Richard Schnap- Two Poems

EPISODE

These familiar streets
Remember me
Carrying a pizza

Home to the girl
Waiting for me
In a white nightgown

Whose bed we shared
For a brief time
Before she found

A new shadow
And our chapter ended
As I walked away

And never looked back
Wondering where
These streets would lead

As I felt the wind
Turn the page
Revealing the next face




HEARTS

Some are made
Of china
To be easily shattered

While some are made
Of steel
To be virtually unbreakable

And some are made
Of dust
To be scattered by the wind

While some are made
Of glass
To be invisible to the eye

And some are made
Of paper
To be home to a timeless story

While some are made
Of ink
To be the one that writes it

Donal Mahoney- Three Poems

An Old Nun’s Opinion

An old nun sitting 

on a bench in front of her convent

saying her beads was

interrupted by a young nun

coming home from school

to the convent for the night.

She asked the old nun if she had heard

about the Supreme Court passing 

the gay marriage law

and the old nun said she had.

The young nun seemed surprised. 

“Well, Sister, you don’t seem upset!”

The old nun looked at her beads

and said, “This isn't Roe v. Wade.

This law won't kill anybody."

Homeless in Nome

I was beautiful once,

the homeless lady tells 

the young worker

who’s filling out forms

before assigning the lady

a bed for the night.

She’s been homeless 

for months since 

arriving from Dallas.

She's looking for a job

and maybe a husband

but hasn’t found either.

The worse thing, she says,

is the weather in Nome.

It’s nothing like Dallas. 

With snow in the winter 

and rain in the summer 

in Nome she needs 

something to crawl under. 

Often it’s a man, she says, 

with no home either.

 

Strike!

It’s a big book, a thousand pages,

a million words, a bestseller,

and the verbs are mad as hell

because the nouns get all the credit

even though the nouns go nowhere 

if the verbs don’t take them,

never mind the adjectives,

those leeches on the nouns,

getting the same free ride.

It’s reached the point where the verbs

have had enough and plan to quit 

the book and leave the pages blank 

unless they get $15.00 an hour

to keep on dragging nouns 

and adjectives from cover to cover

plus overtime tossed in 

for adverbs and prepositions

and a nice bonus for conjunctions. 

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

 

Linda M. Crate- Three Poems

no reason for your unkindness 

 

i am not a damsel in distress

can defend myself

nothing justifies

being cruel unless perhaps you

were being devoured by

a dragon,

but then i wonder 

what company you must keep

for all the dragons i've met

were good;

perhaps you deserved to be slain

for your wickedness—

i observed it once when 

you tore my pretty little red heart into

ribbons that you used to tear into

my ego,

and you held such glee when you pulled

my strings;

well, gepetto, you've handed me

scissors so i cut the strings

refuse to be your

marionette

anymore because i have my own hopes and

dreams calling to me.

i was wrong 

 

you cannot force my hand

mother said you

want to be friends again

simply because i've forgiven you

doesn't mean i want you in

my life again,

and i refuse to let you back in;

this door is closed for

a reason—

even evil dragons have shown me more

kindness than you have,

and so i will leave you out of the

story of my life

because you don't fit here;

my novel is one you wouldn't recognize

i was always taught not to judge

on appearances:

you always looked kind—

how very 

wrong i was.

stop chasing me

 

you are

mercury in retrograde

always looking

for an ego to dent in

spreading

negativity and confusion 

in your wake,

and i'm tired of the dragons

that follow you

chasing after me;

you were all the  darkest days

of my life

i am so glad they are over

our song is not the 

same,

and you don't deserve to sing

my name on your lips

so don't;

i prefer the silence—

you are not the person that i need

to comfort me

i am the flames and the ocean waves

wild and you only ever tried to

cage me and tame my 

ambitions,

but i am mean to shine bright;

so i fare thee well

you never understood me,

and i'm done trying to be nice

to someone i cannot

stand being around

i loathe your negativity and the way you

always tried to drown me in the canoe

of your broken dreams;

you were never brave enough to be you

don't judge me for being me

it's who i was meant to

be.

 

 

Christopher Hivner- Three Poems

Blades

 

I put my fingers

in between the still

fan blades

and wonder about

their power.

I could depress 

the on/off button

and find out quickly

or stare at the edges

and imagine.

 

I put my fingers

on her back,

tracing the shoulder blade

and wonder

how far I can go?

I could tempt

her on/off button

to see if she purrs

or scratches

but instead I

pull away.

 

My thumb against 

the serrated teeth

of the knife

draws chills to my skin.

I could press

and wait for the blood

or caress the metal

and live in the

what may come.

 

Some days I get to choose

between the blade

and the open spaces,

other days

the blade finds me

no matter 

where I hide.

 

 

 

Heart Beat

 

this night

like so many others

 

feels lost

 

I tried to give myself away

lost in the fable

of obedience

 

no sale

 

this night

feels the same

 

heart beat

empty space

heart beat

staring into the light

heart beat

waiting

 

lost

like so many others

 

 

 

Reunion

                                                            

Some were smiling

in the picture,

a few looked tired,

 

five former friends

at a party,

none knowing the others

would be there,

 

a forced congregation

at the

‘everybody smile’ altar.

 

Behind them,

balloons

reached for the ceiling,

 

searching for escape

from the room

with no oxygen.


bio: Christopher Hivner writes from a small town in Pennsylvania surrounded by books and the echoes of music. He has recently been published in Eye on Life Magazine and Black Mirror Magazine. A chapbook of poems, “The Silence Brushes My Cheek Like Glass” was published by Scars Publications and another, “Adrift on a Cosmic Sea”, was published by Kind of a Hurricane Press.

 

James Murphy- Three Poems

Salute to the Hammering Bastards

The sun rises on

rooftop Sherpas

scaling peaks

hauling bundles

of shingles

fearlessly effortlessly

climbing hammering

hollering cutting and

cursing.

They're never a

welcome sight

and the noise

drives the

neighborhood dogs

into a howling frenzy

but watch from the

kitchen window

and quietly applaud

the balance strength

agility and endurance

in the swampy heat

of early September.

Hours later savor

the burning beer

bubbles in the throat and

listen as the clatter fades

into quiet sunset

over the suburbs.

May the men

on the roofing gang

do the same.

Cosmetology

Beauty school girls in the supermarket

like white wine and cigarettes,

cupcakes and hard-cooked eggs,

hummus with roasted red pepper,

bagels and cinnamon chewing gum.

One wears fishnet stockings,

the kind with the backseams

that lead the eyes along a line

from the stiletto heels

to the back of the thigh

on up to the cheeks,

while the other sports

bare, bumpy legs

and teeny sneakers.

All of this is nourishment for

the combined cosmetology

curriculum: managing manicures,

the use of thickening tonic,

corrective coloring, the cultivation

of the artistry of artificial hair,

sanitation, sterilization, and

infection control, massage for

lymphatic drainage, and lash application.

Out

Nineteen years old

living at home

with mom and dad,

he'd head for the door.

"Where you going?"

"Out."

Of course

he was going out

for a walk

maybe talk with

a cross-town

girlfriend

on the payphone

by the gas station

buy a pack of butts

at the drug store

amble into the alley

for a shot, a dime tap

and a game of pool

listen to the rolling

riotous clash of pins,

balls, and wood

watch the weathered

bartender's puckered

cheeks suck a marlboro

in the corner of her mouth

and ponder the probability

of being with her at the end

of the night.

It would have to be her place, right?

Instead he'd walk

over to the playground

piss on the hopscotch

break bottles on the

foursquare court

and stumble home

before the cops

showed up.

He was miserable,

maybe even diseased,

and he enjoyed it

but he really just needed

to get out of that house

for a few hours

those quiet, tense, angry

evening hours when his

father wasn't at work

and wasn't yet sleeping

                                    or dead.

Bio: Murphy lives and writes in Lakewood, Ohio.

 

Jeremy Mac- A Poem

                                               

 The House of Holidays

                                                

My name is Mr. Mobley, as you'll soon see,
I bid you welcome, merrywell,a bowl full of glee,
As you confirm, British, my drawl,
You'll ascertain in my sophisticants, calligraphy, my scrawl,
I clad in the finest and adornments in ditto,
Top hat, penguin tail coat, and razor edge slacks that park upon pedestal silk pillow,
The colour of my attire in no bore, changing with season, or mood depending,
Which is all in your choosing mind of transcending,
My golden locks are short but very announced,
And blue eyes omit nothing, cannot be denounced,
I am a riddle hard-pressed to be solved,
I speak in gray truths, in lights of blight, corrupting the nature that evolved,
Is there a dream? A hushed desire? I'll create profound fantasies,
But hold fast boys and girls, you may not wish to mold such realities,
For is there a price that one pays?
Do you dare,
Come take a stare,
Into my House of Holidays!


(Jeremy Mac is an Arkansas native and multi-genre fiction author with three novels, as well as a variety of shorter stories and poetry to his list of writing credits. Please stop by to learn more about Jeremy Mac, and leave a comment on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/jeremymac.author)  

Robin C. Pinkman- Three Poems

  M.A.K.C.

 The universe in

 fact, it proves itself to be one

 in all the things (i find remiss)

 in the death of some-

 one i care about for real  my

 boy, who rolled around in the

 new harvest as i cleaned it on

 the table  and there were little

 black and white hairs in all the

 flowers  in all the harvest.

          

             

 Portland 2015

 The death of a rat is awful  

 red trickles from the nose, the

 snapped neck  black eyes gaze

 corners unto eternity

 rat poison is better (you don’t

 have to clean it up), but still an

 awful death you can hear writhing

 in the wall  it’s nothing you ever

 want to think about  but you can’t

 live with plagues, can you? you

 take a hard chug for too long

 which burns down to where

 you once imagined a soul.

 San Jose 2010

 1980 thought to herself: what

 will it be on my name day? 

 here at the end of the past  and

 everyone thinks that i just guess

 when they're little  in so many

 words  and they marched her

 along  and most everybody

 went along with it  took to it

 like their natural habitat  and

 she clutched at her arms  and

 heard them all at once  but

 nothing possibly can ever

 happen to us  because nothing

 ever does  we all line up  and

 we all know one another  and

 everybody does as they're in-

 structed  but i end up in trouble

  even though i'm only very

 small  somehow, The Years

 have no patience for me  and

 won't show me how to do it

 right  and demand that it's

 done correctly  because one

 comes after the next one

 before the next one and after

 the last one  and that's why

 This Hideous Old Machinery  

 is here in your  

 little face  to grate and take

 pleasure  and close the door

 on your obscene bleating

 so the others remain

 oblivious.  

Ramona Thompson- Two Poems

Queen Cobra

Who do you think you are?
Ms. High and Mighty
Little Ms. Perfect
Think you're so much better
Above the rest of us
How quickly you forget
Where you came from
Your past
Just as sin filed
As the rest of us

Your tongue is pure acid
You stick your fangs
Wherever you want them
Don't give a damn
Who you hurt
As long as we all agree
You're always in the right
Can't ever be wrong
Oh no!
Not you Princeness Perfect
Everybody's favorite lady in charge

Sick of it
Uncoiled
I for one am gonna
Fight back
Bite back
Take back my rights
No more stepping across that line
You're movin' back
Way back
Gonna let me live my life
Without every minute of it
Getting in my face
With your poison wisdom
Shooting down my self-esteem



Venom Immune

Like MC Hammer
So long ago
Can't touch this
I'm stronger
Thicker skin
I've built up
Over all these years
Away from you
I've learned
One or two bitter lessons
About mothers and daughters
And how blood isn't always
Thicker than water

I still love you
But I know
Now I must put away
Childish hopes and dreams
You chose him
So I'm picking me
Won't get caught up
In another sticky web of your lies
Family ties have come undone
I can't look back
No matter how desperate
At times I want to

All grown up
On my own
You keep your distance
Mama, I'll keep mine
No more games
Done waiting in limbo
For you to wise up
Come back to me
You wanna be a punching bag?
You go right ahead
I got better plans
For this long, long life
Ahead of me

Always we'll be bound
By the fact
You gave me birth
You gave me life
But sometimes that bond just isn't enough
Sometimes a woman finds a man
More appealing so she abandons
Her only child
Just like you did
But hey mama
That's ok
I'm not bitter anymore
Funny but somehow I've learned
I've come to be
Venom immune



Ramona Thompson has been writing for more then 20 years. Her past publishing credits include Dead Snakes, Calvary Cross, Howl, This Ain't No Rodeo and many more.

Readers/fans may reach her on facebook or at reddstar111@gmail.com

Adreyo Sen- A Poem

The Cavalier Poet After the Funeral

 

It was after the funeral.

Your eyes met mine

across the strained formalities 

marching across the pained blue plains

of the ceiling.

Perhaps, I thought, they allowed

the hint of a smile

to cloud my thoughts.

So lovely I knew was your smile,

as sweet as an apple covered in sugar.

But my thoughts were a powerless sky

over the sea of gravy 

that was my plate,

impotent over the placid islands of chicken.

Despite your silent importuning,

I chose to worship my stomach.

I let boredom be your fate,

but I did not intend for a drunk uncle

to disgorge his affection onto your lap.

But why did you kick me on your way out,

dearest?  That really hurt.

 

Jonathan Beale- Three Poems

Light dancing

Watching the River Wey at day break

Light in all its masses
and in all its dimensional

States and backdrops....
As the mornings
revealed - pulling
the flesh of the night

away.  Revealing….
The sleepless river. 

Dancing - waltzing
Waltzing- twirling

Twirling - dancing
never able to stop.
These hypnotic
Waltzing whirlpools
weaving silver & gold

slowly revealing

this Xanadu.

Flood on the garden

Molehilled - the remembrance left -

Undulated skin across

The world.

Steel and leaf covered the lawn.

Nothing past the rain.

Dew, rains silent sister

Draws her finger across everything.

Bring with light to life

The – pearls - of – life.

Brother sister conflict

The black.  The white

The greenery licks the rain dry

In a silence: in darkness

Grows to flourish.

Until the rain passes again.

After today

As nights created from the  vying from the day to night

The hammer has beaten the remains of the day

Until spent dust and ashes remain

Still here, cold coffee stained the night.

This is where  that cloudlike state wafts by

The vampire night dissolves and is talked to liquidity

Muses here and my red raw eyes – contend

Against the storm chasing the dust I am lost

Fragments remain.

Archaeology of the night and its remains still around

Some places have and are the light and the life perfection.

Still sweet leaves, the reminder – and the words

The words are forgot: apathy eats them now – and why

The savannah of a stated conscience re-pleated

Here against the night.

The lightening roars not beholden to language no

It’s the end of the affair broken to repair

Standing against the wind to wear down

The roman want for all dressed in that purple gown

Talk here is as gold - milk to a cat

Striding into the falling lids falling on the mat

A strange beauty in innocence was once seen

Seen the eye is fooled what was beauty is obscene

I must lay an eye down to rest, even words need

To rest from the their power to share to feed

The muses dance around my head as torture they

Allow me against the stormy weather to make hay

I cross here before the alter before I lay to rest to rest

I take my cross the muses leave knowing they meant in jest    

Janne Karlsson- A Cartoon

 "Janne Karlsson´s website is here: www.svenskapache.se"

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

As Cheap As Resentment

is the place where she is now
destined to remain.

© Paul Tristram 2013


 Chewing Granite
 
It’s that spark of magic, that energy.
The serotonin bursting within your brain,
adrenalin coursing through your veins.
That youthful spring bouncing your step
and laughing twinkle in your dancing eyes.
Dropping a beer bottle from your left hand
but catching it with your right hand in time
with the music, way before it hits the floor.
It’s not walking the line it’s swaggering it!
Feeling Friday night at 6am on a weekday
morning for 5 weeks in a continuous row.
It’s about the glancing curve of the moment,
Elegantly spitting out electric shrapnel
whilst kicking down the walls around you.
It’s chewing granite in roaring anticipation,
being bull’s-eye bound and storming through
with a nonchalant single shoulder shrug.

© Paul Tristram 2014


 Tornado Blues (Written On Father’s Day!) 
 
I remember those Jim Beam nights
and Jack Daniel’s afternoons,
actually I don’t, what I really recall
is awaking to the bloody debris
and carnage of the morning afterwards.
Police cells mostly, hospitals sometimes,
often strange, demented women’s beds.
(One time, with broken ribs and nose
in an old bank safe at the bottom of a hill?)
It was like distilling Russian Roulette
and slamming it down in shot glasses.
As if I was psychotically participating,
for my Family’s honour and Country’s pride,
in ‘The Olympic Self Destruction Games’
Roll ‘em dice and don’t think twice.
I didn’t walk the edge of the knife blade
(That kind of malarkey’s for pussies!)
I slid up and down it, sideways.
Everything a red rag to a bull
with a distinction in dissatisfaction.
It’s a wonder that I am still sane
(Relatively speaking!)
and a miracle I’m still alive and well.
I’ll be 45 years old this coming Tuesday,
the exact same age that my ‘Old Man’
smashed on through to the other side.



Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography 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.
 
Buy his book ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036
And also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/
 

Donal Mahoney- Three Poems

Apples

One thing 

we all have 

in common is 

we're ripening 

for the harvest.

Donald Trump 

and Pee-wee Herman,

Bill Gates 

and Eliot Spitzer,

Warren Buffett 

and Anthony Weiner

are different 

in many respects 

but like the rest of us, 

they, too, are ripening

for the harvest.

They hang with us

from the same branch,

apples, big and small, 

ripening in summer, 

withering in fall,

waiting for winter

to conduct its harvest. 

Some of us hang

from that branch

and wonder 

what in the name 

of God is next.

Others just hang.

They appear

not to care.

Email to a Son

Hard to believe you graduated 

from college 25 years ago.

Anyone who can climb 

from ruffian in a juvenile home

to university graduate to 

business owner is remarkable.

One day your sons

will come to understand that.  

Your siblings as well.

Couldn’t be prouder of your trek, 

a magnificent one, done the hard way, 

something I viewed from the valley. 

My father had a passbook 

with cash for me to go to college. 

He always had work, hard work,

highly skilled, with no layoffs. 

There’s always a demand for hot wire

electricians willing to climb 

tall poles and high towers, 

attack voltage in any weather. 

Life never steps back, forever upstream, 

and then suddenly we're salmon. 

A final thrust or two and we die. 

Thank God we have souls. 

Wildlife in the Garden

Birds and possums, 

coons and squirrels

frequent my wife’s garden.

Dawn to dusk I spy on them

from an upstairs window

next to my computer.

They remind me of the city

poor foraging in Dumpsters.

This morning a coon dispatched

a possum that had 

frightened away two feral cats 

I feed every day at 4 a.m. 

When I went out on the deck

and waved my arms to dispatch

the coon, he sat on his rump

and stared at me with a glare

I saw 50 years ago in the eyes

of a girl who became a nun. 

She is still a nun today. 

She said cut it out back then.

As did the coon today. 

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

 

 

Douglas Polk- Three Poems

The Revolution Begun

nature in revolt,
the days numbered,
ark builders search for wood,
the rainbow,
the sign of the covenant,
was the small print ever read?
the earth infected,
and the disease professes to be the cure,
people eager to believe,
anything,
find me a white coat,
and glasses,
I will hypothesize with the best of them,
science is any one's bitch,
as long as you play with the numbers,
and squeeze some tits,
science never right or wrong,
though mistakes made daily,
but only progress,
akin to climbing stairs,
building higher and higher,
a bridge to fucking nowhere,
though it doesn't matter,
the revolution begun.



Re-Educated

ignorance confessed,
education not to teach,
but to manipulate,
create citizens unable to think,
products of the assembly line,
available in every color,
every description,
and any design,
all programmed the very same way,
ignorant,
unable to think,
but with an equality even Bernie Sanders can be proud of.



Prayers Said

in the name of Ginsberg, Kagan and Kennedy,
forgive me judges,
for I have sinned,
believing in a God far above thee,
I know now you are supreme,
save me,
but only if everyone else can be saved,
blessed equality,
laws and life,
be decided by you,
the constitution,
the same as the bible,
fairy tales,
from another time,
and another place,
the federal government the god of today,
legislature, executive and judiciary,
the new trinity,
pray dear judges for the souls throughout history,
ignorant of your benevolence,
government bless you,
saviors of the world,
or at least of the state.

Kurt Nimmo- Three Poems

the small things in life

yesterday
I ventured out of the house
to buy a flashlight and batteries
for a storm
that did not materialize.

today
I stayed
in the house
all day.

I have no reason to leave.

occasionally
I will turn back the curtain
and look at the world out there.
this morning
I saw the neighbor
tending his flower beds.

the neighbor and I
have one thing in common.
we both like to drink beer
although

we never drink it together.

he likes
to talk about
when he was a soldier.
I never talk about
how I ran away
from becoming one.

I sit
before a typewriter.
it is the kind of work I like to do
and will likely
continue to do until
the day they
carry me out of this
old house
minus
twenty one grams.

most people die in the hospital
not their own bed. what a shame.

that is
my wish for today.
to be left alone
and to die in my own bed.

it is
the simple things
in life

that make people happy.


end times

my wife
is out there
talking
to the neighbor.

I don’t talk to the neighbors
unless absolutely necessary.

I have
nothing
to say.

I am not a misanthrope.
I simply have not had good luck with humans
so avoid them when possible.

my wife
comes in and says
the neighbor
believes it is the end times.
it has never been this bad
he tells her.

he’s talking about the rain.
it will be historic and gloomy
over the next few days.

it has always
been the end times

when
humans are
involved
I tell my wife.

rain is secondary.


conflicted

one of those
hot and humid Texas afternoons.
I sit here looking
outside
and the sun
suddenly disappears
allowing an angry rain
to assault the
window.

one of those days.
I want to break something.

a lifetime of words
and situations and half remembered faces
and smoldering recrimination
threats deadly as the asphyxiation
of charcoal smoke towering up and
twirling with muddy blades
in the vortex
of a ceiling fan.

instead of
breaking something
I pull on a toenail until the edge shears off
down to the quick.

sometimes
I think
murder might be possible
and then I slink back like a child
in awe of sun and rain.

sun defeats
rain beyond the window.

I stare at the
incomprehensible wonder
of green cellular life.
it is all
beyond me.

I lift
the glass and
take a
drink.

there.
I feel better
for a
moment.

Mel Waldman- Three Poems

D.O.A.

    

Dog days

drift

into death-soaked August nights-

deliver

sizzling summer heat

&

the burnt offering

of

boiled human brain roasting in hellfire.

Damned,

beneath a seething canopy of sin

I am D.O.A.

in

the steamy night

when

my skin opens up

&

my mask comes off

&

the monster

pops out-

peek-a-boo

&

it’s time to kill & die

for

on

death-soaked August nights

the monster

inside me

is born

&

I am

D.O.A.

INSIDE,

OUTSIDE

 

Inside one,

outside the other

here,

not there

now,

not then

inside the darkness,

outside the light

Inside,

outside

outside & into,

inside & out of

inside the  soul case

& out of the vastness

outside the solar system

& into my mortal body

inside the soul case

into the spirit world & the invisible universe

that is

the unendurable suffering of my soul

it is

I know

it is

my soul

because

I suffer

OMPHALOS

Blood-red omphalos on the side of the road

almost hidden

behind the mutilated moribund trees,

You reveal only a Lilliputian arc of yourself,

glowing religious stone & holy presence that

you are,

& still, I feel you

& know you,

in my strange unfathomable vision-

in a glimmer of celestial light

coming forth

from the center of the earth or perhaps,

the cosmological hub of an unearthly place

of my own beautiful & grotesque creation

Dr. Mel Waldman is a psychologist, poet, and writer whose stories have appeared in numerous magazines including HARDBOILED DETECTIVE, ESPIONAGE, THE SAINT, PULP METAL MAGAZINE, and AUDIENCE. His poems have been widely published in magazines and books including LIQUID IMAGINATION, A NEW ULSTER, THE BROOKLYN LITERARY REVIEW, THE BROOKLYN VOICE, BRICKPLIGHT, THE BITCHIN’ KITSCH, CRAB FAT MAGAZINE, DEAD SNAKES, SKIVE MAGAZINE, ODDBALL MAGAZINE, ON THE RUSK, POETRY PACIFIC, POETICA, RED FEZ, SQUAWK BACK, SWEET ANNIE & SWEET PEA REVIEW, THE JEWISH LITERARY JOURNAL, THE JEWISH PRESS, THE JERUSALEM POST, HOTMETAL PRESS, MAD SWIRL, HAGGARD & HALLOO, ASCENT ASPIRATIONS, and NAMASTE FIJI: THE INTERNATIONAL ANTHOLOGY OF POETRY. A past winner of the literary GRADIVA AWARD in Psychoanalysis, he was nominated for a PUSHCART PRIZE in literature and is the author of 11 books.

Jennifer Lagier- A Photo

                                                            
                                                                "Pacific Grove"

Janet I. Buck- A Poem

Goodbye to This & That & Him

 

I’m tired of being hubby’s slave,

sick of dark insulting eyes,

bruises left by words I don’t exchange,

keeping those he hit me with.

Tired of fretting silences,

baking cakes in acquiescence, giving him

both lobster tails we can’t afford.

I stash a one-way ticket in my purse,

pack as fast as hands can move—

stuff in clothes like wadded rags.

No room for coats in case it’s cold.

One pair of shoes—they’re on my feet.

No room for bottles of perfume.

No room for basic toiletries.

 

I scrub the kitchen twice at least,

just in case the other woman wants to cook.

A three-page letter open on our dining table—

used for coasters under a vial of spendy scotch.

Hustle, hustle, hurry up before

you hear the doorknob turn.

I call a cab—we sit in stretching traffic jams,

a dozen trucks and mini-vans, smothered

in white cherry blossoms—inches thick.

Drivers thrashing windshield wipers,

treating them like falling sleet,

taking out the honey bees that follow petals

wherever they chance to land.

 

I know I’ve hated living here between the bars

on every window near the ground—

where going to a grocery store

means two sore heels from steel carts.

Where no one speaks, not even birds.

I left the car keys by the door.

He’ll need them, learning how to drive.

Next to them—a can of mace (a birthday gift

for running errands late at night), my wedding ring.

Rays of light are fast asleep, but

suns of polished marigolds must lie ahead.

My dad will meet me at the plane—

the other end of incubus.

 

 

Bio: Janet I. Buck

 

Janet Buck is a seven-time Pushcart Nominee and the author of three full-length collections of poetry; her work has won numerous literary awards and she has published roughly 4,000 poems and non-fiction essays in print and internet journals around the globe during her 18 year writing career.  Buck's most recent poems are scheduled for publication in forthcoming issues of The Milo Review, Misfit Magazine, The Ann Arbor Review, Antiphon, River Babble, PoetryBay, and other journals worldwide.