Dawn Sweet- A Photo

                                            "Abandoned Car"

Nancy May- Three Poems

opening your heart
by the babbling brook
washing away lustful wishes



I wait silently
for a tsunami of love
to fill my empty heart



peeling an unbroken spiral
of the soft warm wind
you kiss me tenderly



Nancy May’s haiku can be found at Haiku Journal, Three Line Poetry, Poetry Quarterly, Inclement Poetry, Twisted Dreams Magazine, Vox Poetica, Eskimo Pie, Icebox, Dark Pens, Daily Love, Leaves of Ink, The Blue Hour Magazine, Kernels, Mused – The BellaOnline Literary Review, Danse Macabre – An online literary Magazine, High Coupe, A Handful of Stones, Lyrical Passion Poetry E-Zine, UFO Gigolo, 50 Haikus, The Germ, Boston Literary Review, Be Happy Zone, Every Day Poets, Cattails, Ppigpenn, Creatrix Journal, M58, The Camel Saloon, Haikuary and the Plum Tree Tavern. She has reached The Heron’s Nest consideration stage twice and the Chrysanthemum consideration stage once. She is working on her first haiku collection.

Angelica Fuse- Three Poems

Table Cloth Shirt

he's wearing

a table cloth shirt

as he rummages

through our wares

I imagine

he found an actual

table cloth

and threw it over 

himself

to keep warm

 

Movie Noise

I learned to speak

from the voice

of Cary Grant

and Deborah Kerr

learned my humor

from Gene Wilder

and Meg Ryan

learned to argue

from the broadcast

news

 

Vulture Game

as I leave

they circle around

where I stood

looking for

whatever they 

can carry away

in their beaks

 

 

Douglas Polk- Three Poems

Candidates

Trump,

a post Obama candidate,

for president,

narcissistic,

enveloped in self,

a cult of personality,

the first requirement for the job.

 

 

Elections

hypocrisy,

mass communicated,

no rules of integrity,

or character,

citizens seem only sheep,

to be led to the slaughter,

mindless,

stupid sheep.

Culture

isolated,

communicating on small screens,

bullies,

roam the airwaves,

searching independent minds,

to beat down,

thoughts dangerous,

if not all agree,

thugs deciding the culture,

and the way things shall be.

 

 

Charles Rammelkamp- A Photo

Ananya S. Guha- A Poem

Man And Machine

Hastening, the sun

casts reflection 

on seething ontologies

when will it come, the depredation

the lust, the spitting hatred, the sun

salvages lost hope, in mellow weather 

we can smile, recant ideals, ask forgiveness

for sins done in blistering haste.

Some pray, testimony to living gods

whose absolutism one cannot take for granted. 

Nearer home there are floods, the elections are over

but the floods assailed the land, as if asking people 

to expiate. Have the votes gone wrong? Nature foresees events, happenings, 

history can't. 

In the plains of India temperatures are seething. 

So are politicians in decrepit mansions, out of fear.

Who will win? Which way will these electronic votes go? 

Machine and man. Who will prevail? The Election Commission

will present medals, or has presented medals to the earliest 

five voters. See how uncannily they have made voting an art, 

even as the jungles are in fever pitch, and the floods play havoc 

on  loose soil? The heat a cauldron. Schools are closed. Do they all 

have air conditioners? Some have, the ones who wait for the votes

trickling down the electronic box, the ballot, nay the bullet box.

Man and Machine. 

Ananya S Guha

Shillong, INDIA.

 

 

Jennifer Lagier- A Photo

                                    "Rock bench on bluff trail"

JD DeHart- A Poem

Person of Faith

The voice whispers to me, all I’m used to is a whisper:

            Do you believe?

Believe like the whisper I heard in the woods when I was a child, wind through trees, twitter of insects.  I am emic and etic at the same time, a dynamic of tension.  I belong here in this Kingdom and yet I don’t.

Believe like the abandoned church in the woods, composed of broken wood, an empty pulpit, a silent congregation, and leaf-strewn pews.  It was a place I wanted to reside in.

Believe like the plush smell of the new church down the road, complete with inside baptistery so we don’t have to go down to the creek anymore, pressing my face to the soft floor.

Believe like a circle of lights in the sky over a praying family or the story of a prophet in the Old Testament.  Or the truth behind the story, the reality of the dusty ground, the trial and the error, the pain of trying to listen to the sky, ear straining.

I will never stop believing.

JD DeHart is a writer and teacher.  His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available from Red Dashboard.

Bruce Mundhenke- Two Poems

Dreaming

Raindrop...
Come and follow me,
We''ll find our way
Into the sea.

Sunbeam...
Take me with you on your flight,
I'll go with you
Into the night.

Starlight...
Bring me back from darkest night,
I'll be a shadow
On your flight.

Dream train...
Your tracks are fading in the night,
The ties unloosened
With the light.

Moonbeam...
Just a ghost of burning fire,
A mere reflection
Of desire.

Candle...
Burn so gently as you glow,
Your wick
Is longer than you know.


Waking

Dawn is at my window,
Treetops dance in light,
A robin's song seduces me
With haunting sweet delight.
A dove calls
Someone loves you,
A sad and mournful sound.
A world comes into focus,
And enters into light,
And once again
Forgets the darkness of the night.

Kali Collins- Two Poems

Silence

There is silence in the words we say.

Buried under piles of red clothed

backs and duct-taped mouths.

Streets lined with blurred out figures—

their faces turned away—and lying under

the garbage is the silent generations.

The kids who saw more backs and hateful

slurs than kind eyes and outstretched hands.

There is silence in their downturned mouths,

That we chose to overlook. In the crowds that

gather around the young boy who is too

weak to defend himself. In the not-so-

innocent bystanders, who gape and laugh,

but whose mouths remained nailed shut—

even as his body loses life…

There is silence in the way I bite my lip and turn away.

Forced Freedom

You have the freedom,

to recognize the silence

encompassed in the early

morning mist as it drags across

the Earth. To change the song

that burdens the ear, buried

in the church bells strange

clamor as they screech and

howl to the wind. But

there is no freedom in bending

the flat world to fit a sphere.

Nate Maye- Three Poems

Sinner Friends

yes we 

have fallen

into the hands

of an angry

god, or maybe

just into

the mouths

of one another,

victims of

criticism and

other splinters.

 

Cookie Cutter

we have

fallen into 

this world of

stamping image,

I am you,

you are me, and

we barely

can be told apart,

two overlapping

stories, word

by blessed word.

 

Beggar

perhaps an angel

wrapped in the smell

of street

perhaps a devil

with a smiling face

perhaps a chance

to be a nice being

for one instant

offer some change

perhaps just

one of ill fortune

or mental illness

cast here by mistake.

 

 

David J. Thompson- A Photo

                                           "Auburn, Indiana"

Michael Marrotti- A Poem

An Empty Vagina

Her vacuous eyes
and lack of
sexual pleasure
made her to me
a memorable
lover

The perpetual
taste of
cheap beer
on her lips
Provided me
with the
assurance
of modest wants
and subtle
self destruction

She had an
ordinary vagina
that barely existed
No aroma
It never smelled
like anything

What she became
to me as the clock
worked its cycle
Became less and less
until it denigrated
to nothing



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.

Ananya S. Guha- A Poem

Walking Sideways

walking sideways

crooked roads

gnomic house

with roof tops 

which look like

templates of dust

and the heat slides

into one of them

with a one legged 

hopping crow trying

to rid the last shivers

of the earthquake.

 

 

James Babbs- Three Poems

James Babbs is a writer, a dreamer, a three-time loser and an all-around nice guy who just wants to be left alone.  James is the author of Disturbing The Light(2013) & The Weight of Invisible Things(2013) and has hundreds of poems and a few short stories scattered all over the internet.

One Time

he said

remember that one time

when we got really drunk and

started walking around town

you know

back when we were in college

he started laughing

handing me another beer

from the cooler down by his feet

I twisted off the cap

tried shooting it

into the wastebasket

but watched it bounce off the edge

and land on the floor

he said

you kept screaming

at everyone you saw

until Jack and Gus tackled you

and told you to shut up

I nodded my head

and he laughed again

he drained the rest of his beer

before reaching for another one

he said

how about that one time

when you were wearing

Bob’s old army jacket

I said

yeah

why was I wearing his jacket

I don’t remember

he leaned back

gazing at a spot on the wall

he said

I don’t remember either

but you left the party

we were at and

when Gus and I came home

you were out in the hallway

slumped against the door

we thought you were some old bum

that had wandered in off the street

then we realized it was you

I nodded my head

yeah

then you guys grabbed me and

dragged me by my arms

and left me there on the floor

he said

that’s right

you stayed there the whole night

I laughed

I think I woke up

maybe one time

but I just rolled over

and went back to sleep

he said

yeah

you were still there in the morning

with Bob’s army jacket on

we both laughed

shaking our heads

before starting on another beer

Almost 5 O’clock

I thought I needed something

because

I just couldn’t get settled

so I opened the wine

and poured myself a glass

this same feeling all day

so I was glad to finally be home

I don’t know how long ago

I started drinking this stuff

I was never really much for wine

I’d always been a beer drinker

but I guess

somewhere along the way

I wanted something different

so I tried this cheap stuff

and thought it wasn’t too bad

not too bad at all

I took another drink

and looked through the window

it was almost five o’clock

out there the corn field

stood green and tall

like an advancing army

swaying beneath the sun

An April Weekend

it’s one of the most beautiful

days of the year so far and

I’m sitting in the shade

next to the garage

while up in the trees

the birds make lots of noise

yesterday

I got drunk again

after I finished mowing the yard

I took a shower and

put on my Batman t-shirt

then opened the first beer and

took a long slow drink

sun still bright

up there in the afternoon sky

but it was saturday and

I was feeling pretty good

had seven or eight more bottles

before deciding that was enough

now it’s sunday and

I’m still wearing the same shirt

not too long ago

before I came out here

I had a chicken sandwich

with pepper jack cheese and

I have to say

it tasted really good

Dawn Sweet- A Photo

                                                  "Rebirth"

Jonathan Beale- Three Poems

Sign o’ the Times

 31 March 1987

‘U turn on the telly and every other story
Is tellin' U somebody died.’

Requiescat in pace  - Prince Rogers Nelson

In the weight of the world

Under a cloud of unknowing

This keen eye drew the fiery vision:

And beat a new tongue out in

Funk, soul, psychedelic pop,
Electro, and good old 4 on 4 rock music.

This world - this perdition - grey cold

The world strangely uncompromisingly

Deconstructed - not so much as to lose

Its’ very essence –in its very being.  

The world woven of strange moralities

With the lush draw of a world in all its vices.

The attraction is too, too, much, then crisis.  

Like advised lets fall in love B4 it’s too late.

Some say a man ain't happy unless a man truly dies
Oh why?  Oh Why?  Sign o’ the Times….  Time.

Lady Cab driver

‘She carried the many, she carried few

Hear them ask - Can U take me 4 a ride?
Don't know where I'm goin' 'cuz

I don't know where I've been.’
In the shadow and mists of the night -

The need to - in motion of the motion of the world

She held the wheel with absolute intention  

“Just drive, destination not known.”   

The sweat drenched body

In the abstract mirrored eye contact

Esmerelda sees Butch - an accident

Of fate - they are in the zone -

A place where names don’t mean shit

The continent of the cab - the blur

Of neon, mirrored reflection, stop signs

The passing cries of strangers “Taxi!  Taxi!”

Their voices fade – this taxi and she is mine.

For now! 
            This is 4 the destination.  

            This is 4 when your lips meet mine.  
            This is 4 the jazz breathing the air.

            This is 4 the sheep who feed on media hype.

            This is 4 the homeless guy forgot by all except the eye.

            This is 4 for the first spring dawn.

            This is 4 the last dollar in my pocket.

            This is 4 the Red Corvette from 1958.  

            This is 4 when we have reached the top. 

            This is 4 the bullet laden teenage gangster.  

            This is 4 whoever devised Route 66.

            This is 4 and the Rolling Stones for Beggars Banquet.

            This is 4 the storm and may it soon pass.    

            This is 4 your smile and may it remain etched in my mind for all time.  

            This is 4 the moon and stars.  

            This is 4 the drunk who’s flat out of dreams and hopes

            This is 4 your God and May they stay by your side – always

    And this is 4 U!  U!  U!  U!  U!  U!  U!  & U!

After Prince

In a glimpse of a vast universe

Making our everyday life – wondrous

Some kind prophet of A New Age

An age he made his own

His words need no explanation

Help in his hands the beauty of passion

The Love and the Sex in the graffiti

Of the mesh of humanity.

In this very mettle of the breath of life

The energy, who visceral

Yet now, out, out, brief candle.   

David J. Thompson- A Photo

                                         "Street Art, Detroit"

John Pursch- Two Poems

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.

Blue Eidetic Surfeit

Gingerly

the hand melts

flag by drawbridge

orderlies beside

a turning pageboy

tariff cod to sea floor

reminiscence.

Held aside,

the bullet swath

of ballet con demotion

trains on movie-slumping

peppercorn terrain of

hidden faces.

Shadows slip in mortal

chew-line static whisked

to blue eidetic surfeit.

Pink Indigenous Reply

Nomadic postulants

elbow macaroon macaws

in macadamized academia,

dropping doozy tomb-door

reflex finger fit impending.

Doors imagine grotto gamut

pelicans in redwood core of

swearing sound indelicate

artesian gel or rump steak

roadhouse silent passage

bygone slant to shunting

raw papyrus pink

indigenous reply. 

Alysha DePerna- Three Poems

Definitions

We build lines
those imaginary lines,
or maybe it’s just me

Half the time I feel like we’re
in on this mess together,
and others, I’m pretty sure
I’m the only mind these thoughts occupy

Nothing solid
other than want and hope,
and want and hope,
are nothing more than gluttons for punishment

These are all words
and I know I am full of them
words are not promises
words are not glue
words are not a definition
of anything



Rhythm

I am tired,
perpetually tired
I ache from fatigue

My body vibrates from months
of pent up emotion

I radiate with pure, unequivocal sadness
liquid sadness,
the kind that fills you up so full
your chest beats against the rhythm of the waves

I heave from trying to hold it all in



Steam

I’m fascinated by the unsweetened
and undiluted
uninterested in people’s tastes
like my coffee,
I prefer you in full-strength
and searing hot
able to rouse my weary, idle heart



Alysha DePerna lives in Rochester, NY and is a recent graduate of St. John Fisher College. A writer by day and a reader by night, she is loathe to discuss herself in the third person, but can be persuaded to do so from time to time. She enjoys traveling, reading obscure novels, and correcting people’s grammar.

Sunil Sharma- A Poem

Cultural transmutation: Will Shakespeare---400

There comes a time when you become

A Lear

Hamlet

Macbeth

in your life

sometimes one by one

sometimes all rolled into one

and, sometimes, in piecemeal.

You are, that moment, a Will Shakespeare

Will becoming you

the creator, created and the recipient---isomers of artistic universe.

You inhabit a temporal paradox

a dualism of time...here

making and unmaking of moments

real and lapsed collapsing in the same moment

Simultaneously posited in 1564-1616 and 2016

Flitting between an English Court and postmodern Mumbai/Madrid.

How time is caught, preserved, anesthetized---and revived!

In your current finger tips you hold bits of brittle time

faded lost buried in a tomb or tome in a library

an era gone forever but retrieved and re-incarnated

between a text and your eyes!

Will Shakespeare defies time

an encyclopedia is shown in his lines and songs

the full nature of human beings revealed on/off the stage

folios and films.

In dear William Shakespeare, each finds a bit of themselves

neatly labeled, documented and analyzed

Being- Becoming

A Hamlet

and other dramatic personae

at varied times by donning their robes and lines.

sediments of ages…lie inside the plays and sonnets

for us to find.

There, yet not there, yet there-not here

here-there, there-here, living two realms of space-time

turning into

a fool

a grave digger

Or

a babbling Lear finding clarity and sanity

in moments of insanity!

Adam Levon Brown- Two Poems

Adam Levon Brown is a poet, student, and activist residing in Eugene, Oregon. He enjoys the outdoors, playing with cats, and meeting new people. He can be contacted via his website at www.AdamLevonBrown.org , where he offers free poetry resources.



Dawn of Black Gives Birth to Light

The pulse quickens
as I slither past your
defenses

You have let
me into your
innermost workings

Darkness overcomes
your silent kiss
in the dawn

Quicksilver
tongue lashes
your pale white
visage

As I set to sink
my teeth into
your apple
of truth

What once was day
shades into jet black
as neurons whiplash
against tanned leather

You take your first
breath as synapses
form together creating
memory

I have given our dust
a form and I shall call it
by one name;

Episteme



Serpentine Soliloquy

I am a priest of the
rebellious snake

The redeemer of darkness
in the facade of light

The macabre remains
of a society once golden

Renaissance will be brought
with the flight of the Phoenix

As it burns its wings on
the torch of truth

What has started cannot
be stopped

What is done cannot be undone

For life, for glory, and above all...

For Episteme

Nate Maye- Three Poems

Kingdoms

You are a 

kingdom and so

I am I, walking

Kingdoms, invading

one another, trying

to find a gap

in the wall, to be 

ruler of the realm.

 

Leaning

I found you leaning

on the wall,

unable to stand, you

found me leaning

on my old instabilities,

the fiction

of who I thought

I should be, you

said don't focus on

should, stand up

straight, on your own.

 

Vigilante

I learned to wear

a mask and save

a world, I learned

to save for myself

my true identity

and hide my selfish

purposes deep.

 

 

Linda M. Crate- Three Poems

a fool's fool 

 

i may only be star dust to you, but i burn like my star brothers and mothers and sisters and fathers before me. i refuse to let this passion inside of me die. you see the world only from the views of logic—i was blessed with both logic and creativity. everything is black and white to you, but i can see in-between a thousand shades of grey. not everything is as it seems, but you always take things at face value, not bothering to dig deeper into the reasons. you know only facts but have no knowledge. fancy yourself rather clever but for you, darling, that'd be a difficult endeavor. 

 

yes, you're mean 

 

"have i ever been mean to you?" do you really want me to answer that question? you went on to say that you were crass and insensitive and tactless. but you were never mean. i suppose our definitions are different. for all your pretty vocabulary and perceived knowledge you really are an idiot. yes, you've been mean more than once; and you've made me cry. i held my tears until you were out of my sight because i didn't want you to have the satisfaction of getting to me, but it's foolish to hold onto pride so hard that it would destroy me. yes, you've been mean to me; but it's okay i return the favor in my poetry and prose.

emotionally clumsy 

 

i think i cared for you once. glad that infatuation blew over quickly. for you are tactless and rude tripping over your social awkwardness insisting that your facts are the only things that matter. that emotions are useless. that we're all made of atoms so we're all nothing, but i refuse to believe that. we were put on this earth for a reason, and just because you have no purpose doesn't mean that we're all the same. i've found something that looks good on you: silence. because when you don't interrupt anyone with your thoughts there is such peace to be had. you really do need to work on your people's skills because while i may be socially awkward at least i have tact and the sense to keep things to myself when they're too rude to be said.