David J. Thompson- A Photo

                                             "Poster, Malaga"

Ananya S. Guha- A Poem

Speaking

There are no impediments

to poetry only raucous running

of voices and crackling spell 

of dreams. Sleep is hangover

words orchestrate the fun 

into livid flesh of breathing

noiselessly, they fall into arms 

where it  takes umbrage

then  the speaking begins 

a child curdled in mother's lap.

Ananya S Guha

Shillong, INDIA.

 

 

David S. Pointer- A Poem

 Suit Form Compassion

Who here can outshine    
                                            high office
                                            place haloes,
                                            bot drowsiness,
                                            bit cloudiness,

radiating mirrored images inside money,
emanating solutions by Pithecanthropus
Erectus,
refueling speedy international selfishness
benighting straightforward backwardness
inside unzippered American appendages
xeroxing blood, mud and patty cake memos
warmly supported by all repeat customers
wearing cyber-bells in the latex condom lines
restocking consequences to future generations


About the Author: David S. Pointer has been writing for the “Littles” for a long time. Recent work included in such places as “here and there.”

Michael Marrotti- A Poem

"Fanboys United"

It's a sight for
insecure eyes
The manifestation
of flattery
Under the guise
of solidarity
Digital high fives
when they know
deep down in
their shallow souls
that their writing
is as bad as my own
It's a special group
and to be honest
in which pertaining
to them (fanboys)
Honesty rarely occurs
I'm without the
invitation
What good am I
when I trimmed
my nails
I can't scratch
their backs properly
Fanboys united
The fallacy
has been
detrimental
to their writing
I've been ostracized
I feel so alone
At least I still have
my old friend candor
As they cliche away
I know everything
is subjective
But at the end
of the day
we'll never progress
If all we have
is the fanboys united

Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he's not writing, he's volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless shelter on a weekly basis. If you appreciate the man's work, please check out his blog:www.thoughtsofapoeticmind.blogspot.com for his latest poetry and short stories.

Stephen Bone- A Poem

Fern Fever

Joints crackling

like winter bracken she lifts

heavy glass domes, mists

trembling plumes

of maidenhair, asparagus;

is taken

back to damp cool woods,

a warm steadying hand;

remembers specimens glued

to ivory vellum

sent from far-flung counties,

names that startled, thrilled -

broad buckler, moonwort,

adder's tongue - black inked

beneath in faultless copperplate,

then gifts,

a pearl handled lens,

exquisite framed diagrams.

Fern fever they had called it,

this passion

for foraging, to identify;

the hope of finding

some thing rare.

( Fern fever was the name given to the Victorian craze for fern collecting )

This poem was first published in The Dawntreader # 34

Stephen Bone's first collection published by Playdead Press 2014.

www.playdeadpress.com

Ally Malinenko- Three Poems

Collateral Damage

You’re never going to connect to anyone ever again.

That’s what the storyteller says

as I watch him talk about

the black bird of cancer

and just like that,

I know it’s true.

I can feel that wall now

the one I keep walking into

rubbing up against me

and even last night

I felt it again

as we were on the couch,

the wine bottle half finished

the boring movie shut off

Neil Young on the radio

and you and me talking about

music and art

not cancer for a change

and you remember

that I said I had something to tell you

and you remind me

you say, what were you going to say before

and my mouth opens

and closes

and opens

and closes

You are never going to connect to anyone ever again.

and I say nothing

because maybe

the storyteller was wrong.

And I smile and

say, I don’t remember.

And I pray for the storyteller to be wrong.

The Waiting #1

When it is Monday

I am both too close

and not close

enough to Wednesday

which is the day

I should get the call

about the biopsy.

And I am not doing well,

one drink away from tears

or stupidity

and you are trying

telling me it’s fine

and I am nodding

wanting to grab you

and shake you and

scream,

It’s fucking cancer.

I know it.

I saw the doctor’s face

when she turned

to wash my blood off her gloved fingers

after dropping bits of me

into a jar for the lab

and I said,

Hey Doc, you’re not worried are you

craning my neck

to see her face

from this operating table

and she said

Yes, Allyson

she used my whole

name the way people

who don’t know me do

she said Yes Allyson, I’m very worried.

before yanking off her gloves

dropping them in the sink

and walking out the door.

Secrets

I watch videos online

during my late night at work

of girls explaining

how to tie a head scarf

so it doesn’t slip off your head.

Avoid silk they say, rubbing their bald heads

talking to the camera.

They are good at this,

nimble fingered

and careful.

Each one they tie

looks great,

if great is a word that can be used here.

I email a few to my mother.

I tell her not to worry about the chemo

I tell her to be strong

To be brave.

I tell her all the things that I whisper to myself late at night.

I send videos to my mother

so she can learn to tie a headscarf

I save a few for me. 

Matthew Borczon- Three Poems

Matthew Borczon is a nurse and Navy sailor from Erie Pa. He served in the busiest combat hospital in Afghanistan from 2010-11. He writes about his experiences there and the difficulties of living with PTSD. His work had been published in dead snakes, the yellow chair review, Rasputin, busted Dharma, Red Efts, Dissident Voice, Big Hammer and Hanging loose. He won the Yellow chair reviews chap book contest for 2015 and his book a Clock of Human bones is available through them.

early morning rain

in this town

banjo strings

connect the

power lines

and black

crows play

mountain odes

as they caw

into the

orange sunrise

waking me

from my

dreams of

gun fire and

helicopters

my nights

belong in

the desert

in my

days I

dream of

home.

Oxycodone

spent a

sleepless night

swallowing

ghosts of

dead soldiers

as bombs

exploded on

my TV

and oxycodone

numbed pain

from a

tooth I

had extracted

after it

shattered

under the

blue glove

of an

oral surgeon

I have

drank enough

blood in

one day

to last

a lifetime

this time

at least

it is

my own.

March 2016

Maintenance

I’m tending

the graves

again tonight

cleaning sand

off stones

with a

hand broom

in a

yard of

crosses with

no names

and I’m

checking equipment

tonight 872

suction pumps

and drip poles

serviced nightly

for the

ghosts of

the dead

and I’m

writing letters

for the

wounded

tonight using

words I

don’t know

to describe

things no

one should

see for

soldiers

without eyes

or hands

and I’m

serving meals

to Marines

too weak

to eat

again tonight

hoping to

get enough

inside so

they can

rejoin their

unit in

time to

attack my

dreams

Melanie Browne- Two Poems

Rescuing Naked Barbies from Goodwill

I see their faces first,

in gallon-size ziplock bags,

mashed together like

one brutal S&M orgy,

I long to rescue them,

give them all a hot bath

then dress them in

some second -hand gently worn

clothing,

but I can't

save them all,

I am not Therese,

the patron saint

of naked thrift store Barbies,

but,

if someone nominates me

I doubt if I will turn it down

Arguing with My Mom on Easter

I am in a heated 

discussion with

my Mom about

whether the infamous

Madalyn Murray O'Hair

met her ultimate

demise with the

help of a

wood chipper,

I read her the 

Wikipedia article,

but she isn't

satisfied,

It's Easter,

I say,

this isn't a 

suitable topic,

and neither of us

can remember how

we got here,

from point A

to point W,

so we drink our coffee

and eat the ham

and peel the

shell from 

the hard boiled

eggs

 

Charles Rammelkamp- A Photo

                                                   "Spring"

Christopher Hivner- Three Poems

Christopher Hivner writes from a small town in Pennsylvania surrounded by books and the echoes of music. He has recently been published in Anti-Heroin Chic and Syzygy Poetry Journal. 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. website: www.chrishivner.com, Facebook: Christopher Hivner - Author, Twitter: @Your_screams


I Wrote This One While Listening to One of my Favorite Songs

It is languid
the song that keeps me in reverie,
speaking a language
I understand too well,
wished I’d never learned.
When the guitar
has its moment in the spotlight
it drives the point home
that I am wallowing
in the cool mud
of the past.
It paces my skin
with succulent frissons
leaving me with the notion
I am still alive.
There is an accordion
in the background
haunting the melody,
pulling me along to the end,
another five minutes spent
thinking of things
I don’t have anymore.



Cassiopeia and a Virginia Slim

The two of us
on the porch
that night,
she’s smoking a cigarette
and freezing.
I’m watching the stars
wishing I could remember
the constellations.
She says something about
not wanting to smoke anymore.
I wanted to put
my arm around her
but we weren’t us now.
She mumbles that
she wants to go shopping
for a new coat,
I want to kiss her
but its too late.
She doesn’t like shopping,
says she never sees anything
she likes.
I shake my head
at the familiar refrain.



That Edge

“I know, I’m going to hell,”
my friend always says
after telling one of his jokes
that make me laugh
and cringe
at the same time.
He gets away
with saying things
I never could.
I wonder sometimes
if I secretly
want to be him,
just for a moment,
to exist inside
that edge,
feel the blade
slice my skin
and draw blood.
Someone pours alcohol
in the wound
to punish me
for my sin,
but I don’t repent.
I laugh harder
than everyone else
feeling my horns
form under the skin.

David J. Thompson- A Photo

                                            "Malaga Mural"

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal- 3 Poems

Luis works in the mental health field in Los Angeles, CA. His next chapbook will be published by Kendra Steiner Editions in April 2016.  His first book of poems was published by Pygmy Forest Press.

 

 

 

NIGHT MIRROR

 

You are a night mirror,

sometimes a circle,

sometimes red or yellow,

a silhouette in the day.

 

Your reflection in the lake 

looks like a glass plate.

If you had a voice, I'd

imagine you would complain

 

about the setting sun and

growl at your reflection and

unaccomplished dreams.

 

High above the hills you are

followed by shining stars.

 

 

 

GOOD THOUGHTS

 

I will leave you my good thoughts 

and not my sleepless days.

I won't complain about the years 

I wasted being in love and almost

 

going mad.  I will leave you

a prayer and my best wishes.

I won't leave you my desperate 

dreams or tear filled eyes.

 

I won't leave you sad thoughts

or throw sand in your eyes.

I long to see you happy and free.

 

I leave everything that is positive 

in exchange for hearing my secret

that I will always feel love for you.

 

 

 

GREAT ESCAPE

 

I made my great escape.

You should too.

What's another minute

or two going to hurt?

 

I left the cubicle

of death and

found my way out of here

with my head held real high.

 

In the morning I will

be back for

another round in this place

where trouble never ends.

 

Now and then I make the

great escape

a minute or two early

for my own peace of mind.

 

 

Charles Rammelkamp- A Poem

Tattoo Torture

Once in a smooth gray sheet of drying cement

in front on a campus convenience store

so like the surface of a placid pre-dawn lake

I etched “Charles Loves Liz” with a sharp stick,

a girl I had a crush on,

the graffiti a confession,

a declaration to the world,

then fled like the vandal I was,

sneaking back every few days

to look at my work,

as if poking an aching tooth with my tongue.

Sometimes people speculated,

but nobody guessed,

who this Charles and Liz were,

but of course nobody knew for sure:

amazing the number of people with those names.

Later everybody talked about Barbara Cook

coming back to her student apartment

to find Liz in bed with Reed Jones,

a campus scandal for a week or two.

Just before the school year ended,

I remember seeing Liz walk over the graffiti,

fingers laced with Roger Castleman’s,

my jealousy just as tangled as those hands

with the relief that at least

I hadn’t gotten a tattoo.

Donal Mahoney- Three Poems

The POTUS in Argentina

With a smile, the POTUS

tangoes in Argentina 

while in Belgium and 

the rest of the World

people try not to cry.

Bill's Socks

Hillary was at the podium

setting the record straight

for people who have a problem

with the tone of her voice.

She said when Bill was 

president some folks said

she should have stayed home

and matched up his socks.

No way, fans in the crowd

booed their response.

But in a city far away

a husband at home 

watching on TV 

leaned over on the couch 

and whispered to his wife

he’d bet anything  

Monica would have put

those argyles together.

All Flags Flying

Wally and Stan

neighbors on the same block

for 30 years never

had a problem until 

Wally asked Stan over

big steins of beer

why he never lets

the American flag fly

from his rooftop

the way everyone else 

on the block does

on holidays especially

and Stan paused

sipped his beer and said

he saw no sense

in preaching to the choir

but when he migrates to Arizona 

he will fly it every day there.

—————————————————————————
Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. His fiction and poetry have appeared in various publications, including The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Christian Science Monitor, The Chicago Tribune and Commonweal. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html#sthash.OSYzpgmQ.dpbs=

 

Jennifer Lagier- A Photo

                                               "Wall Angel"

 

Ananya S. Guha- A Poem

Witness

The rains are here

predestination of those wind 

blowing monsoons

and I suffer delusions of memory

as the mind whirls into myths of past stoppages, slushy 

fields, the old school building and the swimming pool 

with shades too blue

as the rains rattle window panes 

I heave breaths of ponderous time movement

of these hills as their greenish blue colours 

take time for spin off into blurry past. 

The Monolith festival will be on soon

and man's neolithic age will be proven

by researchers. But how these hills anarchic 

took off into time will be a question

best unanswered. For they came before primordial 

time pushing out history with elbows. 

And left scars and wounds as witness.

Ananya S Guha

Shillong, INDIA.

 

 

Joan McNerney- Three Poems

Shhhhh...

There is a

witch living

on the corner

where the four

roads meet.

Her eye is

evil, her

nose crooked.

She lays down

the tarot

pattern

with wrinkled

hands.

Asks "do you wish

tea of wormwood

or henbane?"

She will enchant

your mind now

into fields of

wild roses.

I planted my garden

on the wrong side

of moon forgetting

tides of ocean

lunar wax wane

only madness

was cultivated

there underground

tubular roots

corpulent veins

flowers called

despair gave off

a single fruit...

I ate it

my laughter

becoming harsh

my eyes grew

oblique.

Methuselah Speaks

Living in shadows I scarcely stir.

Each motion brings pain with fear

of falling, breaking brittle bones

or bruising my spider web skin. 

I see so little.  Sunlight blinds my

rheumy eyes.  Night dims my world

leaving just vague outlines.

Food is stale, bitter.  Thirst savage. 

No liquids quench me.  My bodily

functions often fail befouling me.

All these years weigh down my soul.

Hearing faded,  everything in whispers.

My breath is raspy, without strength.

My mind dull with defeat.  I count only

my losses and remember nothing

but the dead.  My memory is pain.

I cannot celebrate births. My great

grandchildren died so long ago. 

Why must I always wait here?

God, have you forgotten me?

Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Camel Saloon, Blueline, Poppy Road Review, Spectrum, three Bright Hills Press Anthologies and several Kind of A Hurricane Publications.  She has been nominated three times for Best of the Net. 

Sunil Sharma- A Poem

Machine-human interface

Offices

Cars

Metros

Hotels

Homes

Loos.

Humans revolving in solitary orbits/single bandwidths.

Clustered in pairs, threes/fours and groups

Or, alone on a table waiting for the order to be served

Yet, real-time disconnected.

Religiously punching hand-held tiny machines called smart phones, slim-slimmer

Metal---so erotic; cellphones rendered sexy 

For the dysfunctional.

Busy men women kids---mere traces in the cyberspace

Cooing intimately to the gadgets; ignoring their peers.

So surreal, this high-tech culture!

Cold machines taking over

Antiseptic corridors of power and communication

Androids glassy-eyed, everywhere!

The versifier---longing for humans.

Richard Schnap- A Poem

GAMBLERS ANONYMOUS

Sometimes I see it
In the eyes of cashiers
A roulette wheel spinning
Where every number’s the same

And sometimes again
In those of cabdrivers
A pair of dice landing
With a face that speaks death

And sometimes once more
Within telemarketers
A slot machine promising
And then changing its mind

And sometimes they’ll win
With a thrill that soon dwindles
For the mastery of one’s fate
Remains a loser’s game

Eric Robert Nolan- Three Poems

"The Writer"

At night he dreamt of birds, thou­sands of them,

impris­oned in his house.

Ravens screamed in the attic.

Spar­rows pan­icked in the hall.

He sat at his desk.   A Jay pecked

Fran­ti­cally at his shirt sleeve.

The base­ment door revealed

Tor­rents of finches, erupt­ing in the dark

A loud gray storm

Of beaks and tiny claws.

Seag­ulls suf­fered in the cup­boards.

Para­keets in the rafters, trapped,

Raged in Etruscan.

He crossed the room.

Owls

Moaned under the floorboards.

Twelve red car­di­nals

Lined his kitchen shelves –

A dis­cor­dant jury.

Pea­cocks plead in the oven.

In a jar of sugar

Tit­mice strug­gled for air.

At his desk were

Pho­tographs, let­ters

Pens and a half dead Marten.

He reached for his old brown afghan but felt

Bone and feather

The heav­ing brown breast

Of a starv­ing eagle.

Some­times the scratch

Of pen against paper brought

Respite from birdsong:

Two less wings against the silence

One less voice in that

Trou­bled aviary.

A par­rot perched

On his paper stacks.

“Remorse,” it offered fee­bly.

“Regret,” he answered back.

"The Secretary"

Skin and cir­cuitry,

Metal and flesh.

Her dreams of child­birth were

Relent­less, recur­ring.

Push, push, push

Said a midwife’s mechan­i­cal voice.

Flu­o­res­cent lights flick­ered,

Then mur­mured dis­cor­dantly.

Coarse starched sheets

Scratched her knees.

Machines hummed in corners.

She pushed.

The prod­uct of her womb was hard —

Edges and angles

Against her inner thighs.

And at the end of that dif­fi­cult birth, look­ing down,

She saw coils and coils of bright cop­per wire.

By day, she was a sec­re­tary.

Peo­ple liked her.  Not enough, though,

For Valentine’s, dates, anniversaries.

With furtive eyes, she observed

All those lit­tle moments

That enchant a com­mon life.

So, she only worked.

Phone, file, phone.

Push, push, push.

At times, she imag­ined her womb

As a ges­tat­ing clock.

Its metic­u­lous gears

Marked the pas­sage of time.

Bat­ter­ies moved her limbs, her veins

Were wires in her skin.

She hid cir­cuits

Behind her eyes.

Elec­tric­ity rid­dled her brain –

Warm lightning.

Return­ing home one night,

She passed a fac­tory on her right.

Its smoke­stacks vaulted up

Like tur­rets.  The lights there

Were stacked stars.

Its fence hummed.  The smoke­stacks

Exhaled rhyth­mi­cally

Push, push, push.

A metal shed was there –

She imag­ined it had

A piston-​​beating heart

A mus­cled metronome –

Life in a bright steel box.

Arriv­ing home, her spine

Tick­led with cur­rent.

She reached her garage and parked.  Blue sparks

Danced in her sinuses.

Push, push, push,

Said a mid-wife’s mechan­i­cal voice.

She pushed some oily rags

To seal the open spaces

Beneath her garage door.

In her brain,

Machines hummed in corners.

She pushed the car’s igni­tion.

The air there nour­ished her, then.

The car­bon monox­ide

Push, push, pushed her.

She shut her eyes.

Her gears slowed softly.

"The Bureaucrat" 

Amity in his veins,

The gray, aging bureau­crat

Lit a cigarette.

He spied ice on a win­dowframe

How unlike its blue-​​cold form

Were the words of indus­try – warm.

Like sun­light on a mon­u­ment,

The bright hues of a flag,

Warm – like the ring­ing endorse­ment

Of a prod­uct or a plan.

Like the gaily col­ored cov­ers

Of an annual report.

Warm – like the newly dead.

© Eric Robert Nolan 2013

*****

BIO:  Eric’s poetry and short stories have been featured by Dagda Publishing, Every Day Poets, Every Day Fiction, Illumen, Under The Bed, Dead Beats Literary Blog, Microfiction Monday Magazine, Dead Snakes, Peeking Cat Poetry Magazine, The Bright Light Cafe, Aphelion, Tales of the Zombie War, The International War Veterans’ Poetry Archive, and elsewhere.  His poems were also included in anthology format in Dagda Publishing’s “Threads” in September 2013.  Eric’s science fiction/horror short story, “At the End of the World, My Daughter Wept Metal,” was published in January 2014 in Dagda’s short story anthology, “All Hail the New Flesh.”

Bruce Mundhenke- A Poem

First and Last

Have you heard the wind blow,
Or listened to falling rain,
Have you known the solitude
Of walking a country lane.

Have you seen the stars shine
As you look at the sky at night.
Do you know which ones still burn,
Or which are only light?

Have you touched those things around you,
And felt that they were real,
Yet knew them transitory things
In spite of how you feel.

Stars are born and stars will die,
People come and go.
Everything will pass away,
We all know this is so.

Only the Spirit is forever,
All things must surely pass,
Even so, the Spirit will gather,
The First and with the Last.

CL Bledsoe- Three Poems

Bio: CL Bledsoe is the author of a dozen books, most recently the poetry collection Riceland and the novel Man of Clay. He lives in northern Virginia with his daughter.

Movie Hut

Tucked in a strip mall between a nasty taco

joint that made a mean biscuits and gravy,

and a hair salon full of bored 20-somethings

who spent the whole time trying

to upsell you. The carpet was some faded,

filthy shade that might’ve once been green

and brown or just years of stains. Tuesday’s

new releases up front, crowded and picked clean

by Friday afternoon. Maybe you paused

in the classics, but everyone’s seen those

or decided they never will long ago. Maybe

you try the drama or action but those are just new

releases that are no longer new. In the back,

on the wall: the true destination. A video shop

could be judged by its horror section. Obscure, silly

titles you never heard of, imported Italian insanity.

Every once in a while you find that low-budget

gem that makes the night worth wasting. They

had overpriced popcorn covered in dust. They

had sodas flatter than the earth. They had used

VHS for sale to make room for DVDs sometimes

cheaper to buy than to rent. When they were gone,

they weren’t going to be replaced.

Salad Days

Friday nights, before we had our licenses, we’d wait

till Dad was asleep, borrow his dirt- and oil-stained

truck, and cruise gravel roads to the old Tastee Freeze

on the edge of town. They had ice cream cones dipped

in fudge. They had tattered onion rings that tasted

like salt and grease, burgers that came hot and drippy.

We’d pay in change, borrowed money, any way

we could. All of it squished into a greasy bag, too hot

to eat until we got home. We’d cut the engine and roll

the last few yards, lights off, to the house; push the doors

to quietly, butterscotch milkshakes already empty,

tiptoe back into my bedroom to scarf our lukewarm

grease and play Super Mario Bros until we passed out.

The Yellow King

Everything smelled like grease, even

on your day off. I worked there for two

days. On the first, a coworker got into

an argument with a plant in the lobby

while I was on lunch. It looked like

the plant got the better of him. When

I went back behind the counter, the shift

manager with the piercings in her cheek said

he wasn’t violent. The others gathered around

her as she pontificated in mumbled slang

about high times in the trailer park.

I was going to New York the next day,

a trip I’d planned before getting the job.

I would eat my first veggie pizza—just bread

and plants, really—try calamari, drink six

dollar beer, be felt up by strangers in a city

where everyone wears black and hates

everything. Just because I would never be one

of them didn’t mean I would only ever

be me. When I got back, I worked one

more day with the familiar smell

and the boredom. I took my shirts back

when I picked up my check. No one cared.

It happened all the time.