Richard Schnap- A Poem

DIALING FOR DOLLARS

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
wrongly....

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

then

in the dream
he was gone
not to return

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

Insomnia
would be a joyous welcome
confection
to taste of
forever
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:

Family.
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:

Lonely.
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

BRANCHLESS TREE

 

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

 

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

 

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

prankster.

Suddenly absent,

a mother, whose

advice finally 

taken, to leave

children to

their games.

Sorrow Is..

Sorrow is

a blue casket

buried too

soon.

Sorrow is

a stuffed bear

left alone,

untouched.

Sorrow is

a list of songs

no longer

heard.

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

Perpetually.

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

Scorpion

 

Pincers skidded off

My grandfather's shovel as

He scooped it into a mayonnaise jar.

My brother and I added a

Lizard

Later.

Swifter than blinking

Its black thorn struck.

 

Perhaps there was agony,

Perhaps not,

Though the green lizard

Writhed

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.

 

Perhaps

Smart bombs

Should be smarter.

Daniel N. Flanagan- A Poem

Lilac

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,

Wilt.

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 www.DanFlanagan.webs.com 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
iconic

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 http://garretschuelke.tumblr.com/.

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.

 

 

 

Wetlands

 

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.

B.Z. Niditch- A Poem

SATURDAY NIGHT

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

Untitled

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

Alone.

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

CHRISTMASES

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 http://www.demareepoetry.blogspot.com 

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.

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

Portrait,
perfect,
pictures,
hung,
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
beneath
a cold slab
of lies.

I Existed

Snatches of time,
imprisoned,

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,
crushed.
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. 

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.

Virginie Colline- Haiku & Photo

Paris Haiku

An iron giraffe
in the grey savanna
Eiffel Tower!

Optical Distortion by Robert

Doisneau

Previously published in

Misfits' Miscellany, Sept 2012

.

You can read Virginie Colline's poems i

n

Silver Birch Press

, The

Bangalore Review, Subliminal Interiors, Synchronized Chaos and BRICKrhetoric, among others.

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 http://www.marknenadov.com 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.