Tendai Mwanaka- Three Poems

rumour written on the wind

wet with dust

the wind is unleashing

wind-racking passions

unraveling spools of wire-flung

into the sky, shivering on top of

an open sky

into the space

opaque merry-go rounds

debauched,

the tree’s branches are

stripped naked

by the dismal demented

Augusts’ winds

And in the pools of dust

the windows are wrapped

In wind’s dust

As we spent hours

in Augusts’ windy afternoon

walking on top of

yellow leaves,

 The wind

fiercely, the burn of

the wind on our eyes,

almost protecting us

like our next of kin.

Rumour written on

the wind

whispering of

no wind-holes offered

of ante bellum gentry

gone to the south

In the hazards of

the wind’s swishes.

love on this page

love, a hug

speaking

a thumping voice in my heart

exclaiming slowly

exclamation marks

in lighting the first star

are not punctual

punctuation marks

do not answer

question marks

of her untwisting heart

i am her footnote

when did I become this?

but she is still the text

a shredded cloud

re-gilding my heart

stripped

in my mind, of

all things necessary

i am a new text with strange

symbols

odd signposts;

i twirl in rapids.

time

Desire names this place

possessive about panic

like a shadow of time.

Prone to heart’s murmurs

shift shapes of desires

wagging through this time.

Storing this time like

sunshine

into our own skins.

Our eyes pressed

to the keyholes

of our lives.

Time runs down

our spines

like a shiver.

As we rub seconds,

minutes, and hours

One against the other.

The friction

propelling us

forward.

Time falls apart

and breaks

into a puzzle.

Measuring this time.

by the mix of

these elements

Is that a poor

attempt at

timekeeping?

Bio-

Voices from exile, a collection of poetry on Zimbabwe’s political situation and exile in South Africa was published by Lapwing publications, Northern Ireland in 2010. KEYS IN THE RIVER: Notes from a Modern Chimurenga, a novel of interlinked stories that deals with life in modern Zimbabwe was published by Savant books and publications, USA in 2012. Revolution, Logbook written by a drifter, and Voices from exile were both short listed by the Erbecce press poetry prize in 2012, 2011, and 2009 respectively, nominated for the Pushcart twice, 2008, 2010, commended for the Dalro prize 2008, nominated and attended Caine African writing workshop 2012. Published over 200 pieces of short stories, essays, memoirs, poems and visual art in over 100 magazines, journals, and anthologies in the following countries,  the USA, UK, Canada, South Africa, Zimbabwe, Zambia, India, Kenya, Uganda, Ghana, Romania, Mexico, Cameroon, Italy, France, Spain, Cyprus, Australia and New Zealand.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Paradise Found

You have a choice, Abner.

You can drop your anchor 

in the foaming sea

and stand on deck

until you die 

and then fall overboard 

for eternity. 

But that's not me. 

I'll swing my anchor

above my head

like a madman's lariat

and let it fly 

above the clouds 

and beyond the sun. 

It will land, I swear,

in paradise

and take me with it. 

Paradise is the only place 

for curs like you and me. 

So pull your anchor up

and swing it round

and let it go.

If you believe, you'll soar 

along with me.

Robert Demaree- Poetry

BASKETBALL POEMS

1. Hoop Dreams

Come on, Granddaddy, he calls, age seven,

Dribbling the ball on the deck,

Play some D.

Shoulders that have seen better days

Struggle to get hands up on defense.

I no longer conspire to let him win.

He breezes by for a lay-up,

A moment I want to think

He will recall when his sons and grandsons,

Also North Carolina boys,

Begin to bounce a ball.

2. Playoff Game

Philip plays in the late game tonight.

We climb the stairs to the gym

Against the flow of those leaving,

Parents who had cheered earnestly

Or graded papers,

Half of them happy, half not,

An index, an approval rating

Of life at a given moment

Higher than some, I guess.

An hour later we emerge

Wearing our gladness,

A day to be seized,

Cautiously:

Friday they play against a higher seed.

3. Hoops Haiku

Waiting for the game:

College kids with new cell ’phones:

Lanterns in the dusk.

“Hoop Dreams” appeared as part of “November Songs” in  Homestead Review, Spring-Summer 2008; “Hoops Haiku” appeared in Aethlon, Spring 2007.

Paul Tristram- A Poem

Supper

It’s a quarter past midnight

I’m hungry, off to the kitchen.

Two slices of extra thick Hovis bread,

four slices of chicken breast,

eight slices of cucumber,

two leaves of lettuce

some mayonnaise

and the eighth can of lager.

If that ain’t art

then you ain’t tasted art!

Published in Poetry Cornwall, Number Twelve, July 2005

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.

Christopher Oie Keller- A Poem

Booming

You reveal a will

in trickles of rain

on a car windshield.

You orchestrate events

into a masterful opus.

You roll your own dice,

weighted with justice,

across compassionate felt.

You topple idol after idol

behind their music

and in front of cameras.

You speak through booming voices

otherwise quiet and inconsequential.

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. In his "spare time," he directs student plays and performs in community theatre. His work has appeared in publications such as The Delinquent, TrainWrite, and Right Hand Pointing and will be appearing in The James Dickey Review and The African American Review. He managed to get married late last year to someone who understands the writing process.

Gene McCormick- A Poem

Arm Wrestling Championship
Of Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

Two beefy guys holding hands,
grunting, grimacing,
sit facing one another
on the VFW center stage,
contesting the Pipefitters Local Union 344
arm wrestling championship.

Evenly matched, locked in combat,
neither man can pin the other’s arm
to the table, nobody has an advantage
until a bone snaps.

Force, not will, has been compromised
as the defeated slumps from the stage
holding a forearm while the victor’s
hammy arms hoist his trophy,
a case of Miller Genuine Draft,
to the plaudits of a sparse crowd.
I wanna donate this to the family
of my opponent, says Big Ed.



Brief bio: Gene McCormick is a former world welterweight boxing champion, fighting under the name Mickey Cormicky, maybe. He lives in a converted in-ground swimming pool in Wayne, Illinois, where he teaches boxing to the blind ("First, you chain them together at the waist..."), maybe.

Tendai Mwanaka- Two Poems

WE WAIT AND LINGER, a little

 

When we were little, stars

The sun, the moon and darkness

Stayed longer as they

Cradled us, as we played

 

As we grew older

The sun became hotter

Hot we were, in failure

Anxieties and disappointments

 

And the moon, frail

Faint, it was a grown up

Hiding in the dark skies

Inside houses that were our jails

 

Now, as we lie isolated

In darkness, immeasurable

Its soft tide pulling us in

We wait and linger, a little

 

 

 

SAD MANHOOD

 

for Edie… I know how you feel

 

I am not going to give it up

Not for anything

Not anything worthwhile

 

I have come a long way

Some say, half the way

Half the way to sad manhood

 

For the first twenty years

I was a seed in the soil

Waiting for the rains to spring up

 

From twenty onwards

I was a sapling stem

Feeding, glowing in greens

 

Now forty, onwards

I will learn from lives,

Loves I have crashed

 

To reach here, where

I am just coming to

Half the way to sad manhood.

 

 

 

Bio-

Voices from exile, a collection of poetry on Zimbabwe’s political situation and exile in South Africa was published by Lapwing publications, Northern Ireland in 2010. KEYS IN THE RIVER: Notes from a Modern Chimurenga, a novel of interlinked stories that deals with life in modern Zimbabwe was published by Savant books and publications, USA in 2012. Revolution, Logbook written by a drifter, and Voices from exile were both short listed by the Erbecce press poetry prize in 2012, 2011, and 2009 respectively, nominated for the Pushcart twice, 2008, 2010, commended for the Dalro prize 2008, nominated and attended Caine African writing workshop 2012. Published over 200 pieces of short stories, essays, memoirs, poems and visual art in over 100 magazines, journals, and anthologies in the following countries,  the USA, UK, Canada, South Africa, Zimbabwe, Zambia, India, Kenya, Uganda, Ghana, Romania, Mexico, Cameroon, Italy, France, Spain, Cyprus, Australia and New Zealand.

B.Z. Niditch- Three Poems

 IN KID GLOVES

The gardener
in kid gloves
between two twin
Japanese maples
asks to play
Ping-Pong
with an easy
phlegmatic indifference
of nonchalance
shadows me
on the tarmac
and knocks me out
on the first round
blinded by quickness
and sleight of hand
we laugh over a beer
feeling a year younger
while dozing
under the sun.



IN MY ABSENCE

In my absence,
remember the wind
flakes and first frost
on a red scarf,
the neon butterfly
along the bike path
on your left shoulder
rising on the curtain
of aspens
and revived
in a picture I still have,
the apricot muffins
you made for me
in cooking class
I murdered
in two minutes
at the gym
eating on the ropes
and sent up
to the principal's office
for another reprimand
and the trout caught
in the wilderness pond
and eaten by the fort
of native Americans
at the outside fire,
and sharing Casablanca
and the Treasure
of the Sierra Madre
without the locals
spying on us,
yes, in my absence,
recall the blizzard
of '78,
the long lists
and resolutions
for goofy vacations,
all the random
sounding echoes
of my alto sax
by the nearby pond
by Reggie, the rabbit
you kept alive.



GOOD FOR YOURSELF   

When another day
will decide the matter
and harmony
will hit you
in your sun burn
go back to sea shore
by the dead waters
of your childhood
where salmon
once lived
and breathed
like these words
along the home harbor
by the granite
hot seat of stone
by picnic tables
of freshly baked
Italian bread
and salad
where you acted out
Marilyn imitations
trying  to be good
for yourself.

Alan Catlin- Two Poems

The Hard Life

began for him long before

birth: his insides mutated,

all those genes his mother

used as a kind of

perverse free-form

genetics experiment,

that began in the tail end

of the 60's and hasn't ended yet.  

You could sense his conception

as a riot of bad unprotected sex,

cheap booze, and more

pharmaceuticals than a well-

stocked, on-campus infirmary.

Nothing he ever did or said

made sense, nor had he never

achieved anything like focus or

anything like a interpersonal

relationship, most ending

before they began. 

His mother claimed he hardly

ever cried as a baby once she

started him on Similac and

homemade acid.

She could tell he was grooving

on the stars, the way his eyes rolled

behind the lids and his extremities

twitched just like he was dancing.

 

A Scanner Darkly

There wasn't a fire,

crime in progress,

drug bust, sexual

assault, homicide or

911 call he hadn't

heard about on his

all frequencies scanner,

and the next morning

he'd be at the bar,

with the sweeper,

for a cold pop to tell

the whole world all

about how your neighbor-

hoods were all going

to hell in a hand basket

and how your friends,

relatives, and casual

acquaintances were all

warm sacks of shit,

not worth the efforts

expended to keep them

alive and that, hell,

when he was growing up,

Albany wasn't a bad place

for a man to have a

family and for a kid

the way he did, playing ball

and chasing tail like any

other good old american

boy, until that 911 call

he heard, about a man down

in action, a drug bust

gone bad, and the kid

they were arresting,

was his own.

Alan Catlin was a barman for thirty-four endless years, a fact he draws upon in his written work.  Revenge is sweet, the truth harsh, so it goes.

Ali Znaidi- Two Poems

February

 

after Katie Acheson

 

He appeared very pale like a lemon,

when he told me let’s dance together.

I gave him a pair of woolen socks;

told him he couldn’t dance

with bare feet, but he insisted on

dancing together just for some minutes.

So I took the pair of socks back

and we made a bitter lemonade.

 

 

 

Cleo & Petra

 

Two beetles poised on the wall

beetling from one corner to another.

Of the order Coleoptera, they were

biting the wall’s flesh, searching

for that aesthetic appeal of Cleopatra—

a parody of beauty on the wall.

Cleo & Petra were standing for hours

waiting for beauty to gush from

the mural.

 

 

 

Contributor’s Bio:

 

Ali Znaidi (b.1977) lives in Redeyef, Tunisia where 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 Camel Saloon, Otoliths, The Tower Journal, streetcake, The Rusty Nail, Yes,Poetry, Shot Glass Journal, Ink Sweat and Tears, Mad Swirl, Unlikely Stories: Episode IV, Red Fez, Carcinogenic Poetry, Stride Magazine, and other ezines. His debut poetry chapbook Experimental Ruminations was published in September 2012 by Fowlpox Press (Canada). He also writes flash fiction for the Six Sentence Social Network—http://sixsentences.ning.com/profile/AliZnaidi.

J.J. Campbell- Two Poems

temptation slowly taking the stage

desire drips

off her lips

like honey

temptation

slowly taking

the stage

all the curves

in all the right

places

she must be

new at this

not a cynical

scar anywhere

on her

you tuck in 

a few dollars

knowing that

given some

time

she'll be beaten

like the rest of

them

broken down to

the point where

you think you

may just have

a chance

pure evil

i almost forgot

what pure evil

looked like

but then your

venomous head

popped back up

in my life

it's quite the fine

line you walk

being pure evil

while convincing

the whole world

you're the real

victim

one fine line when

you don't possess

the motor skills

to walk and chew

gum at the same

time

and as i sit here

and ponder my

next move

simply ignore or

have you

institutionalized,

i can't help

but think both

of us secretly

wish that killer

on the loose in

your state makes

his way up north

and does the right 

thing and put you

out of your misery

J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) lives and writes on an 80 acre farm in Ohio. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Carcinogenic Poetry, The Camel Saloon, Zygote In My Coffee, Thunder Sandwich, and Nerve Cowboy. His first full length collection of poems, Sofisticated White Trash, is due out in 2013 from Interior Noise Press. You can find J.J. most days on his blog, evil delights (http://evildelights.blogspot.com).

D. L. Tricarico- Three Poems

THE ONE FROM RUSTY TRUCK

gypsy, doe-eyed poet
with the hippie clothes
and the naughty mouth,
is it just your sensory
language I'm drawn to,
the raw images
that speak of the body
as if it were a cathedral
or is it maybe the false
bravado, the longing to
be thought of as tough
when you are nothing but
hot lava inside, in that secret
place where you quiver
with both lust and fear?



QUESTION

on a cool sunny
morning
the pain hits
and medicine
doesn't help
and lying in a soft
bed in a dark room
doesn't soothe
and hot coffee
doesn't comfort
and the soft
fur of your best
dog doesn't
lift the veil of
suffering.  So what
in the hell
do you expect me
to do about it?



THE MARRIAGE OF TRUE MINDS

The world is spinning
out of control
around us--
the clowns are running the circus,
the children are starting
their newest adolescent
cult in the garage,
the creditors stalk us
as if they had knives in their palms
and we were celebrities
bloated on our fame,
and lastly, and most sadly,
our love has become nothing
but a casualty of
these soulless suburban ruins.
What can we do,
I ask?  My voice is weak
and my heart slams
against the inside of my chest
like a prisoner clanging
on the bars of his cell.
You think for a moment.
Wake me
in an hour, you say,
your eyelids heavy with pain
and the honey-tongued promise of sleep.

D.L. Tricarico lives in San Diego, but you could visit him here:  www.danslitcafe.blogspot.com

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

In Certain Matters of the Heart

It's a matter of the heart,

the doctor says, 

and he can fix it 

with catheter ablation. 

"It works miracles," he says, 

"in certain matters of the heart."

He's been a cardiologist for years.

"Take my word for it," he says.

"You'll be sedated. Won't feel a thing."

No excavation in my chest, either. 

Instead, he'll make little holes 

in my groin and snake tiny wires 

to the surface of my heart 

and kill the current that makes 

my heart race like a hare 

at times and mope 

like a turtle other times.

He's never lost a patient.

"You'll be fine," he says. 

"Trust me."

Nine out of 10 ablations work.

I'll save hundreds a month, he says, 

on medications. No more Multaq. 

No more Cardizem. And I'll never 

have to wear a heart monitor again.

"Shall we give it a try?" he asks.

"I've got an opening 

two weeks from Monday.

It's an outpatient procedure.

You'll go home the same day,

rest for a week and then resume

your usual activities, even bowling.

Do you like bowling? My nurses do.

I prefer woodcarving."

"Okay, Doc," I tell him. 

"I'll give it a try, but tell me, 

where were you 40 years ago 

when the kids were small

and I was young, like a bull, 

and a different matter of the heart

dropped me like a bullet.

Are you sure my heart's still ticking?

Where's your stethoscope?

I haven't felt a thing in years."

James Babbs- A Poem

This Could Be My Last Poem

it’s true

none of us

can ever really know

when our time’s

finally going to come

this could be my last poem

these could be

the last words

I will ever write

maybe

I should ask forgiveness

for some of the things I’ve done

but it’s probably too late

and it wouldn’t make

any difference now

the sun warm on my face

there’s a good breeze around

and this could be my last poem

these could be

the last words

I will ever write

maybe

I should say thanks

to all the people

who helped me along the way

I’ve forgotten some of them

but they know who they are

so this could be my last poem

these could be

the last words

I will ever write

I guess

I should try to

say something important

before I get up

and walk around the yard

something profound like

life has no meaning

so good luck

have fun

so long

Michael Keshigian- Three Poems

HOMELESS IN NYC

He crossed 42nd to get to Fifth

towards mid-town

and just paces in front of him

an old lady pushed a shopping cart

full of identity.

Bags of cans dangled

from each elbow

and clanged as she waddled,

dressed in clothes

worse than a country scarecrow

though her straw gray hair

hung longer,

tied in a tail with brown hosiery

to match her stoic, weathered face

and it pained his heart

when suddenly she squatted

in a deep knee bend,

like she was picking

something off the sidewalk,

and there she froze

as he quickly approached

to help,

unaware of the problem

till a puddle formed

and its river flowed around his shoes

down the curb

and in the privacy of her mind,

she transformed

his sympathy

to confused helplessness.

THE PROJECT

He felt as if he were born

to the sawdust and nails

of writing, working daily

in hours of solitude

to construct an architecture

which at times

seemed like a pointless task,

devoid of shelter for any dweller,

a paper house

easily toppled in a stray breeze.

On many afternoons

he abandoned the work,

meandered outdoors

to view the project from afar,

somewhat defeated yet relieved

once he soaked his head

in the light of the sun

which cleansed the metaphors

from his brain,

allowing a bit of respite

while the half house

toppled in a sigh of wind.

He could hear the creaks

of settling rubble.

Fallen walls,

once separated by nouns and verbs,

were now splintered by light

in puffs of dust,

carried off with a gust,

floating until an alternative blueprint

penciled in his head,

a new rhythm of nails

that bonded another design,

stirring his desire

to return to his desk.

FISH COVE

Beneath the dock

from which he casts,

the water is shallow and clear,

the sodden earth

that bears the weight of liquid

is speckled with shoots

that will eventually surface

into a stage upon which

the basso bull frog

will perform his aria.

Occasionally, a cloud of dirt

smokes the clarity

of the transparent lake

and his searching

reveals the tail fin

of a scampering bass

near the shore to spawn.

He sits and watches

amid the Spring warmth

and delicate breezes

which incite the lake

to gently slap the dock.

He no longer dangles the bait

to tease the unsuspecting,

no longer allows temptation to linger,

that same lure

which spurred him to seek

refuge and the simple poem

this silent swimmer

strokes with her fin.

To read her verse

within the enclosure of this cove

is the remedy by which

he turns from the commotion

in his own life,

a commotion he has no desire

to impart.

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. 

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

The Whole Thing Over With

 

From her side of the bed

the wife suggests he get dressed,

go out in the night and

purchase a piece. She’s

 

not in the mood.  Or

if he must, he can

go ahead, stick it in,

shoot it off, and get

 

the whole thing over with.

She doesn’t care any more

where he pours it

so long as he’s quiet

 

and doesn’t wake the kids.

Too tired to dress,

he sticks it in, explodes,

rolls off, finally spent.

 

Maybe now the beasts

that will never creep

within his crosshairs

can get some sleep.

Ryan Hardgrove- A Poem

Virtue is Red

The tower on the hill pulses red at its tip

as I sip dead water

and chew on fingernails

The black winter sky

holds still and deep

as that red bulb blinks

so patient

never rushing

Its persistence

will not cease

It will still be there

after she leaves me

It will be there long after

and she may think of it

as she paints her toe nails

that same blazing red

some dreary evening

across town

And I will resent her

for the memory she keeps

although, I should not

but it’s not really that easy

is it?

Ben Adams- Two Poems

the truest thing

one way to imagine it
is that hemingway, at the end
looked back not with despair
or regret

but only with the knowledge
– real and heavy
and beautiful, in its way –
that those few short paris years

had been the truest thing
he would ever know
had given him the truest things
he would ever write.

one way to imagine it
is that hemingway, at the end
was sitting once more
on the boulevard st. michel,

a young man with longish hair,
sipping hot coffee
because it was morning,
and carefully finishing one more story:

that was not the truest thing
he would ever write.
but would have
to do.

the final page
an echoing
blast, and then
blackness.



tide-swirl

the gaps between us grow
as the sun fails
over snaggletoothed pylons

the gaps between us grow but
we swim there
in that place for an ever
longer
moment

and the salt weathered jetty wreck
beckons
like a fading mistress into night.

the examined life falters
at the last,
when its light bleeds mute and gray
between the moon
and shoreline

and the stars are uncut stones

and there is love stopped
and buried somewhere
like a dropped pocket watch
in mud-flat sand.



Ben Adams is a writer and political ranter currently studying for his PhD on the poetry of Charles Bukowski. He comes from Adelaide in South Australia, which Salman Rushdie once called a sleepy conservative town (of .. million) and “ideal setting for a Stephen King novel, or horror film.” Ben takes this as a compliment, much preferring King’s work to that of Mr Rushdie. Ben has also worked as state ambassador for Express Media’s National Young Writers’ Month, a Buzzcuts arts reviewer and coordinator, and had several poems appear in the online small press. He proudly served among those last few video store clerks to hold their ground against the coming of Netflix.