Saturday, December 28, 2013

Richard Schnap- A Poem


There was one for magazine subscriptions
To tell people what to believe
And one for police associations
In case someone needed their help
And one for custom-made windows
So the world outside looked less dirty
And one for political prisoners
To lessen the guilt of being free

And one for symphony tickets
So musicians would still have a job
And one for endangered animals
Before they became someone’s shoes
And one for public television
In case there was nothing else to watch
And one for tax-free insurance
Making death the ultimate investment

Michael Cluff- A Poem

Mental Playback

The man in the brightly striped tie
played with me

only with my state of mind
calling me
not the seed
of his loins


in the dream
he was gone
not to return

the next or the next or
the next night
when mental playback
kicked in again and again and

would be a joyous welcome
to taste of
or until the darkness
finally goes away

to stay.

P.K. Deb- A Poem

The Super She
Be alert my young friends-
The super she is approaching,
 Better you make yourselves ugly and repulsive.

She is scientific in structure-
Attracts a male with her all
Mysterious and significant differences.

She is artistic in calibre-
Empowers herself with all sorts of
Artificial and superficial embellishment.

She is commercial in nature-
Circumscribes an enchanted male with
All gainful conditions before her magical show.

She is doctorate since her youth-
A scholar in all streams compelling a male
To attend to her advices and directions.

Alas! She is unmindful to Ethics-
Breaks and tramples hearts with a smile
And pushes the poor into the Hell of sorrow and grief.

Alas! In vain will be the warning-
The males who gain flying wings
Must plunge into her fatal flame with a blissful smile.-

Leoma Retan- A Poem

Ghosts of Christmas

Christmas was:

Parents and children,
later nieces and nephews,
rising before dawn to tear open
brightly wrapped gifts
carefully chosen.

Senses filled.
Bubbling lights,
Shining glass ornaments
old and filled with memories,
Smells of turkey and pie
fill the house.

Christmas is:

Father turned to ashes,
Mother nods, seldom speaking,
All far from me in time and space,
No surprises lurk beneath
the bright paper.

Lights still bubble,
Ornaments trigger memories
of joy and sharing we have lost.
Christmas smells filling the house
bring only recollections
of what was.

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal- 3 Poems

The branchless tree
saddens the birds
who remember
how they nested here
and stood on
the branches all the time.
There is no music,
no song from the
birds. They are
confused and perplexed.
The torn branches
have been swept away.
Gary tells me it is cold.
I believe him.
He walks the streets
of  Los Angeles,
sometimes looking
somewhat the worse
for wear.
I know it is cold.
I am wearing a sweater
and a jacket.
Gary just has a long
sleeve shirt on,
the same one he has
worn for days.
When I am getting
to work at 6am
Gary is already up.
When Gary tells me it is
cold, I know it is
not an understatement.
Tired of her face
I told her so
and she fled so
fast it caught me
off-guard so I
grabbed my things and
I left the place
not to come back
for two weeks to
cool off and get
my mind straight for
looking at her
face that could have
sunk thousands of
ships.  She was no
Helen who’s face
sailed a thousand
ships.  I grew so
tired of her face
that I could not
keep quiet so
I told her so.

Brittany Zedalis- Two Poems

Mother's Advice

A child's voice
determined, whining
and ignorant of
life's true loss,
the sorrow of a
motherless heart.

A phone call,
5 words already
known, an extra 
ring on a finger,
a man whose love 
turned savior.

3 years of
a voice, futile
attempts to annoy,
words that held as
much truth as a

Suddenly absent,
a mother, whose
advice finally 
taken, to leave
children to
their games.

Sorrow Is..

Sorrow is
a blue casket
buried too

Sorrow is
a stuffed bear
left alone,

Sorrow is
a list of songs
no longer

Sorrow is
when it hurts
more to breathe
than to live.

Brittany Zedalis is a 21 year old married poet who recently lost her 49 year old mother to sickness. Poetry has turned into more than just an outlet for her; it is now a way to preserve memories.

Lawrence Weber- A Poem

A Reflection On The Eternal Light Peace Memorial
E Pluribus Unum

Out of many, We are one nation,
Under God

With liberty and justice for some.
And that is not opprobrium because
God knows We are not perfect.

Our founders rightly decided
That We should ceaselessly strive
To form a more perfect Union

Even though at one time We were Two
Sections symbolically separated
By an invisible line of supposed differences
Failing to realize that separation breeds separation
Not unity.

We eventually became Three
Sections dividing North, South, and West.
We fell apart in hatred and violence and selfishness.
Like some families do,
We lost sight of our true nature, everybody’s true nature,
Which of course is love.

In our darkest days and with everything to lose
We found the strength to recreate ourselves anew.
To ensure that We would remain the last best hope of earth,
We washed away in blood the sin that divided us
By remembering who We were called to be
Four score and seven years ago,
And that our true nature: love, was only love when it was free.

So what happened to the dream of Peace Eternal in a Nation United?
Where did it go?
Perhaps it truly is well to ask what kind of nation We are
And what direction We want to move in.
Are we fully living up to who We the people are?
And if the answer is no, why?
Will you climb to the mountaintop with me?
And if so, what will We see when we look upon America from there?

Robert Walton- Two Poems

Pincers skidded off
My grandfather's shovel as
He scooped it into a mayonnaise jar.
My brother and I added a
Swifter than blinking
Its black thorn struck.
Perhaps there was agony,
Perhaps not,
Though the green lizard
Before it died.  
Huddled Child
With a streak of blood
On your chin,
You are the only casualty,
Save one,
Of this morning's strike against
Al Qaida.
An old woman
Dressed in black,
Her body slumped
Like a sack of rice
Lies in the gutter,
So much blood
For one old woman.
White dust
Of shattered concrete
Burns and
Bomb tears well.
Smart bombs
Should be smarter.

Daniel N. Flanagan- A Poem

And my whole life has been like;
I am the flowers
The pretty flowers sitting in the vase,
Decorating the mahogany dining table;
Silently dying
Smelling of tropical plumeria petals.
Sucking up water while leisurely wilting.
Looking gorgeous,
And then presentable,
And then accordingly.
All my owners do is force feed me more water;
Drown me.
Gaze upon me with disgust as I,
But I cannot live without sunlight,
Without love.
My petals are all set, all ready
And yet they go no where
Sitting in this vase, I slowly decay.

Daniel N. Flanagan is a Worcester, MA native; currently writing a novella, while taking a year off from college. He is the author of the short story "Daddy's Girl", located in The Commonline Journal, and four poems, featured in Aberration Labyrinth and The Onyx. He has three stories and one poem scheduled for publication between December '13 and February '14 in the following literary journals; Beyond Imagination, Danse Macabre du Jour, Yellow Mama and Pyrokinection. Check him out at and follow him @DanielNFlanagan.

Michael Cluff- A Poem

Nonet  Remolded

Snow rebounds off the boulders near the lower piedmont
triggers the rumblings of sacred animals to collect
into a chorus of guturral primal communication
a colored future and clear past
interslice and recoil ever downwards
leveling the delicate detritus
siliciated minute rubble
regranulated memory

Denny E. Marshall- Haiku

Three Dream Haiku

Dreamed entire night
Wake up like I lost something
Remember nothing

Dreams playing tonight
All the people are strangers
Fear unfamiliar

Dreams are different
When in state of half-asleep
Place of unknown worlds

Garret Schuelke- A Poem

Battle Creek Adult Bookstores

We came up with a better name for this place as we browsed the arcade: “Pan Land”. I’m gonna send Dante a time travel text later and tell him to check this joint out next time he’s in the field researching—we got a whole new circle for you to add to Hell. It’s occupied by satyrs with scaly bald heads adorned with greasy, grey-haired crowns, wearing stretched, faded American flag shirts.

Pan Land is lit up mainly by signs above the booths that say “occupied”. Bleach reeks everywhere, coming at you like an air gun every time you open a door. I’m confident that, in this sterile battlefield, among the crumbled tissues and stretched rubbers, some organisms survive, even if it’s on the edge.

A goat nods to us and enters a booth. The light turns bright red. We cringe and make our way back to the gates. We pay the sentinel the toll and enter the coliseum. The battle is raging but the seats are empty. We settle down in the middle row. I lean and nibble her ear. She sighs and gives me the Aphrodite treatment.

The buzzer inflicts its Medusa effect and the door opens. We look over and see Zeus. Instead of the usual toga, he’s wearing tight jeans and ragged flannel. If a god has to fall, this is the way to do it: go from ruling everything, from being able to fuck anyone you want, to watching some mortals go at it, hoping for an invite to partake.

We leave, and I’m tempted to tell him to either talk to Sue Johanson, or hit up Krishna for advice, but I just glare at him, reminding myself to remember to send him a message via Hermes later.

We pay one last toll for a private booth. We immediately embrace once the door is locked. At last, the tension and frustration built up all evening can finally be properly directed! The Arcadia in our veins can be burnt up, and we finally have the proper temple to engage in the worship of Yeezus, whom we all know is the true higher power of this world.

Bio: Garret Schuelke is a writer, journalist, activist, and blogger from Grand Rapids, Michigan. His third poetry book, "Wotan", is scheduled to be released at the end of January 2014. You can visit him at

Friday, December 27, 2013

Jennifer Lagier- 3 Poems & 3 Photos

Fata Morgana
Storm clouds are merely mirage,
pink smears above dark hills,
a yearning wish for precipitation
meant to thaw a cold morning.
We huff along ocean trail,
exhale white exclamations
like two chilly dragons,
fire power extinguished.
Wan sunlight tricks the eye,
spins the illusion of falling rain
over golden slough, mist enclosed
sycamores, rounded top mountains.
Temperature drops; small flakes
flurry among subtle drizzle.
Charged air aches to transform
into a blizzard of wintery showers.
Sunrise Cypress
Chill sunrise instigates false hopes.
Deceptive morning glow radiates
the illusion of warmth over icy sea,
backlights frigid tree trunks.
Sweatered dogs wag their tails,
bark at gulls, prance across beach.
Walkers, wearing layered sweatshirts
and scarves, appear incognito.
Chimneys huff blue exhalations,
wood smoke wending through cypress.
Arctic temperatures persist,
continue their nose dive.
Dry sand stretches
from parched chaparral
toward ocean cove.
Mist drifts across sere hills,
collects among cypress needles,
hangs above wetland tules.
Cold air crackles,
sugars broken granite
with icy crystals.
Chilled mud ducks
paddle through estuary shallows
to protective willows.
Blue skies and high clouds
magnify golden vistas.

Monday, December 23, 2013

B.Z. Niditch- A Poem


How we met in the Big Apple
on city streets passing us
with intersecting signals
in a once red light district
our parents called it,
we are like dancers
of the hustle in the 70's
now forgotten,
you take a ride down town
on my idle motorcycle
when you abruptly cut out
with every nightfall excuse
of always being late,
now we're moving sidewise
when shadows are shortest
from the hard moonlight
over us by Central Park
blinded by new construction
in a rush of city traffic
prepared against us
outside the all night club
that has legendary jazz
with a run for my life
along nocturnal tinted bars
and gig soundings,
suddenly snow flakes
appear on my pea jacket
knowing the raw reality
of another dead cold storm
will not change my fate
in tempests of traffic
even on weary alleyways,
yet you went with me
even as I told you
I'm still pledged to a chip
on my dark shoulder
always wishing to recapture
back my energy
from bygone strangers
even those who heated up
the poisoned atmosphere
in boiling altercations, affairs
accidents, rumors, encounters
on this familiar road
which separates me
from my own blame games,
you were always there,
ex or not.

Michael Cluff- A Poem


To construct bridges
across the deep pits
of ink and ignorance,
Professor Graham Stripling
was not the best
lantern in the intellectual darkness
to achieve this.

He had never overcome
the razors that lightning-flash
emotions and knuckles
had placed into  his discretion
and disposition.

He only wore
tie-nooses around his neck
binding stiff belts
and wincing heavy wingtips
to keep himself disciplined
in a doctrine
that his draconian-driven
father forced
into the pre-schooler's childhood fissures
reinforced by fulsome fears
and which Graham would not question....

just like his students are compelled
by him to always
unflinchingly do.

Gene McCormick- Two Poems

Night Vision


A small white paper bag, empty of doughnuts and napkins, slides off the car’s console between the front seats to the passenger side floor, a bit of vanilla icing crumbling to the mat. Flakes of snow waft outside the windshield. It’s below zero.

Around the corner from deepest shadows wearing dark, dark black sunglasses with white frames, like eyewear of a sightless person, a woman enters the street, a gloved hand bracing on the corner light pole. Beneath the illumination she can see and be seen, but not much better than when enveloping shadows wrapped the corner of the black-red brick wall, involuntarily filtering the surroundings like the blink of an eye, except slower.

Music is heard. Not loud; unrecognizable notes.

A crumpled white paper bag blows across the alley, caught in an updraft. There are no birds. Why would there be birds flying this late at night?

The neighborhood bar, twenty steps back around the corner with only a two-word red neon sign to penetrate the blackness, offers a front door with a brass-toned knob, round, that fits the palm of your hand  like knobs on residential doors. Like home. A glass of whiskey is ordered, wet brown whiskey poured carelessly over ice in a squat, transparent glass by a bartender with the gnarly fingers of an ex-fighter. Nondescript, an unbuttoned black vest partially covers a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Polyester black pants have a worn, shiny seat which is unusual since a bartender, a good one, rarely sits down but, yes, the seat pants are shiny.

Her polished index finger traces the bottom of the glass on the bar. It’s quiet. Quiet so the squeak of her finger is an affront.

It is past closing time and when Cranky Jack’s reopens the next morning the shadows will be on the far edge of the building along the other side of the alleyway, and there will be no finger mark on the bar top.

Public Library

Four adults, three men and a woman,
sit at two adjoining tables in the library’s
Designated Quiet Study Area.
One man is reading a magazine,
another works from spiral-bound notebooks,
the third reads a newspaper and much too loudly
rapidly turns the pages.
The woman works on her laptop
as the man with the newspaper looks over the top
of the pages at a library attendant replacing books
in the non-fiction section (000-339).
She wears a winter-weight sweater and slacks,
both at least one size too small.
As the man yawns she bends to the lowest shelf
revealing a band of pink underwear
between her sweater, tawny skin and slacks.

During the course of a half hour maybe ten people
walk by to look for shelved books.
No one else sits down. The problem with
Designated Quiet Study Areas is that sounds
of any sort are amplified: feet dragging
along the carpet, pages turning,
a cell phone musical.
When the spiral-bound notebook man
communicate to the woman with the laptop
—they seem to have come together—
he mouths soundless words and she
nods her head in understanding.

Even the colors, bold primary
reds, blues, greens, of low-lying
shelved plastic-bound text notebooks
offend the senses. A young girl stops by
to spin the globe atop the text book shelves
and when it stops she spins it again
and then pushes empty chairs at the table
flush to the table, each one making a bonk
that would be unheard in other sections.
She is yes annoying, and the library attendant
with the pink band of underwear finishes shelving
and leaves.  Even chewing gum,
as the laptop woman is doing, can be heard.
Gum should be chewed and not heard.

The fluorescent lighting is built into the ceiling
encased in cube-shaped egg crate-like squares,
thirty-two to a block of lights
which causes the lighting on the far side
of the Designated Quiet Study Area
to appear dusky, soothing to the eyes.

There would be less foot traffic
and therefore less commotion if the
Designated Quiet Study Area wasn’t adjacent
to the Magazines and Newspapers section
which attracts library-goers less sensitive
to the intellectually pacific needs
of those at the two Quiet tables.

The woman working at the laptop
Is probably not be married to the serious man
with the spiral notebooks for while
she wears a ring on her left hand where
a wedding band would go it is a
costume jewelry ring of a few pieces of turquoise.
He wears no ring but looks over at her
every ten minutes or so like an egg timer.
He has a three-day beard growth;
his smile is sincere and when he smiles
she jiggles her foot under the table.
He doesn’t notice her reaction but continues
to yellow highlight selected lines
in the spiral notebook.

Yesterday a tornado, a series of them, tornadoes,
flattened much of a nearby farming community
thirty miles yet a world apart from
readers in the hermetic
Designated Quiet Study Area although it
would not be outlandish to suppose that the man
reading newspapers was current events savvy
and noted that one person had been
killed by tornado debris.

Brief Bio: Gene McCormick likes to hang out at the local library and snap the pink underwear waistbands of foxy librarians as they bend over to pick up enticing pieces of candy he uses as bait.

Robert Demaree- A Poem


I. Greensboro 1948

When we would go home for Christmas,
It was to my mother's town,
Where I was the cousin with the Yankee accent,
Who didn't like grits:
A gentle, Southern place:
Gracious lawns, winding drives
In our grandfather's Buick, past the golf course.

I see a dim American past, parts best forgotten:
Cedar Christmas trees, trackless trolleys,
Water fountains "For Colored Only",
Maids summoned from the kitchen with a bell,
Bearing trays of puffy rolls.

Christmas would be over and we'd go back north,
New toys stored away, my mother crying.

II. Metairie 1977

A child's Christmas in Metry
We called it then,
Until our girls, teachers' kids, would catch on.
A plumbing contractor
Lavished new wealth
To display for children and parents
Along the sidewalks of a subdivision
The lights, the moving creatures of Christmas:
In one room, Santa's helpers,
In another, an animated crèche:
He watched, approving yet sullen,
Dimly seen behind the picture window.

It does not matter that his home is darkened now,
That other families
Who did not live in Metairie then
Now drive by another spectacle
All the more preposterous
Further up the same street:
Thousands of lights blinking,
Reindeer, elves, angels, God knows what,
A parish policeman sourly chants:
Keep moving, keep moving.

III. Shreveport 1982

A downtown church on Christmas eve,
Well loved, well cared for,
Worshippers in fine clothes crowd together
In the old walnut pews-- it is too warm for furs:
Married daughters, handsome nephews
In from Houston, people we do not know:
Of all the places one could be this night,
As lonely as any bus station or manger.
But there is this:
The particular tears of Christmas,
The precise fragrances, the harmonies
That make it palpable,
That release memory's stubborn catch
Differ for us each
And for every home far from home.
I hear the sound, thin and sweet,
O Holy Night,
Scored for the voices of teenaged girls,
The white light of candles
Dancing on their faces.

IV. Greensboro 1988

A Christmas reunion:
Three generations of scattered kin
Eat the same hors d'oeuvres,
Tell the same stories as last year.
The young are polite, restless:
They do not know that others before them
Have stood to have their pictures made.
My father and I do not ask each other questions:
He may not know where the girls go to school
Or what he had for lunch.
An interloper, I drive through Irving Park
Early on a still, bright December day.
The golfers who Christmases ago had seemed so old
I see now are my own age:
Their carts glide silently in the morning sun.
Old home movies are shown:
A single tear disappears
Into the wrinkles of my mother's cheek.
I tell myself I would come back here for good one day,
To these gentle streets,
This place which, strictly speaking,
Has never quite been home,
A passage come full circle, debts repaid,
Journeys ended, journeys begun.

“Christmases” appeared in Paris/Atlantic, Spring 1999

Robert Demaree is the author of two book-length collections of poems, including Mileposts, October 2009, published by Beech River Books, and a chapbook, Things He Thought He Already Knew, published online in 2007 by Slow Trains.  A third book-length collection will be published in late spring 2014. The winner of the 2013 Burlington Writers Club Poetry Award, he is a retired school administrator with ties to North Carolina, Pennsylvania and New Hampshire, where he lives four months of the year. He has had over 650 poems published or accepted by 150 periodicals. For further information see 

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Wall Street

Like the poor, the comfortable
you will always have with you.
They hold good jobs, then

get better ones. Like coyotes
they grin and walk slowly 
in circles. They hire,

even fire each other.
They wed their own kind
and selectively proliferate.

Theirs is a constant harvest.
Their voices are a sediment,
thickening on everything.

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Friday, December 20, 2013

Paul Tristram- A Poem

I Felt The Darkness Leave With You

Sometimes you’re blind
and too wrapped up in it
to realize why your life
has become nothing but shit.
The biggest albatross
around your neck can be mistaken
for the love of your life?
It’s all back to front
and upside down and sideways
when it comes to the emotions, I’m afraid.
I’ve seen the normally placid
become raving, vicious lunatics
and the sensible act like idiots.
They say that time heals
but that’s not the best part.
No, when the emotions stop
and you can finally see clearly, again
that’s the miracle worth waiting for.
When the fighting and unpleasantness
have become old history
and you realize that it wasn’t you, after all.
For they are doing the very same thing
to whoever they are now with.
Then it’s time to smile, brightly
you got away, you made it through again.
The tide has turned in your favour
she’s gone and Good Riddance!

© Paul Tristram 2013

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.

Kelly Haas Shakelford- Three Poems

Our Silence

black and white
shots of life
scattered against color,
8x10 sheets
of authenticity
of who we were,
what we failed
to become.
Forged smiles
on crumpled pedestals,
reflections of illusions,
connecting the dots
of our common
ancestral lineage.
All we have
is our silence
the umbilical cord
of toxic ties
that binds

A Pinkie-Promise

Innocence protector,
nightmare chaser,
dream maker.
You serenaded
 sweet lullabies
till peaceful slumber
swept daddy’s princess
to wonderland.
I was your
favorite heirloom,
yet, not worthy
to keep you
from pumping lead
through your heart,
which you pinkie promised
would always be mine.
Now, it lays
six feet
a cold slab
of lies.

I Existed

Snatches of time,
in tattered albums,
a recital of snapshots
of the happy-lil’-family
that never was.
Like a starving rat,
I steal the paper crumbs,
proof, I existed.
My ragdoll Sally,
mutt Red,
Barbie slippers,
first black eye,
all Kodak reminders
that even in hell,
flowers grow,
wilting, weeping,
petals of life,
I existed.
(Published May -2013 The Mindful Word)

Kelly Haas Shackelford has been many things in her short life: preacher’s daughter, a domestic violence survivor, single mom to four, first female project manager in the largest steel company in the US, cat rescuer, word wrangler, and romance enhancement specialist (aka the toy lady). She has had over 50 pieces accepted for publication in various venues such as The Speculative Edge, The Old Red Kimono, Black Petals, and Every Day Poets. Currently, she is working on various writing projects between taking care of her 10 full time rescue cats and taming a feral colony. 

Thursday, December 19, 2013

Douglas Polk- Two Poems

the recession

paper and promises,
used to manipulate reality,
money to be made,
while people starve,
ideology drifts,
people left behind,
waiting for times to change,
and the sun to shine.

America's Fall

the Middle East in flames,
Washington D.C. divorced from reality,
terrorism on the rise,
healthcare to decide who shall live,
and who shall die,
responsibility not a duty,
but a threat,
to national leaders the world over,
the decline and fall of the American Empire has begun,
sadly nowhere to hide,
no place to run,
democracy on life support,
freedom no longer a concept,
but only a word.

Tuesday, December 17, 2013

Virginie Colline- Haiku & Photo

Paris Haiku

An iron giraffe
in the grey savanna
Eiffel Tower!

Optical Distortion by Robert

Previously published in
Misfits' Miscellany, Sept 2012

You can read Virginie Colline's poems i
, The

Melanie Browne- Two Poems

I fell Down a JFK rabbit hole

& had tea with John and Jackie,
there were English scones,
marching bands,
ticker tape flying out
of various depository windows,
Jackie had finally changed out
of that monstrous pink jacket,
and was wearing a pointy
black bra, something akin
to what Madonna wore on
her blonde ambition tour,
John really liked it,
"Isn't she hot?"
he asked me several times,
and I had to agree, but
time was running backwards,
our hearts were running forwards
by something in the tea,
and Jack was mouthing
something about playing poker
with "that Oswald Fella,"
telling me that now he really liked hats,
bowler hats and fedoras,
cream-colored beanies,
I had a delightful time,
but John said they had to go,
and he grabbed Jackie's hand
and fell backwards, back
into the symphony of his
never-ending death

I want to write an unreadable novel

Like Andy Warhol's "A"
but I plan to call it "The Minister's Cat"
It will be filled with conversations
I have with my imaginary spiritual adviser,
Reverend John McEnroe,

who is not the same as the tennis star,
but he has the same curly hair,
and oddly enough, also wears
a red headband,

This novel will make me famous,
and people will quote unreadable
lines from it and want to be seen
reading it at places that you 

find by reading an old copy
of Zagats, I will probably have to
disappear for awhile and live in
the French Alps and learn to ski,

Things will be go smashingly well
for awhile until people discover
I made it all up, and I will
cry into tissues on Oprah's couch,
my make-up smearing my sweater,
the hissing audience sealing my doom

Mark Nenadov- Two Poems

Winter in Essex

Small white flakes wander by my window,
the neighbour presses their nose into theirs.
A proud cardinal perches in a barren tree,
which stretches out into the empty sky.

This house isn't insulated so well,
but that's another project for tomorrow.
So many important things in life can't happen today;
and the cardinal ignores it all, searching for seeds.

Ojibway Park Ovillejo

A totem pole guards a parking lot
Tranquil spot.
The wondrous world of wildlife converges
Surges with lupine.
A wily fox snake sneaks
Where night eyes peek.
The Eastern Towhee twists its beak
A turtle submerges before long
A Northern Cardinal tweets its song
Tranquil spot surges with lupine, where night eyes peek.
(Previously appeared in Northern Cardinal Review)

Bio: Mark Nenadov is a poet from Essex, Ontario, Canada. He lives with his lovely wife and their baby daughter. Mark's poems have appeared in publications in the United States, Canada, Pakistan, Australia, England, and Ireland. He also has a poem in the Whisky Sour City anthology recently published by Black Moss Press. See for more details.

P.K. Deb- A Poem

The officers

We- the officers of the company,
the strong bony poles with brainy knot
of the colossal tent
wherein the company is brought up
and swelled up to extend the wings
From east to west in search of vitality.

Grateful the company is to its officers,
prompt to facilitate us with
the coats with many pockets- inside and outside
to be filled up to the brim once in a month.
Well equipped we are from top to bottom,
trained both by God and Devil,
quite dutiful with all honesty and shrewdness,
and innovate brand new tactics in every moment
that can invite a boom for ever
in the dealer’s and whole seller’s market,
that can make puzzled the rivals
to arrive at any conclusion and retaliation
and that make the consumers ensnared too
to stand in the queue to spray
Dollar, Pound, Rupee, Dinner and so on
in the pool of proprietor-
who plunge into it to swim
and we get a little wet too with the tit-bit-
sprinkled to us automatically.
Indeed, the grinding stones we the officers are,
blissful to grind the market in our mill
to produce oil and spontaneous too
to be fried by the proprietor himself
in our own produced oil to feel comfort.

Indeed, we are empowered with magical sticks,
steer on the owner of the company
and his paternal blockhead opens up,
on the ashes produced by it
to turn these into  glittering gold
and on the market to drive away
the black shadow of cyclical depression.