P.K. Deb- A Poem

Life and death

Adding something useful to the useless,

isolating something hazardous from the useful,

innovating something gainful with the hazardous,

planning something constructive from the gain,

and implementing something planned efficiently

are ought to be recognized as LIFE.

Perceiving everything peaceful succeeding storm and stress,

feeling everything comfortable in pervading peace,

realizing everything stationary in all round comfort,

admitting everything as concluded with entire satisfaction

and embracing everything sleepy with a smile for ever

are ought to be realized as DEATH.

Jennifer Lagier- Three Poems

Guilty Pleasure

 

Ralph is the kind of man

who could enter a room

and make Alice burn.

When he smiles,

she feels him under her skin,

imagines his mouth upon her.

Behaves the opposite of her

normal, quiet demeanor.

Transforms into

a wanton, red-nailed siren

wearing something

short and tight

without bra or panties.

Someone wild enough

to dance barefoot upon the bar,

or slide beneath a table

to pleasure him

like an X rated movie.

Alice wonders if he can

see the signs,

guess the storm

he stirs up inside her.

 

 

Grumpy Old Men

 

I can hear sneezing, snorting, loud griping and groaning

long before an opening between yuccas permits me to see

three geriatric seals sprawled atop stony outcroppings.

 

On the next rock, dark terns unwillingly listen

to a daily litany of moaning geezer complaints

from this trio of chubby curmudgeons.

 

The splash of incoming tide soaks and disturbs them.

They whine, grumble about what aches, no longer works,

how they used to command respect; now nobody loves them.

 

 

Love Madness

 

It’s after ten

and you’re working

the early shift

but you open the door

anyway

when you see him

smiling and standing

outside.

 

Your skin

is ready for his hands

and mouth before he

even crosses the threshold.

The sheets begin singing

and the cold beer

you always keep

in case he comes

pours itself

in his favorite glass.

 

He’s one of those lovers

you know can’t possibly

be good for you.

But it doesn’t matter

because it’s August

over a hundred degrees

and he makes

your legs melt.

 

 

 

Jennifer Lagier is a card-carrying member of Dead Snakes for a Truly Democratic Society.

Michael Keshigian- Two Poems

MARRIED LIFE

Noise to his silence,
light to his darkness
she walks through his brain
singing and spins melodies
in his head.

He hears her small breathing
when she hides
in closets with no handles
and surprises him in the shower,
her body all soapy.

She slips in and out of beautiful
yet he sees her just the same
and sometimes wonders
how she arrived
and what her mission might be.

The years sneak by
like mice across the field,
yet she remains as unexplainable
as her underwear hanging on the line
in his basement workshop.

FLIRT

A propellant
when she smiles, 
she kindles a flame
as she strokes my hair,
kisses my cheek,
or brushes against my torso.
When she grasps my hand
and giggles, I blush.
My eyes reflect
the fever she incites,
though she speaks in riddles
and feels strange and ungainly
in my arms.
I am victim of her charms,
clever as a Mozart symphony
minus the finale.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Siren of the Streets

Whenever she comes by

it's always the same thing.

I make her comfortable

and then she leaves. 

I tell her she's a harlot 

hooking up all night 

with God knows who 

but in her case God

looks the other way.

Curious neighbors 

ask if I know her.  

I ask them do I look 

like that kind of man?

Peter denied Christ thrice

but I make Peter a piker

when it comes to denying 

this siren of the streets.

Once in a while a neighbor,

smitten as I am, takes her in

because she's attractive

and it's peaceful until

some morning very early

she's on my deck again

heartbroken, forlorn,

willing to do anything

for a nosh and a drink. 

Since no one is up

at that hour to see me 

I sit on the deck

and she leaps on my lap

and I stroke her until

she's a Lamborghini 

purring at a red light. 

Then she drives off,

leaving me on the deck

heartbroken, forlorn.

She must have been spayed.

Never had any kittens. 

What might Pope Francis 

think about this?

Her kittens, after all,

would have been beautiful 

just as she is,

harlot or not.

Donal Mahoney

----------------------------------------

Donal Mahoney lives n St. Louis, Missouri.

Lloyd Wayne Russell- A Poem

Life Without a Safety Net 

Standing in the aura 

small hours 

peaceful

at last.

Starving for the knowledge 

of bliss

drinking from the fountain

of a faded youth

forever gone. 

Middle age has an 

unrelenting strangle hold

around my neck

"you must except this"

the voices sardonically 

stated.

I am finding it most difficult  

this being alone

sitting 

waiting 

riding shotgun on 

the ramshackle dregs

of a society 

morbid 

and at downfall.

I threw heart shaped stones 

at the

glass houses along 

the beaches shoreline  

on my way back

from this cataclysmic 

voyage into the abyss.

Yes 

the last 

22 years of 

drunken 

and 

strange mishaps

have taken their toll.

And then finally 

one insane morning 

I awoke 

finding the safety net had been 

a ruse all along. 

Bio

Wayne hails from Tampa , Florida and has been doing creative writing since he was five years old. Wayne has been published in various zines over the years, including The Cannon's Mouth Quarterly, The Rolling Thunder Press, and Poets Espresso.

Wayne's first flash fiction story “Breaking Point”, has recently been published published at Staxtes.com Greek Literary Review via their “English Wednesdays” Internet zine.

Linda M. Crate- A Poem

cheated 

oh, it aches in me, this river
of love flowing through me
singing constant psalms of only
your name; how is it that you
can so easily forget me
when i remember everything of
you etched into the stars of my soul?
how you once told me my eyes
were anything but boring
as they were the color of coffee —
the way you said my name,
of how we held hands,
our medieval banter,
the first time we made love;
painting the kitchen wall together,
chucking wood into the
basement, tearing down trees and
roots from the property your
grandfather gave
to you —
yet you've forgotten my giggle fits,
my smiles, tokens of appreciation
and love tucked into the
corners of your room;
and i can't stop loving you even in
knowing you love her.

Brittany Fonte- A Poem

Psychotherapy at the Beach

Shoreline pinpricks,

bare feet, salt licks,

humbling drowning,

one toe at a time.

These feet

meet me at the core of my moor.

Ask questions, afloat;

stage reactions, rote.

Lunge for internal sun that skips/

skip/skips mutinous mistakes.

But I am sprayed with retakes

in the wake of jellyfish,

jealousy, lists upon lists,

sea shells, selling out,

loving (in, or on, or without…),

leaving all my falls like footprints.

(Defense. Stalling.)

Incensed, I am always over-watered,

then erased.

Brittany Fonte holds an MFA in Creative Writing, Fiction. She has two books out, one coming in October, and was co-editor for a fabulous, contemporary queer poetry and spoken word anthology titled _Flicker and Spark_. She prefers strong coffee and flat running surfaces.

J.J. Campbell- Two Poems

save yourself

a little after midnight

and the coyotes are

howling

i look out the window

and the cat that stays

up by the house is on

the step scratching at

the back door

i go to the door and

lock it

every living thing has

to learn at some point

that it is best to simply

save yourself

the reliance on others

is a crutch that only 

leads to

heartbreak

 

 

 

play it cool

whispers in a crowded

room

i notice the ring on her

finger but recall the wise

words of a guy i used to

work with

always remember, if you're

single and she's not, she's

the one with something

to lose

i play it cool

try not to push my

agenda

laugh at her jokes

and make sure my hands

only wander to where she

wants them to

but when she nibbled on

my ear i figured she wasn't

exactly worried about her

husband at that point

i was gone before the sun

came up

a few hours before the

husband should be back

home

she should still be asleep

 

 

 

bio

J.J. Campbell (1976 - soon) lives and writes on a farm in Brookville, Ohio. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at BoySlut, The Camel Saloon, Pyrokinection, Regardless Of Authority, and Zygote in My Coffee. His first full lnegth book of poems, Sofisticated White Trash, was published earlier this year by Interior Noise Press. You can find J.J. most days bitching about something on his blog, evil delights (http://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Michael Cluff- Two Poems

Hubert Minor

All the nubiles
go agog for him
he  now uses the lectern
as a pulpit of platitudes
and canards
criticism is jettisoned
for polemics
that support his
faux-messianic
point of view.

A three piece suit
and bowtie
and watch fob
monocle
his costume de siecle

Any resistance
is filibustered
out of existence
there is no vaccine
for this type of babble
bathed in a pleasing form
and unbalanced tangents.

And the rhetorical tongs
grab the emotions
to wring them dry
while the tongues
of thoughtfulness
are tossed into
the back pages
of defunct theories
that once led to
untimely
avoidable death
and scars.
no social penicillin
can cure



As If

Green snowcones
have fallen to ground
in the back forty
Candy told me
around four

And dogs sometimes
do comprehend
the thoughts of mockingbirds,
chickens,
doves, and rattlesnakes
as well as people
all at the same time.

And the spikes in Jesus' hands
did not know they were doing wrong
how could they,
they were always asleep
at such times
when they are forced
to go through the middle
of hands.

I am glad I am not a warden
she told me later
I would have to understand the bad
and I am not ready to do that
yet.

On days when purple orchids
wilt slightly and on
visiting days,
I recall these remarks
with the same finite awareness.

Virginie Colline- Haiku

The Bailarina's Haiku

Cha cha cha

the sway of her

hip hip hips

L

e Corbusier

,

Femme à la main levée

First appeared in

Mad Swirl, February 2013.



Virginie Colline lives and writes in Paris.