Nancy May- Three Haiku

a nightingale’s song

rocks you to sleep

a bedtime story

colours of the rainbow

a summer’s day

takes a stroll

moth riddled antelope

meaning nothing to you

sharing our secret

Bio:

Nancy May has haiku published in 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, The Camel Saloon and Kernels.  Haiku will soon be published in Danse Macabre – An online literary magazine, Mused - the BellaOnline Literary Review and Writer’s Haven.

Brittany Zedalis- A Poem

Words

Words Words creeping into the Back of my mind Into my soul Words tearing at my heart Words slithering in between Truth and lies Words pounding In my brain Breaking down walls I didn't even know Were there Words Powerful things Words can heal Even the most Fragile of people Or shatter what's left Of their being Words Words are weapons

Brittany Zedalis is a married 21 year old poet who has been published in The Camel Saloon, Leaves of Ink and Verse Land. She loves animals and even has her own ball python. Poetry is her emotional outlet and she has been writing for many years.

Paul Tristram- Two Poems

Creative Backstabbing

They sit all along the public bar
other peoples business on their lips.
They discuss, preach and lecture
in between lewdness and beer sips.
Backwards in their clairvoyancy
they later predict all past wrongs.
While ignoring their stagnant lives
and singing their drunken songs.
Slyly they reassure each other
that they know better than the rest.
They shake hands, nod and wink
for only they know what’s best.
But they stop conversing about you
whenever you walk into the place.
A smile replaces the arrogance
that was dripping from each face.
They change just like chameleons
right into the colour of your mood.
Ask questions with fake concern
your confidence becomes their food.
Leave them there on their barstools
leave them there to feed else where.
there will always be fresh victims
blindly walking into their lair.

© Paul Tristram 2007

Published in Lookout, Issue No 32, Winter 2007

Cool, Calm And Pathetic

Bound to senseless rituals
created before my birth.
Satellite dish amnesia
the Jones’s judge my worth.
Cool, calm and pathetic
I wear my clothes with care.
Don’t speak of individuality
No, I would not even dare.
A street of fashion victims,
a close of designer label clothes.
We all look the same
but some have a browner nose.
Kevin from across the street
is a hero to us all.
He goes to shop in London
and to Paris for his smalls.
My three-piece suite is epic,
bathroom blends with the sky.
Kitchen immaculate but pretty,
conservatory a marvel to the eye.
With wine list under arm
I entertain from dining room bar.
Later I’ll sleep in the garage
having sex with my wonderful car.

© Paul Tristram 2006

Published in Lookout, Issue No 25, Spring 2006



Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches 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.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Zambezi in Zimbabwe

River rafting in Montana 

is a fine way to spend 

your vacation but it's 

not the same as 

river rafting in Zimbabwe. 

No Sir Ree, Bob!

You can roar down 

the Zambezi River 

on a big raft with other

tourists hoping 

to get away from it all

in the splendor of Africa.

A thoughtful man,

your guide in the Safari hat

will explain before you 

hit the water that your raft 

will indeed flip over 

at some point 

and when it does 

he says you shouldn't 

worry and swim for shore.

No Sir Ree, Bob!

You should stay right there

in the washing machine

of rapids bobbing 

up and down and wait for 

the other guide in the Safari hat

to pull alongside in his motor boat

and pluck you out of the water

so you can live 

to write something like this. 

This is what guides

on the Zambezi in Zimbabwe 

do for a living--send you out

on a big raft that will flip over

so they can save you.

But they're not in a rush 

because didn't they give you 

a life jacket and a crash helmet?  

However, if you're in a hurry

to reach land and choose 

to swim to shore 

across the beautiful Zambezi

the way you may have swum 

across a river in Montana

you'll discover close to this shore

that you are lunch for one 

of many crocodiles 

who wait in the still water

six feet or so from shore.

The crocodiles make a living 

waiting for tourists who swim

ferociously like Diana Nyad.

Two chomps, maybe three

if you're a pleasantly plump fellow, 

and then digestion begins.

You and your crash helmet 

and your life jacket will 

need a day or so to 

convert to crocodile dreck 

and dissolve in the Zambezi.

Whatever your faith,

believe me, it will take effort

to re-assemble you 

in time for the resurrection.

Yes Sir Ree, Bob!

Richard Schnap- Two Poems

BETWEEN THE LINES

She hid in a realm
Of paperback romances
A library of longing

Becoming the damsel
Rescued from the clutches
Of her dog-eared world

But her heart still yearned
For the real-life hero
Who would want to know her

To see her as more
Than a story whose plot
Went nowhere at all



DETHRONED

He appears like a ghost from a vanished past
Silently sitting at a table alone
With a face that resembles a Mayan king
Of a realm that was conquered centuries ago

Now he just crouches over a can of beer
Vacantly staring at the white man’s world
That transformed his temples for tourists to climb
Where once he predicted the end of the world

Michael Cluff- A Poem

Veronica Fitzgerald

Slot car racing
was peripheral
never a major concern
though pleasant
a faugh
as far as Father
saw it

"Girls should not
do such things."

A divertissement then
became deadly serious
after.

Drag racing
is now my forte.

I will work this line well
much money every year.

Dad does not mind now

"It keeps her
off the streets,"
is his rejoinder
while adding salt
to anything
within his reach.

Dawnell Harrison- Three Poems

Tidal blood

The tidal blood
in my veins ignites
a fire in my mind.
Do we need another
soul to cling to and if so,
can they intersect
into a white bliss
or will they forever clash
wills like the swords
of titans...


Blue moon

The wind fluttered above
a warm blue moon
up over the ocean.
The roar of the sea
draws me in like a poultice
sucking the anger from a boil.
The bulbous thick moon
spills blossoms of light
onto trembling waters.


Fallen away

What was soft inside me
has fallen away -
broken off like an icicle
from my back doorstep eaves.
My heart lies within
but bleeds without.
The whispering of the stars
love the sky while
the silky moon tempers
white bursts of light.

Glenn Hardin- Three Poems

ROLL IT AWAY 

The gods of chaos rattle
cold metallic air down the back
of my neck, and they blindside
my karma.  My fingernails
begin to itch, and my skin
erupts with a miracle dose
of my blotchy inner life.
My outmuscled soul curls
into a ball and the dung beetles
roll it away.  I've forgotten
more than I remember, but guess
what?  I remember everything
again.  It's not a curse,
but the payback channels
a gaggle of stars,

and the divine wrinkles home

a fractal reality that speaks

for itself and tells me to stop.

 

 

AN APOLOGY

for Tammy Dietz

Please Tammy, don't you be upset

if I cough up more than I ate.

The wizards of love march

on the tombstone in my heart,

and they choke the weeds there

for nettles, that's all it is.

And because I follow their lead I can

waltz the vultures down, I can stare

at death like any mystic will.

And because I follow their lead

built up toxins rumble through me

at odd hours visions I can eat

on a stick but can't swallow.

 

SELF PORTRAIT--1669

Laughing that time

is in a hurry against him,

Rembrandt van Rijn

laughs at you and me too,

his uglified nose

a carney outlaw meant

to scare the pants off

the ghost in his eyes,

opening the lines

in his face

so you can almost hear

his low country cackle

and feel his body heat,

so you can clear the way

to see for yourself

his look of triumph;

spoils of the war

with himself the red

and yellow light wins

for keeping him alive.

B.Z. Niditch- Three Poems

ONE TIMED

One timed, then two
by love and music
where competition
is everywhere
in shadowless words
played out in these boxes
that move me
with frozen out regrets
in the big city
but I will let my poems
created out of sunshine
and my sax made of rain
dissolve into whirlwinds
of cool resolve
to rip my passions out
of my being
pushing away these boxes
of unspoken clean lines
and have my fling
not to wound
but to be a free spirit
with a riff of melodies
unspoken or unchained
rocking between
a vagabond and sky
beyond reach
of the underworld.



WHEN JAZZ TRANSFORMS

The neon light
transmits the silence
sometime at a space
from this first jazz notes
buzzing along the Big Apple
of how in a pub or club
we pick and choose
what is aesthetically right
for a connoisseur
composing sounds
on ink red sheet music
from the chilled night
once living off
subterranean graffiti
on city walls
of how lucky a runaway
is to be still alive
with all my alibis
becoming almost like
a metronome in the dark,
motioning when the jazz
of smooth language gives us
the startled perfect lexicon
composing in the tone
of augmented notes
which leads to song.



IMPROVISATION

Poetry is written not with ideas but words
Mallarme

Practicing my Debussy
on my borrowed violin
and turning to my sax
as the consuming sunshine
in my one room of desire
exchanging lots of notes
turning my two  red eyelids
with pangs of improvisation
on the impatient window sill
intent on a blood orange
resembling my Cezanne print,
this poem now warmed by
a horizon of Central Park
in a denouement of the night
having dreams of Mallarme
drenched by a somnambulist
in a muted blue bathrobe
against the wall of Cezanne
the wind is good from outside
erupting in a once beaten
memory of loss
amazed at the earth's caresses
in daylight's expression
awakening to an astonished bird
on the alcove whose wings
from living trees
absorb the sky traffic
new phrases come closer
black and visa less
from my expired passport
in the hollow of my chilled
hands of intertwined words.                  

Barbara Link- Two Poems

                 Tuolomne Meadows                                              
    
                  So it begins
                  at the night camp,
                  the stars open the universe—
                  pine trees point the way,
                  the dark drapes blue taffeta,
                  we sleep on the earth,
                  above the sky turns
                  like a planetarium ceiling,
                  I hang on for the ride,
                  the air lifts my fingers,
                  no space between my skin and the sky,
                  my bones full of amber light
                  I leave the earth,
                  touch the green fire
                  of the northern lights.

                 Light’s Companions 

                                                                 

                  Life is not a hoax,

                  my fingernails grow,

                  your eyes are Mayan ruins

                  overgrown with green vines,

                  we breathe each other’s air,

                  Brut, Giorgio and garlic,

                  our noses touch, our mouths search

                  dark air for each other,

                  we blend our edges together,

                  separate with a soundless sigh,

                  a part of each other’s light.

Bio: Award-winning California author and poet, Barbara Link, has had three stories aired on KVPR, a National Public Radio Affiliate. Her poetry and fiction  have appeared in numerous literary magazines and small presses. She also received the Sacramento State University Bazzanella Prize for fiction. Her memoir, Blue Shy was published in 2010 and awarded first prize in the Sacramento Friends of the Library First Chapter contest.

Partial list of publications. American River Review, Poetry Now, Earth’s Daughters, Mindprint Review, Anima, Whitefish Review, Missouri Review, Women’s Compendium, Hardpan