from the Rhymes & Revolutions poetry tour beside Detroit poet, Deonte Osayande. Justin has also become a part of the Detroit collective known as Witness - a group of young artists dedicated to stimulating personal and community growth, providing safe spaces for artists and promoting creative self expression."

Michael Keshigian- A Poem

LONELINESS MOTEL

His little hole in the Boston skyline,

one window lined with soot

facing Fenway Park.

In the room overhead,

there was a clarinet

that stalked Stravinsky’s Three Pieces

every evening.

During the day it was mostly quiet,

the crowd on the sidewalks

resembled the spiders in the room,

preying with thick overcoats

to catch the unsuspecting

in a web woven with smog

dimly illuminated with the little light

that penetrated the building alleys,

so dark, he could only shave

with a lamp in his face.

Every morning at 7:30 A.M.,

students clamored on the staircase,

rushing en route to classes

at the universities

and colleges around the corner,

the clarinet player would flush the toilet

then turn on the shower.

Once in a while, a bird

chirped or tweeted, like a bell chime,

so close to his door,

for a moment, he believed

he had a visitor.

Michael Keshigian’s poetry collection, Eagle’s Perch, was recently released by Bellowing Ark Press.  Other published books: Wildflowers, Jazz Face, Warm Summer Memories, Silent Poems, Seeking Solace, Dwindling Knight, Translucent View. Recently published in Red River Review, Illya’s Honey, California Quarterly, Boston Literary Magazine, and Foundling Review, he is a 3- time Pushcart Prize and 2-time Best Of The Net nominee.  

Virginie Colline- A Poem

Haiku Dall’Inferno

Insatiable night

a man-devouring fire

down the devil’s mouth

 
Cabaret de L'Enfer, Eugène Atget

Virginie Colline is a French translator living in Paris. You can read her latest poems in Seltzer, UnFold, Winamop and Overpass Books.

Paul Tristram- A Poem

 Drained

Like a wrung-out rag.

A buckled special brew can

upside down in a recycling bin.

A broken tooth

lumping a paving slab

on Sunday afternoon

after landing there

on Friday night.

The blood from a

cheated man’s heart

and innocence and decency

from the freshly starved.

I stand in the post office

queue on giro day

with three people

still in front of me.

Published in The Little White Poetry Journal (USA), Volume Two / Issue Five, March 2007

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

 

Sy Roth- A Poem

The Spelunker

He waddles into the room.

They all watch his camel’s walk in their desert.

Heads swing like pendulums as he wends his way their way.

He spelunkles their cave,

lower jaw fixed in a smiling pout.

Ill-fitting teeth make a bat-clacking cha-cha as he moves.

Brillo-tufted chin jerkily moves in synch with them.

A toupee rests on his head like a beret on a bowling ball,

gray hair matted, weighted-stiff with muck

sponged from the air around him.

This day he changed his shirt,

a sere cloth of indistinguishable design.

Pearly-white skin peeps through a four-inch rent

where he clutches his pouch but fails to cover a droopy breast.

He unearths a seat, hidden beneath a pile of jackets,

people on either side leaning Towers of Pisa.

He mines his pouch

as their lemon-sucking faces glower,

and removes a sleeve of Saltine crackers.

gnaws at one daintily, pinky in the air.

Crumbs soon litter the table.

He mumbles garbled non-sequiturs

at the world around him.

Teeth and tongue conspire to splinter it with his presence,

then sighs as the Towers work to ignore him.

Dawnell Harrison- Three Poems

A silent shroud

The winter is cast in ice –

The cold-hooded mother’s

Dregs are in full bloom.

The red-hot cauldron

Of the morning sun cannot

Melt this snow tundra,

It cannot be shaken down.

I watch the flakes descend

In a silent shroud –

The season is dragging

Me down like the pull

Of the ocean’s tide.

Plenitude has no voice here.

Reflection

The reflection of garnets

Darkens in the sullen night

Of your eyes.

Once they were little crushed

Diamonds of light.

Your body is a stream

That leave me holding

Emptiness.

Your eyes are winters

Glazed in ice.

The world whitens

Under the ashes

Of your memories.

Lost

Moonlight licks the back

Doorstep eaves.

Shadows whisper

In the deep dark hole

Of the night.

Lost in a black space

The roses bleed the

Backyard red.

The night swallows me

In a quivering circle.

I have been published in over 60 magazines and journals including The Endicott Review, Abbey, Iconoclast, Nerve Cowboy, Mobius, and many others.

Also, I have had 3 books of poetry published through reputable publishers titled Voyager, The maverick posse, and The fire behind my eyes.

Narendra Kumar Arya- A Poem

A NARCOLEPTIC SPARROW

By my closed eyes you could infer I am a narcoleptic
So could you deduce from the sea of dreams that I splatter around
Also the face of darkness that hangs loose like a pendulum
Provides ample opportunities to your skinned reason
To declare a nocturnal
Is this creature.

Yes, night descends as a respite to your suspicions
But I can flee the nether of the day
Burning with thy presence
So repulsive, so crude
The whole earth, even
Vibrating with your ghostly laughter
Starts spinning with displeasure.

Why do I need open my eyes?
What’s there for me to see?



+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 

Narendra Kumar Arya.  Born and educated in Varanasi, India, Did  MA, MBA, PhD.  Had taught Political Science for some ten years.  Writing simultaneously in English and Hindi for quite some time, involved in getting published recently.  A few poems have appeared on Rabbit, EWR, and Tether.

Mark Nenadov- A Poem

Winter Frost

So...

this is winter, my friend

ice on the windshield

     like flint

my freezing fingers fumble

for the keys.

The engine rattles

     in reply

to my bumbling fingers

as the hibernating creatures

heckle me from their haunts

buried deep in the ground.

 

 

 

 Bio: Mark Nenadov lives in Essex, Ontario, Canada with his lovely wife and their baby daughter. Mark's poems have appeared in publications such as Wilderness House Literary Review, WestWard Quarterly, Three Line Poetry, Northern Michigan University's The Lightkeeper, Driftwood Bay, Calvary Cross, and Pif Magazine.

Kislay Chauhan- Three Poems

Afternoon Desert

Tides in absorbed sunlight, dry sand desert
Whitish glare, seeking mirror boats
Where time is dried, moments sweat
Music in flames, days on the roots
Dewdrops of morning search shadow
Where sun is more leaned, cleaned but hard
The outsized branches, curvy eyes of leaves
Stony feet the sharp fingers digging surface
The labors with spades mining the place
Small spiders with sewing tensing wounds
Blocking airs impelling to breath high
With black and white scenes and sky
Turning years of hooks and scissors without rain
Striving bones, sore throats of birds and beasts
And then steady rocks of bronzed silence
Little weeds the waiters of years
And no one dares, no one hears
Only the tails of trees bounding water
Spongy blue ribs spread out of chest
The boats only mirages peeping far away
Forever a mirage alone never gets any meet
Dazzling waves decorate them hanging mirrors
The last storm all forgot but still the signs there
Desert fencing borders far of the crowds
Where only cheerful nights smile
And afternoon songs are tired unto evenings
When all the stars dine together
On sand-sheet, sand with resting eyes

An Old Age

A mechanical heart, desolated
Standing solemn around weaving silky water
Water of eyes, inveterate healer
On grass of sorrow by wind directing ways
Lifted breath burden on the lungs
Frightened gazes of nerves hugging heart
Dripping sights of memory in front of legs

The day of last heartbeat of his words
Dissolving in fog of all directions,
Peeping shadows of memories from cloak
Someone almost lost the grace of life
And somewhere pulses thunder to get out
Rotten skin with blooming sights and spirit
The layers of irregular breath stiffened

Where every valley is not straight to cross
Distinguished desires without any complaints
Certain limping stick in hand for way
Every step, summing up a journey
Dull head, digging shoulders, wide glasses
Which seems something binocular badges
Lost quartz of teeth, shrugging expression

Occasional smiles filling lonely times
He just needs help to cross that road
And lakes of sorrow and solitude
And listening last seasonal singing of birds
Every step with folding calm days in arms
Preaching eyes of life need assistance of love
An old man carrying belief of life, belief of life

Heart Of Wood

Somewhere a box filled emotions
Of wood, built round bit for life
Different cherishes keeping in
Supplying sets of dreams’ belief
A lock of ego, anger and hate
With key of help, kindness and love
The sides varnished with tender
A sort of wood flinching in fear
Slanted, corners of silence, spiritual
Stiffing to ground, burns in fire
Fire of love, hurt and desires
Wrapping cloths of seasons boiling
Lonely narrow boxes...
Strange boards made of wood
Devouring colors of surfaces
Edges broken, steeping to ground
An old tomb, with torn boundary
A monument lasts for a breath
Breath that unlocks lock, loneliness
Wooden box, clouds, rains and keys
Sunlight heals it up, an artifact
Parallel conditions, stars run above
May be one day, we put it as monument
Lonely, only memory of old swarms
When it used to have everything
Heart of wood, now in a museum
Motionless, a show for strangers
Having life, all of wood, to be painted
Or to be burned to warm some



Bio - Kislay Chauhan is a computer engineer, 25 year old. He has written four poetry books “ Takhir,” “ The Vague,” “Once And for All” and “ The Edges of The Spirit”. 

Jason Constantine Ford- A Poem

Death in the Woods 

The taste of many brittle years already spread
Across paddocks without a drop of rain
Is bitterness profound as Death begins to tread
Upon the graves of names which still remain.
Death is slowly passing through the woods alone
With many kinds of trees becoming prone
To loss of grip among the ageing leaves
Succumbing to the might which Death receives.

The air surrounding Death becomes so strong
As winds impose a sense of might upon each tree.
The branches shaking left and right, belong
To the dance of Death declaring how all things should be.
The curse which came upon the ones who died
With wounds inflicted by the sword of pride
Is kept beneath the ground until the day
Death decides to spread to other forms of prey.



Published in December archive of Mad Swirl Online Magazine.

Linda M. Crate- A Poem

there are no quick fixes

 

your quick fix was wrong

life isn't disposable,

and abortion hurts long after

it's done

the echoes of it linger

in the heart

years after; you never will

get to feel the warmth

of your child's

fingers interlaced with yours or

their laughter, their joy

and their pain -

you'll never be able to shape

the life of someone

who could have been someone's 

hero, and you'll never

know how wonderful they could

have been

if only you allowed them 

to take their first breath -

yet you didn't;

and there's no one to blame but you

because you wanted out of

a bind, a quick fix

to preserve your own freedom and

only guilt lingers.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

That Old-Time Religion

When I was young and randy, 

I went to church every Sunday

to keep my parents happy.

"Almighty God has given us 

the Ten Commandments,

not the Ten Suggestions,"

the old preacher used to say.

Now I'm old and randy 

but I always go to church 

yet I seldom hear a sermon.

What I hear now is something 

preachers call a homily. 

Homilies are nice.

They let you leave church 

in a good mood, ravenous

for the Sunday roast.

But most homilies shoot blanks.

They seldom strike a chord. 

Machine-gun sermons 

when I was young and randy

sprayed words all over church,

and if they didn't hit you,

you were bobbin' and duckin', 

the old folks used to say. 

Homilies seldom mention sin 

and almost never mention hell.

When I was young and randy,

sin and hell were the DNA

of any decent sermon.

Now, homilies explain

how much God loves me

and italicize that basic truth

over and over by quoting 

passages from Scripture.

Few homilies, however, note 

that God has standards 

and expects His flock to meet them.

"The elevator goes both ways,"

the old preacher used to say. 

His sermons often scared me 

and I used to stay scared until 

Monday afternoon at school

when I'd let Florence Puppo,

who was tall and fetching, 

go upstairs in front of me.

God loves Florence, too, 

I'd tell myself, so why not 

let her sway her way 

up the stairs ahead of me. 

Homilies are reassuring 

but I don't know if I'd be 

going to church now

if I had heard homilies

instead of sermons back

when I was young and randy.

A good sermon can leave a scar

old men scratch when the years 

go South for the winter.

"God's not playin' games!"

the old preacher used to say.

I'd like to see that preacher 

in our pulpit now. 

He'd use his blowtorch

of that Old-Time Religion 

and let the flames flare.

He'd make the congregation 

bob and duck every Sunday 

instead of sitting up straight

and smiling on occasion.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had work published in a variety of print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.

Ivan Jenson- Three Poems

Cheap Date

I have always had used guitars,

women, and clothing

and I have always

shopped secondhand for

boots, books and hugs

but then again I have gotten

some great deals on

bikes, kisses and chipped dishes

but I am saving up now

for a house, wife and car

yet, sometimes it feels 

like I will never be able 

to afford 

real estate, 

real happiness 

real diamonds  

or anything more expensive

than a dollar and a dream

but hey, things might change

for this chump

so I am going to keep

hunting around

for the real deal

on gloves, slacks

and love

 

Local Yokel

I am not going to gloss over

the power of your lips

nor am I going to neglect

your neckline under 

that necklace

nevertheless 

I can't allow myself

to collapse over

your caress and 

lose myself 

like you lost

your earrings

and so I will

stand tall

as the tale

you told me

about having

gone without touch

for so long

so please don't

powder over

the beard burns

I left on your cheek

for that is the mark

of this unmasked

musk wearing

Michigan based

Zorro

 

Hearsay 

My heavy 

handed words

you take lightly

yet my flippant 

remarks offend

which means

I should cloak

my verbal daggers

in gentle gentility

so that you

would not get hurt

by the sticks

and stones

which catapult

from my tongue

like spitfire

gun-powdered

four lettered

fists of fury

also known as

slam dunk

drunk dialing

on a Saturday night

       

Ivan Jenson’s Absolut Jenson painting was featured in Art News, Art in America, and Interview magazine. His art has sold at Christie’s, New York. His poems have appeared in Word Riot, Zygote in my Coffee, Camroc Press Review, Haggard and Halo, Poetry Super Highway, Mad Swirl, Underground Voices Magazine, Blazevox, and many other magazines, online and in print. Jenson is also a Contributing Editor for Commonline magazine. Ivan Jenson's debut novel Dead Artist is available as a paperback and on Amazon Kindle and Nook. His new novel, a psychological thriller entitled Seeing Soriah is now available as an eBook or in Paperback on Amazon.

John W. Sexton- A Poem

Her Deepest Breath

feb 14th 1818 ...

child Edgar's charming

beetle wing necklace

crumbling cakehouse -

nutjelly and peabutter

witchwiches

rope trick …

caught on a minaret

the magic carpet unravels 

chitin tombstones

Bluebeard buried those wives

under his nails

She the gritty pith

of an arbutus fruit ...

O Brightness of Brightness

her deepest breath ...

ravens of spaceblack

forevermore

e. dickinson zero boned

...  a narrow fellow parts

the couch-grass

dating the 60 ft woman

sex

was a walk-in

translucent songs

of moonstone blue ...

Sirens siren upside-nine

John W. Sexton lives in the Republic of Ireland and is the author of four previous poetry collections, the most recent being Vortex (Doghouse, 2005) and Petit Mal (Revival Press, 2009). His fifth collection, The Offspring of the Moon, is due from Salmon Poetry in spring 2013. He is a past nominee for The Hennessy Literary Award and his poem The Green Owl won the Listowel Poetry Prize 2007. In 2007 he was awarded a Patrick and Katherine Kavanagh Fellowship in Poetry.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Night Light

The last visitor before I sleep

is always the old priest

puffing up the stairs to my door,

a wine cask under each arm,

a loaf of pumpernickel in his teeth.

He’s always too late to give the last rites,

and even though I’m usually dead by then,

it falls to me to console him.

So I say, “Father, Father,

you don’t have to hurry.

Faith is no longer a klieg.

It’s a night light left burning all day,

and its bulb is hissing.” 

Appeared in print in Commonweal Magazine

November 6, 2009

475 Riverside Drive, Room 405

New York, NY 10115

--------------------------------------------------------------

Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had work published in a variety of print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. 

Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/

Allison Grayhurst- Three Poems

better

            Strips of clouds,

pink-grey like a snail snatched

from its shell. So many days I waited, waiting

like that snail for permanent protection, waiting

as an activity to delve fully into.

Nirvana was coming. I saw it traced

on the dated sidewalk, etched on the curvy lustre

of a raccoon’s still spine and in the devotion

of the rock dove waiting for its one decided love.

            Nothing was ever enough to saturate my yearning.

Even for a moment, to remember a time before birth, before

the furious fluttering engine ulcerated my stomach lining or before

my sanity became a soft noise, fading. I could hear it

like a basic desire I was forced to forgo - sex, unquenched - like that

but even more. Like a crinkled cloth left on the subway floor,

I waited - dry, malformed, avoided.

            The basement air is grooming me for an alien awakening,

maybe fluorescent, possibly ordinary, but better than

this sitting, tipping sideways on a broken chair.

Salt lamp on, a little fireplace or miniscule sunshine shining,

crumbling between my fingers, waiting

no more, moving at last

to another corner.

Blown

Blown like a grain of sand from a hollow twig.

It is beautiful to be blown.

Blown, into the winding forward thrust

where good happens with the movement

of each day and the fire-cracker burn

is a burn of celebration.

Carried through the radar-stream

into an easeful position where

the goal is getting nearer at a slow pace

and old patterns are disintegrating,

remembered but not renewed.

  

In Front

The line in front

is the line crossed

then left to rot under

the blazing day. The other side

is not to be feared but held

up like a delicate, appreciated toy.

The way out the door

is the door your father gave you when he died

and placed death’s rattle under your pillow

for the rest of your days. It is the door that won’t let you forget

how short a season life is.

The chain around your neck

is a chain of small but frequent miracles

that has sustained and held poverty at bay.

It is to be counted on when the last of the nectar

has been spilled on the rug and indifference consumes

the eyes of friend and kin like roundworm, there

even in the most difficult of barren

January days.

Bio:

Over the past twenty years Allison Grayhurst's poems have been published in over 120 journals throughout the United States, Canada, Australia, and in the United Kingdom, including Parabola (summer 2012).  Her book Somewhere Falling was published by Beach Holme Publishers, a Porcepic Book, in Vancouver in 1995. Since then she has published nine other books of poetry and two collections with Edge Unlimited Publishing. Her poetry chapbook The River is Blind was recently published by above/ground press December 2012.  She lives in Toronto with her husband, two children, two cats, and a dog. She also sculpts, working with clay.