Barbara Gordon- A Poem

LITTLE GIRL’S DREAM

Early one morning, I guess around three
Our little girl cried out for her Daddy and me
We rushed to her room and knelt at her bedside
She was trembling and scared, here’s what she cried.

“Daddy oh Daddy, I just had a dream!
Please hold me close Daddy and tell me what it means!
I was in Heaven and I found Mommy there,
But I couldn’t find you Daddy and I looked everywhere!”

“I ran to the gate and you where down on your knees,
Begging and crying, “Lord, let me in please!”
I turned and ask Jesus, “Please take one more look!”
With tears in his eyes, he showed me his book.

“Can’t you see Daddy; the Lord wants you to know,
When I go to heaven, he wants you to go!
So come to church with us and join us in prayer,
So when I get to Heaven I know you’ll be there!”

Noel Negele- Two Poems

Good Bye

It’s when the casket falls flat

On its hole and the relatives

Dressed in black like shadows

Screak as if knifed or impaled

That you feel the pain that you

Hear that wailing inside of you

Silent to the outside world but

Very much in insane tension within—

A loud vertiginous paroxysm spreading

Like tar to your organs, soul, heart and

Limps that you feel grief taking hold of

Your throat like a burning scarf—

To hold back the tears is futile;

You realise you'll never see him smiling again

And it is then that you soul,palpable with pain

Somewhere inside the ambers of your skull

Denuded of any optimism or sunray

Protests with sad bickering, remorseful 

To not have cared, to never have loved.

A Day

Got out of the house at 10 in the morning

After living for approximately six months

In the night-

The sun like an interrogation lamp

Asking me where I’ve been so long

Shinning that dull light of sobriety

And I went to the center of the city

For the hell of it

Read some books, grabbed a cup of coffee

Smoked a couple of cigarettes

Sitting on a bench, looking at  women

Passing by in a hurry, bathed in vitality

Places to go, shops to shop

Boyfriends to meet and love and torment

This day is a day to be shared

I thought and I got up and started strolling around

Pretending to be one of them

And I felt alright for a while

And I saw a gipsy kid singing gipsy songs

And a young guitarist singing Bob Dylan

Which was nice

And then I saw an old lady

Standing next to a department store

Begging for money, politely, with educated words

Because her husband was sick—

Holding this picture of an old man

Lying on his death bed, tubes up his nose

And it reminded me of my dead friend

For some reason

And I sunk my hands into my pockets

Grabbed all I had, which wasn’t much

And I extended my hand and she extended hers

And I felt her wrinkled palm receiving and her eyes

Curved in a smile and she thanked me kindly

Even if we both knew

It wouldn’t amount to anything.

 

 

David J. Thompson- A Photo

                                                                   "Tail Lights"

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

From my tears

the policeman said,    

"There was nothing

you could have

done about it.

That man was gone;

dead cold, before

he hit the floor.

It's only natural

for you to freak

out when faced with

a life or death

thing you'd never

seen before and

couldn't handle.

Hell, it had happened

to me when I was a

rookie---" I thanked

the cop though we

                                                         could both tell I

                                                         didn't mean it. I wasn't

a rookie and it wasn't

the first time someone

dropped on me when I

couldn't do anything

but watch him die.

I still felt, somehow,

as if that guy

getting wheeled out

of the bar with a sheet over

his face, was all

my fault, and nothing

anyone could say or

do would ever be able

to change how I felt.

A brace of whiskeys

would help me start

adjusting my  attitude,

like right now,

the only problem being

was not knowing

if I would be able to

stop.

“We can build you

up, make a real

man of you,”

he sd. like some kind of

roving Marine Good Will

recruiter on a divine mission

to save the hearts and minds of

                            the unrepentant sinners sipping

shots and brews, smoking butts

down to the filter, instead of

pumping iron and reading

from The Book.

Following this boy scout trooper

into some third world

country too weak to defend

itself, so we could build up

our self images with a little

constructive raping and pillaging,

before some real R&R back home

in a place like this, where battle

scars are an excuse for another

pop, another round for the ditch

you never wake up in.

All the time he

had spent out of the joint,

was an exercise in futility,

as if he were determined

to get back there where all his

friends were, where everything

was programmed, and every day

was just a reliving of

all the good-assed,

good old times working on

perfecting felony rap songs,

jail house lawyering

skills, and slick contraband

schemes. He liked to say, only

half in jest, that the primary reason

anyone would want to be outside

at all, was for a warm piece

of ass. Everything else was

government issued, free ride,

paid for, and waiting for

an enterprising man to collect.

A man could make himself

quite a nice living, if he could

learn to do without women,

hell he wasn't much to look

at no how so he'd get by,

yes, he would.

John Swain- A Poem

Beneath the Snow

Thunder beneath the snow

breaks the silence of the world.

The wind impresses a sign

on each dead leaf turned white

like an ancient divination

the last man scraped on bone

to live the will of earth.

The heat of the hawk steams

in a tree

like a raging torch fire

for my darkening way.

I pressed the hollowed branch 

with a thorn to my hands,

I heard the sky open in flight

for its own protection from us,

like the birth of a foal 

I am empty as this grey field 

lying still in my throat unsung.

John Swain lives in Louisville, Kentucky. Least Bittern Books published his second collection, Under the Mountain Born.

 

 

David J. Thompson- A Photo

                                                        "Truck Window, Georgia"

Victor Clevenger- Two Poems

Bluntly

 

Love:

it is like

being

dirty and

rain drown;

sitting

beside a

dumpster

dodging

crooked-eyed

felines and alley

snakes that

creep

quickly

on the hot

ground,

as an army of lice crawl across

your eyes

and dig

a thousand

little

clawed feet

into the

glossy

surfaces

and this is

why I don't

write love

poems.

Snow Angel

 

After thirty-five

years

of

wintertime, I have

gotten

used to "getting used to", but

I still

dread

each day. It’s like sleeping

under

bedsheets

next to

a cold-legged woman with

no

desire left

in

her

breath, or her bones.

 

 

David J. Thompson- A Photo

                                                                     "Cadillac"

Melanie Browne- Three Poems

Weird stuff about Napoleon

he slapped both men
and women,
he spilled coffee on
ladies dresses on purpose,
full of charm one
moment, he might 
shoot a swan in the next,
he liked his bath
hotter than hell,
and hated cats,
he would neurotically 
twitch his 
right shoulder,
and was possibly epileptic,
he masturbated before battle,
he believed in a lucky star
and made a ten year pact 
with a genie,
and yet 
he is still
quite interesting



Keith Richards again

I dreams about
Keith Richards again,
We are swimming in
the Thames,
sipping whiskey
out of a thimble,
the wind is strong,
Keith's hair like a 
bedraggled lion,
'I went fishing 
the other day,
& pulled out seven
bodies," he said
cocking one very 
grey eyebrow
towards the 
Ursa Minor,
but when I look
heavenward,
Keith has
shape-shifted
into a 
mighty clipper ship
and my foot
has slipped
into the mud
& I wake ever
so slowly
and scramble
the eggs and
dump them on
to a plate



One day after not winning the Powerball lottery

I google "Luxury Goods,"
and I see pictures
of shiny diamonds,
Gucci shopping bags
and a Russian man 
eating caviar 
with a gold spoon,
I see champagne,
beach vacations,
and bright orange colored sneakers,
Two days after not Winning
the Powerball Lottery,
I watch the reality show
"Lottery Changed My life,"
 a man buys a farm so he can 
ride a four wheeler around
and around and around,
he also buys a big truck
and some trucks for his friends
and he buys them
some four wheelers so
they can go around and around
and around and enjoy pizza
and beer and hot dogs and 
burgers made with sirloin-
Three days after not winning
the lottery I have forgotten
about not winning the Lottery
I have forgotten the people 
on the radio giving legal advice
about winning the lottery to
people who will not win
the lottery and all the crowds at 
7-11 and the soon to be
discarded sad slips
of white paper dreams

Ananya S. Guha- A Poem

Prayers

toxic colours

today the dead man

looked heavy weight

with the Bible by his bed

I thought  he  would speak to me

but then  started  nosing around  for more

more dying years, a reason to live

beyond redemption.Some of  the church

people I knew were there.

Prayed. Praying and colours

walked swiftly across the room

tears  left his face the moment

he was released. I  waked bereft of  tears

prayers followed.

 

Ananya S Guha

Shillong,INDIA.

Jonathan Hayes- A Photo

                                                             "The Shadowboxer"

Douglas Polk- Three Poems

Paradise

conversations overheard,

send a chill down the spine,

and make one question reality,

or one's own sanity,

basic concepts of society,

never known,

or at least unlearned,

avarice,

a religion,

a cure all for everything,

but ignorance,

trust placed with the criminal fringe,

congressmen and senators,

only flies on the web,

votes and speeches,

playing acting,

outcomes agreed upon before a foot steps upon the floor,

televised sessions,

only make the lies,

and deceptions,

easier to hide,

laws mean nothing,

if not honored,

or respected,

laws have no skin color,

neither black or white,

law abiding,

seems an insult,

instead of a concept,

to be valued,

chaos reigns,

inside of too many brains,

Hawkins may be right,

less than one hundred years,

the earth a paradise again.

 

 

The Elect

 

the chosen one,

self-satisfied savior,

the disillusioned dwell,

in the annals of history,

Julius Caesar to Barrack Obama,

wielding the power of government,

their own personal weapon,

ignoring the past,

and disdaining the future,

void of integrity,

discernment lacking,

believing the law resides,

within themselves,

the ship of state,

rudderless,

self-satisfied saviors.

 

 

The Activist

 

fuck the Republicans,

fuck the Democrats,

both parties,

more than willing to let America burn,

politics crazy,

socialists and bigots,

fight for power,

people arming themselves for Armageddon,

the hair on the back of the neck,

stands on end,

candidates,

as trustworthy as a lineup of  felons,

go to the nearest bar,

pick a drunk,

Mr. President,

America look forward,

the future a better place to be.

 

 

David J. Thompson- A Photo

                                                                    "Oklahoma"

Martins Iyoboyi- Two Poems

Common Road

A viper’s fang, two-pronged,

fueling death’s fearful prospects

News of careless ends,

when ambitious seekers bend their course,

protesting a nation’s madness

Blood pools, crescents of ceaseless sights,

and thick jams, of angry citizens,

Kept in sprees of halted hours

And soon, another death, stillness

when uniformed pawns come

seeking bribes for their shame.

HIV-Positive Ward

Dreaded like a leper, words

Sink of pedantic deaths, spreading,

Wings where blood is tagged –

Skin-dry, sockets beaten by pangs,

Living hopes consumed by the roots,

Passersby hurry without a stare –

The air, fear-gripped,

Aids news of crispy deaths –

Knowing physicians, bent to nurse,

Rebuke by sideward nods thick outside stigma …

Martins Iyoboyi is a Nigerian. His poems have appeared in several journals including Aji, Rhythm, Munyori Poetry, Contemporary Rhyme, Jellyfish Whisper, International Zeitschift, 63 Channels, Flask Review, Bending Spoons, Collective Fallout, The New Verse News, Chiron Review Poetry Cemetery, Boyne Writers Group, MotherVerse, Tenemos, Hat and The Mind[less] Muse. 

Sunil Sharma- A Poem

Night sounds

Pack of strays roaming freely

Bared fangs,

Reclaiming the mid-night street

As a disputed territory

Barking,

Fangs bared,

Attacking lonesome pedestrian/s

Returning from work---perhaps

Or, a late party,

Snarling, biting, the dogs

Chase bikes

Mayhem.

Few drug addicts passed out

On the broken pavement

A sodium vapor lamp above

Illuminating the sunken faces and glassy eyes

Of the prostrate figures---exiled from the system.

A back-firing vehicle

Shaking the drowsy buildings,

Honking even if there is no need.

Disparate sounds that do not intermix

In any dulcet note/symphony.

High decibels, harsh

Heard by an insomniac straight out of

An epileptic Dostoevsky.

It is suburban Mumbai, 2.30 am.

Unsafe…like the London of Dickens

Or, of  Conan Doyle.

Real?

Sur-real,

This metro-setting?

See Baudelaire lurking in shadows.

How most cities resemble, more so, during nights!

Sunil Sharma
Principal, Bharat College, Mumbai Metropolitan Region, India
Writer | Critic | Editor | Freelance Journalist | Reviewer | Literary Interviewer
website: http://www.drsunilsharma.in/
http://about.me/drsunilsharma
Twitter: @drsunilsharma

LinkedIn: http://in.linkedin.com/in/drsharmasunil/
Skype: sunils2015
Link to recent publications: http://www.bharatcollege.in/recent-publications

Ananya S. Guha- A Poem

Militancy

a screeching halt

the bottle of malt

turning the other way

a mirror cracks implosive is the wrath

explosive is the moth

a horse drawn car in fatigue

those overground 

never understand gun shots

in milling crowds.

they pull the whisky 

deflate anything that is risky

and wear the afflatus

we cower, hide our faces

and drag our bodies into

hollow pits.

Ananya S Guha

Shillong, INDIA.

 

 

Edilson A. Ferreira- Three Poems

Mr. Ferreira is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than Portuguese, in order to reach more people. Has been published (or upcoming to) in venues like Cyclamens and Swords, Right Hand Pointing, Boston Poetry Magazine, The Lake, The Stare’s Nest, The Provo Canyon, Red Wolf Journal, Subterranean Blue, Whispers, Every Day Poems, Indiana Voice Journal, Synesthesia and some others. Short listed in four American Poetry Contests, lives in a small town with wife, three sons and a granddaughter and has begun writing after retirement as a Bank Manager. He is collecting his works for a forthcoming book.  

The writing of our book

Who knows how fate works in our lives?

Fate – eternal tyrant – rules over all of us.

Since we were unborn and not conceived

And our parents unknown one to the other.  

Paths to walk by, persons to love and to hate.

Arrivals and departures, praises and failures.    

Faith and despair, rejoicing, tears and fears.

Every time, every day or hour, week by week,

From dawn to evening and noon to moon, 

Conscious or unconscious of its guidance,

We go pursuing threads around the labyrinth.  

Would be a warlock by early times in old caves

Who spelt the words that compose our book?

Or a saint who threw the letters from the stars?

Published in Cyclamens and Swords, August 2011 online issue.

Shame

I am ashamed to see security guards at my Bank,

armored vehicles used in money transport

and Police officers on the streets patrolling.

Supermarket loss-prevention professionals

and their cameras sleepless watching upon us.

They say that this is intrinsic to the Capitalism,

modus-vivendi we inherited from forefathers.

I am not used to the economic laws and marketing.

I am simply a poet, perhaps, or certainly, a minor one,

who wants to manifest that our brothers and sisters,

no-poet-people would have, by now, already changed

this way we have been chained to.

First published in Boston Poetry Magazine, August 15 2014. 

Reconnection

Poets are made by mode of enchantment,

and mine has been so an exquisite one.

It comes from our common ground,

sometimes from dark underground,

yet from sparkling highs of heaven.       

Some days, somewhere, untied to myself,

world loses the poet and gains the autist,

till a good soul recognizes me,

reconnecting the mode,  

like an out of order gadget.

Published in West Ward Quarterly, Spring print issue April 2015. 

John Pursch- A Poem

John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. Twice nominated for Best of the Net, his work has appeared in many literary journals. His first book, Intunesia, is available at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/whiteskybooks. Check out his experimental lit-rap video at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l33aUs7obVc. He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.

Partitions of Unity

We live in a seamless unity

that isn’t even a thing

and with one innocent little cut

we set in motion

an infinite, unstoppable process.

The first word,

the first thought,

and all is lost.

Without the concept of “first”,

this cannot happen.

So number is involved here,

at bottom, and prior to one is zero;

an emptiness, devoid… of what?

If we try to strip it all the way down,

to toss out the baby, the bath water,

the kitchen sink, the two-car garage,

the TV in every room,

to return to paradise,

before point and line,

before the idea of number…

We find we’re proudly waging

a war on concepts –

with concepts!

Maybe this banishing of thought

is how thought began?

Or begins again?

And again?

Bruce Mundhenke- A Poem

Bud Devore

Standing there in his bib overalls
In front of the corner store,
Drinking soda, unshaven and shabby,
Stood the man named Bud Devore.

He worked at Brown's Store for soda,
And maybe a little loose change,
Sometimes he talked with the customers,
Most of them thought him quite strange.

He walked down the alleyways junking,
He fixed up old radios,
Where he learned electronics,
Only the good LORD knows.

I interpreted for him sometimes,
His speech hard to understand,
Rheumatic fever afflicted boy,
Speech defective man.

His brother gave him a walrus tooth,
Then his brother moved away.
Bud was proud of the walrus tooth,
He showed it off every day.

Nobody could beat him at checkers,
At least nobody in town.
He took on all comers in his old shed
Until very few came around.

It seemed Bud was around forever,
Though he eventually faded away,
But he is still standing in front of Brown's Store
When he crosses my mind today.

Jennifer Lagier- A Photo

                                                                   "Storm Surf"

Levi J. Mericle- Three Poems

Levi J. Mericle is a poet/spoken-word artist and lyricist from Tucumcari, N.M. Currently he is associated with the New Mexico State Poetry Society and gives readings from his work. His work has appeared in multiple anthologies and his work can also be seen in multiple lit magazines and journals such as, Black Heart Magazine, The Mused, 101 Words, Eunoia Review, Awakenings Review, Penhead Press, Zaira Journal etc. Levi spends his days daydreaming about poetry and writes, at least a little bit every single day no matter what.

Child Gone

(Previously published in Mused)

Her whiskey knees
were always too drunk to hold up her body.

Her palms were a flight risk 
jumping in surrender whenever she felt captured,

felt insecure.  

Her elbows were never pointing to shadows that didn’t exist
but just to the ones no one claims.   

Her shoulder blades sharper than the tongues of serpents
easily colder than any iceberg you could imagine,
slabbed in the middle of her back like the titanic awaiting to plummet.

I always hoped and believed she’d acquire normalcy.

But to her being normal was too underrated for her understanding.
She believed she was a nobody’s nobody.

Just a slab of flesh living in an earthly meat counter,
awaiting to be consumed inside the belly of time.  
 
I hated to know her,
Because knowing her meant I cared way too much.

Knowing she was just a child gone wrong
and living in the skin,
                                      of pure oblivion.
That’s what I hated the most.      
   

To Sylvia

Life set you going with a pocket full of dreams

Yet your lining grew, filled with nightmares

And you fell to the element of death

The morning sang to you a lullaby

But then skipped the stepping stones of earth

And let you fold into the stream of wasted wishes

Melody forgotten

I found why life gave up on you

God jealous of your poetry

The devil envying your smile

I don’t know where your nightmares grow now

Or if you have any more at all

Maybe you’re plucking tulips

Inside gardens where winter never visits

Or maybe you’re sitting in the darkness

Lapping up a mirage of happiness

You now Ms. Lady Lazarus

You have walked the paths of life

And felt sorrow amongst the world

Yet your path is paved and growing golden with

Dreams

Still on earth

Please don’t forget why you existed

Because earth will always remember your smile

You’ve set the path we walk on

You are a goddess in your time

A heroine amongst the dead

You are the melody

And a pocket full of dreams

Your legacy will never be plucked

You are the tulips

The dreams

You are Lady Lazarus

You are Sylvia Plath

America

You fat and slothlike America

Clothed in Jewels and your Stepford Wives

You sit in camouflaged happiness

With thousands, your millions

“Buy Me a pony, a condo”

“Give the poor a photo of what life is like,

Happy.”

You slanderous sluts of gossip

Folded cackle for life’s little gnomes of poverty

Fits of “give me more, you tired, you POOR”

You call yourself a god or goddess of wealth

But you have no dignity

Past what your wallet can provide

You pretend yourself a god

Because the one and only God will not claim you

So sit in your caged habitat of wealth and pride

And forget that a life exists beyond your Prada-skinned world

Face the truth

(Your highness)

You fat

You slothlike America 

Jennifer Lagier- A Photo

                                                                "Morning Surf"

Rehan Qayoom- Two Poems

Rehan Qayoom is a poet of English and Urdu, editor, translator and archivist, educated at Birkbeck College, University of London. He has featured in numerous literary publications and performed his work internationally.  He has published 2 books of poetry and several works of prose.

www.rehanqayoom.weebly.com

Society Meeting

To brandish all the signs of genius

To bear the marks of disability

To read the myth of Mighty Peleus

With such diminished visibility

Are not the signs of High Society

Nor will they bring in any money now

Can this be life when all I do is read?

And go out once a while unheard, unseen

Alone and unaccompanied – I plead

To be let in the group, I have not been

Involved in anything like this: 15

Poets all discussing poetry

“Oh Yes” “Of Course” and that dull “Sure, why not?”

“Well, you know, when he published Don Juan”

“It all went down so badly and he got”

“Some very bitter reviews”, “And … well … one can

Either take things badly”, “But not Byron”

He made the most of it, he fobbed them off

Go on you dullards mocking: ones who make

The money from these meetings, those who eat

The cakes and all the pies and also take

The freebies to be had from such a meet

Let me alone now with my bread and water

And then return back home to Homer’s Daughter

A Poem of Maturity

After Parveen Shakir.

 

Sobbing like a child he insisted

That they bury him alive with his dead wife

The lads nudged and winked

At each other

The elderly said 'He has gone mad'

And the priests had a hard time dragging him back home!

Routinely he would go to Mewashah after work

Carrying flowers and incense candles

Then he would go every Thursday

Then every ninth day

Then on the 2 Eids, and then every Shab-barat

Then annually

Till one day he alighted from the number 60 bus

Into the scorching sun

And his eyes settled upon a tree

As he remembered

The new typist who’d arrived at the office that day

He laughed

Realising that the world

Does not consist of one person alone 

Alex H. Stone- A Poem

“The Stillness.  And Me” 

phobos phobos

phobos my

little boy girl 

my little hole. 

you were the big

one for so long.

but now it’s me. 

i own you.  do 

you understand?

have you ever 

seen yourself 

grow into something

truly solid. 

evil. but

not sinister. 

whole.  but

taking no

stances. 

i am the breeze. 

you remember? 

i always said that. 

Alex H Stone is a Minneapolis based writer and person.  Mostly writer.  He has a B.A. in music composition and a cat. 

web: www.everygrayhair.com 

twitter:@CharlieCat666