Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Ferguson in Black and White

Would the death in Ferguson 

have been as black and white

as many seem to think it is

if the victim had been 

white as anthrax,

and the shooter 

black as tar?

Would the aftermath 

have been the same?

Would Pastor Sharpton

have flown to Ferguson

to address the masses

while the President 

spoke gravely from afar?

Would businesses

have burned as bright 

long into the night while 

frozen cops watched?

I watched it on TV

with a cup of hot cocoa. 

I’m the one to ask.

——————————————————————

Donal Mahoney lives 20 minutes from Ferguson, Missouri. Unlike the speaker in “Ferguson in Black and White,” he doesn’t know what happened in the death of Michael Brown. 

 

Gene McCormick- Art

Nat "King" Cole Trio

Gene McCormick is a writer who paints without preference for either discipline.  His art is in private and commercial collections and he has illustrated a number of books.  He is the illustrator for Misfitmagazine.net.

Scott Thomas Outlar- A Poem

Happy Holy Days or a Little American Cheer from an Otherwise Incorrigible Grinch

Be thankful for your family.
Be thankful for your friends.
Be thankful for your tribe.
Be thankful for your community.
Be thankful for every nightfall.
Be thankful for every sunrise.
Be thankful for every heavy cloud.
Be thankful for every clear sky.
Be thankful for the young innocence.
Be thankful for the aged wisdom.
Be thankful for the pure air we breathe.
Be thankful for the clean water of the Tao River.
Be thankful for the flow of the process through which life ebbs.
Be thankful for the wave pulled in by the tide.
Be thankful for the sand carried out to sea.
Be thankful for the honey stored in the hive by the bee.
Be thankful for the nectar of the flower.
Be thankful for the pillow upon which you rest your head and sleep.
Be thankful for the clothes that offer warmth in the winter.
Be thankful for the naked sweat of summer’s swelter.
Be thankful for the music of the spheres which raises the vibration of your spirit.
Be thankful for the consciousness with which your flesh is ensouled.
Be thankful for the lessons of life that you are given to learn.
Be thankful for the opportunities.
Be thankful for the challenges.
Be thankful for the trials, tests and tribulations through which the possibility for progression, evolution, development, maturity and growth are presented.
Be thankful for the lofty heights.
Be thankful for the lowly abyss.
Be thankful for the perfect balance of the middle path.
Be thankful for those who have been saved from suffering and sorrow by finding the key to a song of serenity.
Be thankful unto The Lord.
Hallelujah.
Be thankful for the vegetables and fruits that resonate with life-energy and assimilate into your electrically charged being.
Be thankful for the teachers who are humble in the dissertation of their heartfelt lectures.
Be thankful for the gravity which holds the material world in form and place.
Be thankful for the one-pointedness of space and time in which the Infinite and Eternal Nature of the spiritual dimension of reality is manifested and made known.
Be thankful for the memories of the past.
Be thankful for the future pretense.
Be thankful for the present moment in which the Nowness of the entirety of life is centered in the circle of cyclical experience.
Be thankful for the healing power of Forgiveness.
Be thankful for the magic of Unconditional Love.
Be thankful for the miracle of Awakened Consciousness.
Be thankful for the jeweled web of interconnected synchronicity.
Be thankful for the angles which coincide at a Divine Degree.
Be thankful for the Angels.
Be thankful for the Animals.
Be thankful for the alchemical procedure through which the two are made one.
Be thankful for the wedding from which emerges the fully realized potential of the Human Being.
Be thankful when departing from those you care for; be not sad.
Be thankful when reuniting with those you hold dear; rejoice and be glad.
Be thankful for your eyes and the sights that are seen.
Be thankful for your ears and the sounds that are heard.
Be thankful for the vision behind your eyes and the Humming Frequency between your ears which reveal the higher senses of truth.
Be thankful for the chirping of the birds that calls you forth from slumber when the time to awaken has arrived.
Be thankful for the violin orchestra of the crickets that soothes you into sleep when the need to rest arises.
Be thankful for the candle’s light which guides you out from a cave of darkness.
Be thankful for the moon whose face reflects the glowing prophecy of a New Dawn.
Be thankful for the stars and the intensity with which they shine.
Be thankful for the passion and inspiration through which imagination is brought to life by a Creative Design.
Be thankful unto The Lord.
Hallelujah.
Be thankful for the rhythmic beat to which vibrations dance in harmonic geometric patterns.
Be thankful for the three points of the triangle: body, spirit and mind.
Be thankful for the boxed squareness of the cube.
Be thankful for the curved shape of the cylinder which acts as an attracting funnel to spiral cascading energy toward cohesion at a vortex.
Be thankful for the place of nexus where all forces are compressed in a unified singularity of Oneness.
Be thankful for the formula by which all equations and theories are synthesized at a resonance of collective connectivity.
Be thankful for the nest in which all variables rest in embedded peace.
Be thankful for the house which bars none.
Be thankful for the castle whose doors are ever open.
Be thankful for the kingdom in which no hierarchy reigns, but where every soul exists as a shard from the same holographic whole.
Be thankful for the gatekeeper whose heart is large.
Be thankful for the farmer whose fields are full.
Be thankful for the carpenter whose hammer is steady.
Be thankful of the Phoenix, who, for the rise, is ever ready.
Be thankful for the moneylender whose generosity is rich.
Be thankful for the prophet who is wealthy with wisdom.
Be thankful for the margin by which a profiteering spirit is lifted.
Be thankful for the shamanic oracle whose liquid crystal visions foretell the coming of a Golden Age of Awakening.
Be thankful for the White Wall upon which all color has come together in confluence to create an environment of unlimited, endless and infinite possibilities.
Be thankful for the Eternal Truth that is etched upon the canvass of your heart by an Awesome Blessing through a brush stroke of Grace.
Be thankful unto The Lord.
Hallelujah.
Be thankful for the psalms of selah.
Be thankful for the humility of surrender through which the empowerment of courage is received.
Be thankful for the intuition of God’s Guidance that is generated through intention within your guts.
Be thankful for the tranquility of silence in which the still, small voice within can find calmness and peace to sound out in speech.
Be thankful for the symphonic opera whispered into existence through the first breath of the Maestro.
Be thankful for the Festival where energy concentrates its gathering force.
Be thankful for the Natural Tao Order of life’s winding course.
Be thankful for the Heavens and the rain from which there pours.
Be thankful unto The Lord.
Amen.
Thus sang Numa as a song of Thanksgiving.


Previously published in Dissident Voice with a link...  Happy Holy Days

Linda M. Crate- Three Poems

autumn's bittersweet kiss

autumn
is always so bittersweet for me
so many memories of
people forged
here
that have danced around me
before blowing
forever away and i hate losing people
it hurts deeper than any
scar or bruise
i've ever received in the past,
and i don't know
how it is so easy for them to keep wandering
down the road without me
pretending
as if we were always strangers;
i am a raven in a flock
of swans,
i've always stood alone
and while i've always enjoyed my own company
no one wants to forever stand alone—
i have always tried too hard
to fit in,
but now i've recognized my need to be me
standing out
in a world of carbon copies
they all want me to conform as i try to persist they
resist everything they've learned;
perhaps, it's too painful
for them to change but if autumn leaves
why can't they?
perhaps, they would rather know the truth of their beauty
hiding in their beautiful scars they make excuses
of why they're like everyone else,
and i just dance like a leaf
in the wind
spinning my own circles in a world that would have
you walk squares.


longing to hear the whispers of the trees

i remember
being young and standing staring at the
trees wondering how old they
grew to be and how
tall they were,
and i wondered if at one time
they didn't dance;
sometimes i still wonder as i gaze
upon tree roots
lifted from
the ground, and if they did dance
i wonder what
made
them stop?
i want to hear their whispers of all their
stories good and bad,
of all their wisdom
and of all the
times they danced;
but perhaps that is only something i'll come to
know by the whistling of the wind
and birdsong
that nests in my ears in spring—
i'd rather hear from the trees themselves
because second hand information
is rarely reliable.


the immensity of my dreams

the dragonfly
danced
so close to me i thought
his wings would
touch my
nose,
but he did not touch me
merely came close
and he feared
me;
but i caught his photograph
loving the gleam of
the sun bent on his beautiful wings
he was so serene and
peaceful
i wanted always to fly with him
a breath in time
dancing in the sky
just didn't want to let that moment go—
i find myself in nature
when i'm lost to all concept of man
and what i should be,
thinking only of all the things that are yet to
be achieved in my dreams because
nature always reminds me
anything is possible;
the only limitations lay within in the mind
and so i look into the tapestry of sky and land and sea
promising myself that i will have likewise
vibrancy
allow my dreams to be immense
so i can catch them
like falling stars from the skies into my palms
burning away all illusion of reality.

Nancy May- Three Poems

sunlight beams

broken cocoon

in wasp hives

cobwebs

footprints

on the shore

ice on the shore

sunlight ripples

on the sea

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal- 3 Poems

IN YOUR MIND

In your mind’s castle

made of crystal on

the edge of a cliff

you move like a snail.

Birds of paradise

burst in bright colors.

In your mind’s island

a wildflower bed

is planted.  In your

grape-sized brain there is

a cinema of

sunlight bursting out.

A mere laugh destroys

the castle made of

crystal; the island

destroyed by a wave.

A scintillating

hummingbird takes flight

into the white clouds

and sings of lost love.

 

 

 

LAB CREATION

 

I was created in the lab.

My eyes were fashioned

from a ray of sunlight,

which is why my smile is

just like warm sunshine.

 

My feet were made out of a

lucky rabbit’s foot,

which is why I can run

so fast and why I pick

all the right horses.

 

My arms were designed from

Sequoia trees,

which is why I try to stay

out of fights because I

could pack a real wallop.

 

I do not know what else to

say except that these

doctors are pulling out of

the air diagnoses

that do not make sense.

 

 

 

NO BLISS

 

I find no bliss in my ignorance.

I look at my hand and imagine a foot.

I desire to walk on my hand foot.

I want to do a hand stand

and fall asleep in that position.

I do not snore and this is where

I find my bliss.  I argue with

my ego and it pays me no mind.

My ego is in a state of bliss.

 

L.K. Twaddle- A Poem

Spells  And Incantations

   

Three witches slid on britches and went down to vote.

They patted the dragon and flew over the moat.

The warlocks and demons had lead for too long.

Their spells and incantations had gotten all wrong.

Three votes for lady blind justice to lead,

not strictly a witch but still one of their breed.

A lady of wisdom, though blind she may be;

she still sees the truth through the wizardry.

Honest and good a female by sex;

if she sees evil she casts a mean hex.

Dingbats and newts had best beware,

for lady justice is always fair.

Magic and wisdom the legends say;’

joined forces for good that election day.

No more black magic was found in her realm,

female hocus pocus now powered the helm.

Scott Thomas Outlar- Two Poems

On Down The Line 

So carry on down the line

                                      again

all your crimes

are carried out through the night

                                      the sin

The Light

reflecting back wrong from right

                                      the same

The stain

mirror fades into dream            

                                      again

So it all comes down the line

                                      again

Karma’s time

to bring the scale into sign

                                      the stars

The fire

burning out all that’s sown

                                      to reap

Rewards

so show me one damn return

The Urge 

That’s blood

That’s self created wound

That’s victim played by you

          and you alone

It’s the same old tired song

That’s enough

That pretty much says it all

That’s written on the walls

          for God to judge

It’s the same strong will to Love

That’s truth

That’s piercing through a soul

That’s the urge of all we know

          to evolve

It’s the same old dance and crawl

That’s fun

That’s the same sold circus clown

That’s the jester begging

          for his life

It’s the same old joke tonight

That’s train

That’s the wreck we all predict

That’s the same cynical snitch

          in the ditch

It’s the same old run off lines

Nancy May- Three Sweet Haiku

 

dolphin on seas

kingfisher wings unfold

on the cool air

ice on ice

moonlit sunset

in the Sahara

droplets of dew

butterfly sway

in air whispers

Gary Beck- Three Poems

Thought-a-Gram

 

When I was young

I asked myself

how the Founding Fathers

conceived the ideas

that created a nation

based on democracy.

Of course I knew even then

that all men weren't equal

and government of, by, for,

was only for some of us.

Yet now that I am old

I still ask myself

how those rebels

managed to produce

such noble documents,

and frequently wonder

why our recent leaders

are completely incapable

of exalted heights.

I try to be charitable

and remind myself

that film, tv, Youtube,

dilute the quality of expression

by constant bombardment

of visual information

reducing originality,

but am forced to conclude

we now breed lesser men.

 

 

Art Clips

 

Og painted bison on cave walls.

The Pre-Renaissancers depicted saints.

Van Eyck composed exquisite details.

De La Croix presented the heroic.

Then the Impressionists came along,

soft and shimmering,

made it difficult at first

for common folk to grasp,

but they finally caught up

just in time for Kandinsky

to divorce realism.

From that time on

critics intervened

between artist and viewer,

glibly explaining

what we're looking at.

 

 

Chores

 

The sun rises later,

sets earlier,

the days grow cooler.

I take in the patio furniture,

put up the storm windows,

restock the pantry

with cocoa and oatmeal,

get out the down quilt,

put away the t-shirts,

unpack the sweaters,

make sure there's enough firewood,

saddle soap leather boots,

grease the sled runners,

final check that all's ready

for the season of winter,

then sit back in comfy chair,

plug the IPad in the charger,

pick up weighty volume one

of the Decline and Fall

of the Roman Empire,

settle in, content

to await the coming of spring.

 

 

 

Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director, and as an art dealer when he couldn’t make a living in theater. He has 7 published chapbooks and 2 others accepted for publication. His poetry collections include: Days of Destruction (Skive Press), Expectations (Rogue Scholars Press). Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways (Winter Goose Publishing). Perceptions and Displays will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. His novels include: Extreme Change (Cogwheel Press) Acts of Defiance (Artema Press). His short story collection, A Glimpse of Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications). His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City

 

John Grochalski- Three Poems

no snowcap

love you like a blackmail

one of the girls at the bus stop sings to the other

twelve years old and they’re both

in the tight pink pants that say juicy on the ass

i don’t know if you can call them lycra or spandex

…spanx, is what i think i’ve heard them called

but the patriarchy is alive and well this morning

the two girls are in each other’s face

fists to their lips like microphones

love you like a blackmail, baby

love you like a blackmail

girls looking decades older than the boys

who will one day decide what their daughters will wear

boys chasing girls chasing boys

standing right beside them singing pink and juicy

love you like a blackmail

boys pounding on video screens

and trying to push each other in the street

crafting the continued history of violence

in this fashion parade

i wonder what these girls

will be wearing in four years

at the ripe, old, overly sexualized age of sixteen

just what the mass marketing machine

will come up with next

like the two girls i just passed

twenty-two degrees this morning

with another winter of our discontent

breathing down our necks

sixteen year olds in thin jackets unzipped

with high-school PE t-shirts cut to mid-drift

like glorified bras

bearing, red, chapped stomachs

the one girl telling the other

that brandon is so cute

she might rape him tonight

rape like love

love you like a blackmail, baby

on a friday night

in digital camera supervised america

without a pair of gloves

and no snowcap on their heads.

the mentor

a wise man once told me

that every step in this life is a step forward

and through the pleasure

and the pain of this existence

the failed jobs and failed relationships

the failed cities and broken cars

all this sickness and death

i’ve held on to that

in some form or another

today i’m thinking it’s my turn

to be the wise man

to be the mentor

to the nineteen year old girl

who wants to discuss her future

a lost kid in college

who may be in over her head

or who might just need to blow off some steam

so we sit there face to face

her talking about the confusion of classes

me squatted like buddha

like the gray and grizzled sage i think i am

remembering nineteen

just waiting on the point in the conversation

where she finally makes her decision

finally sees the enlightened path that her life must take

with my guidance, of course

so that i can say

every step in this life is a step forward, kid

pat her on the shoulder and walk away

feeling good about myself for a change

because as you get older

i’ve learned that it gets harder to feel good about yourself

as the mistakes mount and the failures collect

like debt or old baseball cards in the closet

but we never get to that glorious conclusion

instead of feeling good about anything

the girl starts crying a slow, soundless wretched burn

that turns her eyes red and milky

she makes no sound

as she wipes and tries to look away from me

her plastic guru

her dim leading light

twenty-one years older than her

and none the wiser than whatever burden she’s got

the things she can’t discuss anymore

with someone burning down the road

in the same jack kerouac flannels

that he was baptized in before she was born

just another sagging old man

waiting until she’s finished crying

so that he can lean in and ask her

ever-so-softly

if she’s all right.

shadows of brooklyn

            --after richard hugo

it’s true here

that the shadows from clouds

don’t take the shape of boats

sailing in all of this concrete

and when the sky rolls away

white and blue in between the gray and mist

it’s most likely filled with soot and dirt

carcinogenics heading off toward the ocean

but there are shadows of buildings

that can kill the light for blocks on end

and in mornings, cold and warm

i walk them to escape the sun

my own moody blue-black oasis

where i can sink into the urban gloom

for as long as i want to

watching the shadows of cars

locked in morning gridlock duels

make the shadows of stalling snakes

their horns honking frustration

at all of this black

dodging dog-shit temples

cathedrals of up-ended garbage cans

the shadows of people like ants

trying to cross the street

waiting for buses in dull lines

checking cellphones and watches

a facsimile of the shadows

of the people who came before them.

Stefanie Bennett- Three Poems

WINTER OFFENSIVE 2014          

 

It must be The Night

Of The Long Knives

For there’s

 

Fate’s arduous wolf

In the thicket –,

 

A hundredweight bone-chill

Half moon –,

 

Boot-heels fracturing

The desensitised dusk and

 

An obsidian Manticore

Sartrean shack

 

I’ve come upon that

Distantly

Looks like

                Home.

 

 

 

KAFKA EPILOGUE         

 

There is no train –.

There is no station –.

The stopping point

... It’s beyond recall.

 

Yet, there was a house.

A lamp. A window

Through which

The forest

                Entered

 

...Following

A sky-rail

And tomorrow’s

Prophetic

 

Swan-song.

 

 

 

AFTER VASCO POPA         

 

Once there was a frown, acceptable

As a frown can be.

 

It never caught sight of itself;

 

It stopped cybernetics at their play;

 

It transgressed so well the maps

  Of the world rearranged them-

  Selves into globular rigidity.

 

The doctors operated on the maps

  Trying not to be apprehensive...

 

The village officialdom bought the idea

  Of tub-thumping maps,

  And squaring globes...

 

Once there was a frown, so the story

  Goes. It hasn’t

  An ending

 

It’s still not... acceptable.

 

 

 

Stefanie Bennett has published eighteen books of poetry and one novel. She has acted as a publishing editor and worked with Arts Action for Peace. Of mixed ancestry [Italian/Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee], she was born in Queensland, Australia, in 1945. Her latest poetry title ‘The Vanishing’ is due at year’s end. Publisher, Walleah Press.

 

Donal Mahoney- Three Poems

Collateral Damage

For the entire office

a death like his

 

coming as it has

the day before

 

Thanksgiving

complicates the holiday

 

for everyone. It makes

things difficult

 

for all: the wake

the other matters.

 

 

Cockfight at the Bus Stop

As the snow swirls around them,

one old man in a wheelchair

uses sign language to tell

another old man standing 

at the bus stop, "Friend, 

you creak when you walk."

Neither one can hear any better 

than when they were classmates  

at a school for the deaf eons ago.

They learned to sign by writing 

in the air with fingers honed 

on the whetstone of banter.

Amiable as ever, the creaky man   

counters with fingers quicker than 

beaks in a Tijuana cockfight.

"Amigo, how can you tell 

that I creak when I walk?

Do my knees sign that well?"

 

Chauvinist's Manifesto

There's a football field between us.

I'm in one of the end zones bellowing

and you're in the other one bawling,

the cliffs of your cheekbones

streaked with mascara.

Betty Friedan is screaming. 

She says the problem is my fault.

Bella Abzug is cackling 

that she agrees.

Gloria Steinem

is at the microphone, 

ready to sentence me

to decades of marriage

with children by the score

though she didn't marry till 60.

These ladies must be right.

I'm just a man so I give up.

I accept all the blame.

Mountains have risen 

in the middle of the field.

I can no longer see you.

And if I can't see you

there's no reason for us

to get together again.

I have to be able to see you.

It's always been your hind

and never your mind 

that I favored.

We were having a wonderful time  

and all of a sudden you got serious

like all the others.

They wanted to get married, too.

Listen up. 

I'm going to announce 

the best solution. 

I want to be generous.

I hope you can hear me:

"You keep the ring.

I'll punt and go home."

 

—————————————————

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri. 

 

Richard Schnap- A Poem

BALANCED ON THE WIND

I passed a man today
Carrying an umbrella
Under a cloudless blue sky

While an old woman
With a thrift store coat
Posted a sign for her lost cat

As a grey-faced crowd
By the drug rehab center
Buried themselves in smoke

Next to a girl who sat strumming
An old battered guitar
That somehow stayed in tune

And it seemed like the world
Was filled with tightrope walkers
Negotiating a thin wire

Without ever knowing
That if they should fall
Someone would catch them

Rose Mary Boehm- Picture

 

Picture that inspired "Fish Talk" by Rose Mary Boehm

David L. Paxton- Three Poems

Foreign Terrain, Third Month

Buried behind rims of steamed glass lenses,

Breathing deep the smoke’s coffee aroma,

He balances with a book, a quota

Of figures from his bank account, creases

Accentuating his darkening hands

Scarring with frustration, the cold daybreak

Stressing his bones and joints.  He chose the shock

Of sitting stark naked inside the rounds

Of daylight misting through the window screen

Though the temperature froze guava trees

Orcharding the yard, his fingers tense, knees

Trembling, eyes dry, hair erect, and scalp thin.

The young man chooses his suffering well

Especially after the move, his flight

From standard home to new home.  To his right

A balance book, to his left a gray cell.

Kapoho Mongoose

Out of a whistle, a bolt of brown fur

Shot scampering for banyan safety roots,

Belly tight pulled by pain from a hunger

Screaming with infant tones.  Kukui nuts

And flowers struggle with satiating

Centuries of inherent grooming.  Plates

Of asphalt cracked and pushed by thick reaching

Roots the mongoose jetted for, leaf terrain

Where a coral or corn snake coil resting

In wait for a meal of its own, the sun

Filtering through red-brown bark arms, maybe

The mongoose might be able to sustain

The devilish hunger in its belly

Only to discover a scavenger

Built the same, no extinct snake, no treaty.

Springtime 2009, Sunning On the Deck 

The mountain and the ocean are neglected.

Flesh foams over lava rock. Brush webs over dead tree trunks.

Everything between these two is lauded.

From onset holiday seasons, men and women,

Groped over by necessity complexes,

Dispute which are real and which are fake by sign

Of a paid day off from work or day of rest – 

Pending they can stand family or solitude.

The gods don’t seem to stress their mood

Over these days even if they don’t exist.

But if they do, we would mean little more

Than blip jokes under their feet.

                                                    Our lives whore

Out for tasks that break us down; and once finished,

They hold insignificant reward and missed

Economic independence.  The mountain

And ocean rely on good looks as they strain

Their resources.  They pawn off their fish and chunk gold,

Divvy their innate nutrients to provide

For symbiotic lice fattened with pride.

After conceit fades, we shiver reflexes,

Considering shivering repels internal cold.

 

 

 

David L. Paxton (website davidpaxton.com) has previously been published in Poetic Hours, The Flagler Review, Splizz, Purple Pig Lit and The Nocturnal Lyric, and received his Masters of Arts Administration from Savannah College of Art and Design in 2013. He currently resides in Middleburg, FL. working as an independent arts professional as a painter and poet, growing with various curating opportunities for exhibitions. His poetry deals primarily with situational location and reaction due to his travels across the United States from the East Coast to Hawaii.