Kelley White- Three Poems

My mother says she doesn’t hate dogs,

just dog owners.

 

Donny walked up to us at the parade

with two little dogs strapped in a baby

carrier to his chest: wants to destroy

us with cuteness. He introduces them:

on his right, Elsa Schiaparelli, then

Giorgio Armani’s on the left. Coy

pup CoCo Chanel’s the little lady

with the pink bow taped to a little braid

on the top of her head in the stroller,

yap yap yapping little pink tongue lapping

my hands, can I get some soap please? I like

dogs but I hope these wear diapers. I might

like to wash my hands; give me a  napkin,

please, protect me from the Yorkshire terror.

 

 

 

The lack of an identifiable voice in White’s poems

 

might be considered a liability, though one is eventually

grateful that she does not stay with any of the annoying

personas she has foisted on her occasional readers, that is,

the members of her monthly poetry workshop. Once loyal

readers, in particular family members, are tired of her oft

strident and self-congratulatory word-play: “I hate the voice

she uses for Barbie” one young White relative was heard

to say, “and she never gets anything close to iambic

pentameter, she had absolutely two left feet when she tried

to get us to dance.” Though grateful to have relatively

rarely been topics of her writing, friends say they are sick

and tired of the hints at sexuality which sometimes push

into the foreground of her work. “And don’t even think about

punctuation,” cried: one of the co-workers, who, originally

pleased by her free copy promptly dumped it in the used

‘book’ bin--at the local Good Will.

 

 

 

RockStar

 

here is the poster

the other girl drew

before he knew you

 

it’s ugly even your

mother agrees it’s

 

obscene and wrong

yes, wrong, the crossed

 

out eyes, the mermaid

tail, the bunny ears

 

pink, no he wouldn’t

want a girl like that

to represent his art

 

now would he?

Linda Imbler- Three Poems

Small Detail

Here he is

On the ground,

This small detail, 

Right outside the periphery of those

Who step over him,

Recognizing an object,

Some small detail

There underfoot,

Yet at the moment a minutia,

Insignificant,

In the midst of broadcasting

Blasts and explosions.

Line of sight raised straight ahead

Or to either side,

Where detonations are heard and felt

And steal first position for what the senses embrace.

Small details,

Tiny figures,

Lost in the display of conflagration seen,

The pungency of sulfur smelled,

The small details,

The greatest victims of any conflict,

For there are bigger fish to fry,

The small details,

The largest casualties of warfare,

So they lie.

The Moroccan Marvel

Gaze upon me in all my splendor,

Taut,

A god in modern finery,

Celebrated,

Yet robed as a Caesar,

To hold court from my high seat.

Every word a revelation,

Every sentence a soft flow of alliterative allusion,

Every speech a blast of stupendous recitation

Replete with wisdom of ages past present and future,

Teeming with reference to other highbrows,

Only they will do in this league,

Nevertheless, they too are not immune

To the enchantment of my grand design.

Let me tell you of me:

My own voice a soothing coo,

On the waves of the universe 

Effusive across the vast distances.

Such bliss to your sensibilities in my presence,

I picture all that miss me when I am not there,

It is a privilege to know me,

To know of me,

My well-informed references to the events of the world

Declare my stanchions for the entire rendition

Of the truth,

As I alone know and understand it.

I an unyielding in my ideological bent,

Knowing all, telling all, seeing all, 

I’ve done it all,

Heard it all ,

No, not heard,

The hearing is for others.

Do not interrupt my remarkable diatribe,

Laden with magnificent tales of wealth and power,

Only as created by me,

For me,

The single-handedly greatest creation of all ages.

Pinned

Such a game,

Line up the ball with the arrows, 

It spins along the lane,

Knock them down,

A spare, a spare,

Must try again,

Strike, strike, strike,

Boom, they all fall down.

Line up the ball with the sight,

It spins above the classroom floor,

Knock them down,

A spare, a spare,

Spare no one,

Must try again,

Strike, strike, strike,

Boom,

They all

Fall

Down.

Linda Imbler is the author of several poetry books including The Weather In My Head, Doubt and Truth, and Precious Vibrations.  Her published works include the poems “Tomb,” “Man in the Bath,” and “Hands.”  Her writing has been called evocative, provocative and beautiful.  Linda has designed her own book covers.  This poet, yoga practitioner, and acoustic guitar player resides in Wichita, Kansas.

Ananya S. Guha- A Poem

Summer In Fetters

The day was unusually warm
summer in fetters
september clad
the day betrayed illusions
of cold and the sun's glare
a bit too admonitory
the day shed off steam of summer
and embraced a nightly rendezvouz
shops refused to close and traffic displayed
usual misdemeanour
By a lonely road walked a man
looked ghostly, waiting for a taxi
he reflected winter in perfect clothing
but the day did not understand that winter
presages warm clothes, with age it is a foregone maze
muffler, hat and woollens
and, swiping dust.

Shillong, INDIA.

BZ Niditch- Three Poems

NOVEMBER'S LOVE CHILD

The full moon enlightens us

as wet cut lemon slices

for a Japanese tea

a friend of ours

writes out my initials

on the acorn falling oak tree

after dragging orange red leaves

by a laughing love child

we know too well

once orphaned and frightened

on the dry ground

was once almost left behind

in this close knit neighborhood

when deer were around

wanting to make friends

as his eyes search twigs

acorns, fruits and nuts

near our picnic table

by the serious flash of wind

in the rejoined woods

under the stumps and trunk

hearing the songbird sound

with his earth-wise lyric

we fall on a blanket silent

trying to capture a picture

of this motioning landscape.

IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS

Covered by the mute sun's

high afternoon dust 

hiking in a deft weary range

with a poet's November shiver

remembering the cool air

riddled with orange kites

on a high space mountain

at a first frosty arctic wind

hearing tangled voices

on a branch of sparrows

singing a fine tune

entangled in small eternities

on a fresh airy peak

handing a red apple

to a thoughtful friend

and a wounded doctor

who restored the life

someone who had a poison

in his personality

embedded in the last war

known for his debates

in sixth grade English class

now on his once soccer knees

by lifted up songbirds 

and a cicada chorus

almost covered by leaves

a lone robin wanders near us

with a tangled wounded wing

from an explosive truck wheel

saying a childhood prayer

we all begin to heal.

THE FALL HIKER

We return

following country roads

near Walden Pond

hearing the winds

snapping on Elm trees

quenched by thirst

dazzled by landscape

as in a Hawthorne novel

with a rucksack

full of bottles of water,

crackers, and trail mix

with a ringed memory

of sunrises, bird sounds,

and pocket verses

still yearning for my kayak

as gulls of animation

fly by our woodsy cabin

in the desolate forest

under this Elm

which will not reject us

but embrace our nature.

Denny E. Marshall- Three Poems & Art

Three Haiku

had a bad nightmare
find relief upon waking
not politician

woke up from a dream
length of my entire life
i was someone else

she is always there
laying next to me on bed
until I wake up

                                                                  "Static Daze"

Tejal Jhaveri Moen- A Poem

Don’t Touch My Soul

The fairy dust settles

On my lashes,

Lightly, magically

Making me see

An optical illusion,

A reflection of love

Of which I seek.

The enchanting rose,

So maliciously sweet,

Touched my soul,

A most beautiful scar

Given by a single kiss.

A drop of blood

After the embrace of a

Most handsome thorn

Is cherished yet grieved.

The sadness and beauty of life —

Which am I to believe?

(c)  Tejal Jhaveri Moen 2015

 

 

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

Revolving Ridicule 

…another full bottle

to help drink away the mess

created by yesterday’s empty bottle?

© Paul Tristram 2015


A Drunken Didikai

“But it’s my first arrest, Sarg?
 I caught him bang to rights,
in the middle of the actual brawl.
He assaulted me twice, before
PC Jobsworth intervened
and helped me take him down!”
“It’s for your own good, young man.
It’ll be nothing but paperwork
and court dates he won’t turn up for.
The charges are public order offences
which means fines or community work,
he won’t stick around for either.
He’s a Didikai, they only make court
if remanded for something serious.
Hold him in the Police Station
in one of the back cells for the full
3 days, don’t let him smoke or eat,
that’ll be punishment enough for fighting.
Then release the dirty, stinking bugger
you’ll never see him again, trust me!”


© Paul Tristram 2015


Ann The Farm

“She’s just crap with money is all it is, mun,
give her a pound and she’ll end up
owing some bugger two by the evening!”
my Mother used to say about her.
Always had Bailiff’s and the Provident
shouting and banging upon her door.
We found out fast, on a few occasions
that my ‘Old Man’ had been arrested again
because Ann The Farm was in the police cells
over debt when they dragged him in
kicking and screaming like a good ‘un.
She had three kids, all a year or two
older than me, always in jumble sale clothes
like everyone else, but dirty and scruffy as hell.
I remember the daughter being in my Aunty’s
halfway down the hill, drinking Babycham,
Strongbow and cans of Breaker lager.
Playing ‘Alphabet Names’ someone said
the letter ‘L’ and she shouted cleverly
“I know, Lizabeth…you know, like the Queen?”
She lived on the top left hand, dead-end corner
of the street and everyone used her garden
as a Public Footpath to get to Pope’s Off-Licence.
She never noticed, always had the curtains drawn,
hiding in the darkness or there’d be ashbags
full of dirty washing up against the windows
like a right old minger, no shame whatsoever.
I asked my ‘Old Girl’ why they called her ‘Farm’
because she never even had any pets like us?
“It’s short for Funny Farm, now get out of my sight
and stop asking so many stupid questions,
you want to know the ins and outs of a gnats arse,
I swear, you’ll get in trouble for it one day!”


© Paul Tristram 2015



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 a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope
at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326415204
 
You can also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/

John Lasater- Three Poems

Lathophobic Aphasia

Humans. 

I've never been much like them.

They shout about their pride and degrade me for my craving to explain them their self destructive ways. 

Ways that forget their own reality.

Realities we all know to be honest.

Honest is all I've ever been.

Without it, what is left of me?

Human?

I'll stick to what has gotten me through.

Through this superstructure of neat words, phrases, priceless biases, textured privileges, groups, teams, gangs, and the dreadful few with peace offerings, correctly stacked for the politics unmatched to any image of where we have been, constant struggle is not how we fit in.

Into the sum of an equation, ike ovary cancer in the pit of mother earth, we writhe, unnaturally, against the grain.

The grain of our very impressive stand on top of each of our own mountains.

Mountains are our safety blanket when it comes to knowing how  we will make it through this teeny little speedbump of occupying a space.

A space in time that we exaggerate into the mountains which we selfishly create. What we humans are about is creating anything to keep our division. 

A division kept by creating.

Creating community laws that lower communication and feed an unreasonable system we hold in our strongest adoration.

Adoring our self esteem defeat, we rustle through damnations that appear fulfilling in the mountains, fake and bleak.

Bleak is what our surroundings contrive. All left behind remnants are out cries of mismanaged methods instilled into the summit of a dirt mound that is breathtakingly elevated above any comprehension.

Comprehension is foreign to humans. 

Humans only mumble what we heard the last animal announce across a ravine. 

Ravines are my recommended reclusive spots for having not a glimpse, an inkling, a single clue why I can't gather up a sentence that defines the mountain beasts once known as humans.

Humans?

I thought I would remember what they were, but shielding my name under these rocks,with my opposing thoughts, I concur. I only know my wavering self. 

And, in myself, anymore, I'm not too sure.

Feast Frequently 

A picture may be worth a thousand words, but a poem will leave your heart realizing the endless miles between you and others who do not know of your infatuation with finding a connection amongst us all. This, while comforting, exposes individuality, in all it's beautiful confusion. Some pieces will be worth more than numerical value could ever represent, in our hysterical assessment of all life's instances. They will leave you feeling that connection, but understanding that the distance, which is just a facade between ourselves and the next, is traveled relentlessly, wearing down the souls of our inquisitive ponderings that seek a bond. I could write a million words, a thousand, or just a few, but they would serve only to be read as a single interpretation of this craziness we all experience, together, but alone, on a single road with countless forks our intellectual palette isn't built to taste. Chew on written language, charred by the fire of expeditions made before our sprinkling of seasoning across the words we ingest to sustain our survival. Subliminal substance is art's delicacy. Starve on the bones. A poem is worth only the mind it devours.

Acupuncture 

The thread of any relationship will, always, only, ever be as strong as it was before eyeing the needle of connection. We are drawn to multiple people, throughout life, who we hold dear or take for granted. We will make a, seemingly, good hearted person feel as if their insignificance was the only necessity we aimed to acquire and sling them to the curb, just like a self deprecating artist's blue splashing into a sea that was meant to be a common ground. We think of life as leaving the past, but we are humans. We can't function in a logical agreement that who we were is not who we are. We attempt to cut ties with folks for different reasons, forgetting the fact that the thread already eyed those needles. They pierce and stab and are pulled by the weight of the other end, the end that we thought we'd leave there in the past. Without understanding, the threads of all relationships, despite their severity of impact or slight discomfort in the condition of the human heart, have tripped us up. I can't move. I'm free to go anywhere I want, but these goddamn threads hold me in captivity, always contemplating. Intrinsic and manic, I struggle only to fall further in the depths of that despair, reaching for traction in that place. I've never named this feeling, thought, emotion, gesture, mannerism; I am helpless against the threads of relationships and I know I can't admit, it gets worse from here. 

Jay Passer- Two Poems

BLACKOUT

too many appliances going at once

and the power shuts down

then you’re left in darkness

in this modern city

only equipped with flashlight

a book from the library

a set of lungs and grasshopper heart

the lamps are down and the window fan

kettle off and hot plate

the one pot bought at Goodwill with the tight-fitting lid

write me a recipe book for how to score 3 Michelin stars

in squalor

it’s as simple as milking a guitar

or prying the moon from orbit with a toothpick

you’d think with what we spend to live in exclusivity

repairs ought to be foremost on the minds of those in charge

but we don’t complain

it’s like post-war Paris or the Depression years

or landing on Mars and being stranded there

like that guy in the movies

but it’s nothing like that really

we’re stranded in time

that’s how it is for the disenfranchised

we shop at the Asian stores for cheap rice noodles

vegetables without English names

frozen fish from God knows 

what planet

in the end you sit in the dark and

you want to say something crazy

or shout and scream about the unfairness of it all

the stench of the suffering addicts on the streets

the relentless sunshine exposing the underbelly

the politicos upending morality in favor of 

fat padded offshore bank accounts 

but we digress

and move on

to the thrift store for some cute shoes practically new

maybe a little avant-garde proclivity to spice up the oeuvre

young poets going on and on about

fellatio and sugary breakfast cereal

scatological postmodern ditties meant to empower

but even with the lights out I can still see your eyes

even through the creeping fog

like headlamps way out in the distance

check which century

check the time-machine ordinance of poetic license

say an old Model-T rollicking 

along country roads dirt-scrawled

radio only available from town to town

ice box waiting for the future to defrost

the raunch and sleaze just a breezy ringtone on your smart phone

but we don’t complain

the young ones keep coming

expectorating change

being at the center of it all and sneering like it’s never been done before

proving the tar pits and golden oldies are fateful as sin

and perfectly righteous in claiming such vanities

the power is out

the sirens overwhelming and sleep

well sleep

there’s plenty of time for that in the afterlife

I got my chef’s knife and it’s sharp as a prognosis of cancer 

there’s just no easy way to define a

sunrise

CAVE WALL POEM

I wait for the library to open

I find it difficult to sleep nights

mice confound me

I never turn off the ceiling fan

I am reading Great Expectations

pop music disgusts me

I walk the alleys despite the smells and dangers

I carry my silent partner sharpened to a razor edge

I eat leftovers from the restaurant where I work

cold carrion and spent pasta shells

I cadge free rides on Muni Metro

the last woman I fucked was a black whore named Kiki

I have never owned a television

I drink red wine cold and white wine warm

left to its own devices my hair stands up on end

cheeky young sluts make my day brighter

I hate doing laundry and dream of maid service

trees outside the window shelter me from despair

insecticides confound me

I crave me some hoanh thanh mi vit tim

I do not look forward to tax adjustment specifications

the garbage trucks are noisy as hell

several times a day I contemplate suicide

I have an aversion to tunafish packed in oil

I have let down many people with false charm

I use my inhaler to circumnavigate polluted skies

rapture disgusts me

I hate having to submit to daily bodily functions

why jump out of a perfectly good airplane?

qu’un coeur devenu son miroir!

I use Comet when soap would do just fine

I meant cyanide cyanide was what I meant

living in a cave a man needs supplies

Ray-Bans don’t hide the bags under my eyes

they lied to me when they said everything would be alright

platitudes confound me

my nose was broken by a baseball when I was nine

I missed the season

I play Velvet Underground on the jukebox

I’m waiting for the man

I add ice to my glass like Frank Sinatra

mañana la-de-da it does not yet exist

are you sure you don’t want to hear my New Year’s resolution?

my elixir is a glass of tap water

I hate airports

no one pussy is especially delicious

I collect Japanese teacups

I flail and flail to no avail

jazz music used to arouse me

I still scan the Sporting Green while eating breakfast

children scare me to death

I am not prepared for the apocalypse

some say I’ve got it made in the shade

Great Expectations is falling apart in my hands

I used to merrily snort methamphetamine

my fomentation dives off cliffs in hot countries

a Jew chewing pork chops that’s me

I play Iggy Pop on the jukebox

the infinite slays me

Whiskey Thieves is a bar on Larkin and Geary where I’ve been 86’d for life

my sandals are manufactured in Syria

it is condiments that make the sandwich

my mind swirls in the turbulence of a Turner canvas

I live in room #421

I hate waiting for the computer to load

 

 

Jennifer Lagier- A Photo

                                                      "Overlooking Hanalei Bay"