James Babbs- Three Poems

Now I’m Really Confused

I didn’t know why

I was waiting for her

she’d already told me

numerous times

she didn’t want to go out with me

but there I was

sitting in my car again

listening to the radio

waiting for her to finish work

I just wanted to talk to her

because

I had some new things

I needed to tell her

things she didn’t know about me

the door opened and

when I saw her walking out

I swear

there was a light

from the sky falling on her

I faltered

I felt like I couldn’t move and

I forgot

what I was doing there

then she saw me

she smiled at me and waved

I waved back at her and

she came over to the car and

climbed inside

before I knew what was happening

hey

she said

her smile shooting through me

like a bullet from a gun

I tried to say something

but it got stuck in my throat

what are you up to

she asked me

I kept clearing my throat and

finally

managed to cough up a

nothing in reply

she gazed out the window

I had turned down the radio

but I could still hear it softly playing

she turned back to me

I could really use a drink

she said

we drove to a bar I knew

not too far from there

we had a few drinks and

some good conversation

once I was able to talk

she told me a lot of things

I already knew

but it didn’t bother me

we stayed at the bar for a couple of hours

but she never mentioned anything

about all the times

I’d asked her out

when I drove her back

we both got out and

I walked with her over to her car

it was starting to get dark

but I could still see her face

shining in the fading light

we stood there for a moment

without saying anything

then I felt her hand

touching my arm and

she leaned into me

kissing me heavily on the mouth

I felt her

pulling something from me

when she stepped back

I saw it

hanging in the air between us

goodbye

she said

getting into her car

I watched her drive away and

after she was gone

I kept standing there

I didn’t know what to think

Then I Looked at Her

I remember

we had a few exchanges

something about

the high cost of beer and

the funny name of

the drink she ordered

then we had a short discussion

about how this place

didn’t have pitchers and

I asked her

where she was from

I told her

I liked the color of her eyes and

she seemed to be enjoying herself

because

I watched a smile

lighting up her face

when I asked her

if I could buy her a drink

she just nodded her head

then I looked at her and

something

hung in the air between us

I told her

I was going to ask her

for her number

but she’d probably just end up

breaking my heart

because

sooner or later

every woman did and

she started laughing

because

I guess she thought

I was trying to be funny

Disturbance

I imagine objects

falling past my window

sometimes

I think about drowning

especially when I’m driving

over bridges and

I can see the rivers

spreading out below me

in the dark

underneath the moonlight

snow-covered fields resemble

large bodies of water and

I think about lakes

I contemplate

the vastness of the ocean and

too often I catch myself

dreaming of your body again

the way it felt

when I last touched you

a million years ago and

most days

I have no idea where I’m going

I just like to keep moving and

some time soon

I want to fly

just by waving my arms and

I’ll take off all my clothes

to make my body lighter and

when I soar over your house

I want to scream your name

at the top of my lungs

Tamara Turner- Two Poems & Photos

Dark

Staring up at him

Handsome young man with light eyes

And heavy dark soul

Calm within the Storm

A man gave me life

Another material goods

Many men

Much given

All retracted

Tamara lives in southern California, a long way from her Louisiana roots.

Chris Crittenden- Three Poems

Speakhard

the strain of his eyes
becomes the fake of the paper on the screen.
breath bends over to tantrum,
as if it could by itself
batter out something decent
on the keyboard.

if only sobs
could articulate the profound;
or an undermined heart
wrote what it meant.  fingers
were just signposts of stripped feathers, 
desperate with lust to free
their knotted wings.

the machine on his lap
didn’t care about crotch-throb,
or the twitchy hours
of cramps and aches--

as if the sweet white paper, such a liar,
was ordained to resist;
as if clouds of purgatory
had been rolled out flat,
and waited now like parchment--

for his confessions to tattoo
their heads, breasts, genitals, and arms.



Intaken

clipboards rustled,
an anti-satisfaction of scribbled miffs.

she could hear herself not matter,
and fail to breathe.

they were a cabal of lemmings
summoned, not quite yet, to make her fall:

a demise crafted in the style of sly traps,
the sort that bind suture by scurry,

syringe by footstep.

were ants this quiet
to the march of other ants?

did the hormone-rich glands of insects
merely stare?

if pain could blossom in a thorax,
why did it hibernate in the human heart?

but

the doctor’s smile was turning mandibular.
the nurse’s lips were becoming feelers.

the back of the man in the white coat
could have been the front.



Dregs

remnants glare,
once sipped and cupped
like a breast,
now derelict and scarlet,
exiles in crystal
on a white cloth stage.

not fashionable
or sexed by cute lips,
or wielded like a decree
of an intoxicant king.

not regnant
or magnetic
or even libertine.
more specter than scepter,
more antique,
shed-off husks of slinked love,
not remembered
by the snake.

drunk away, heart gone,
spell spent.
no savor of grape
or tinkle from silverware ting.
only this shell
of a prettified pill,
aftermath of urges.
the invisible stark.


CC writes from a struggling town fifty miles from the nearest traffic light.   He blogs as Owl Who Laughs and is pretty well published.

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal- 3 poems

BORROW THE THORN

Can I borrow your thorn?
Can I borrow your brown eyes?
I want to use them to pierce
through the sun, through the frozen
Artic ice around your heart.

Could I borrow it to
prick the finger of the loudest
voice I hear in my head?
It is telling me I will never break
on through to green pastures.

Could I borrow the thorn
you have saved for my brittle heart?
I want to use it to crack the code
for the meaning of life.
I want to know if it’s worth saving.



ONE-EYED DOG

The on-eyed dog
goes on searching
for his home on
three-legs; fixed and
without a tail;
The one-eyed dog
never gives up
hope; abandoned
by the side of
the road in a
shady part of town;
He gets involved
with a two-eye
bitch that was not
worth the trouble.
But he gave it
a chance. The one-
eyed dog searched and
searched until he
could search no more.
Abandoned by
the two-eyed bitch
he was alone
all over again
and it was a
blessing for him.



BUMPING INTO STARS

So are you bumping
into stars; impregnating
them and leaving them
suspended in dark skies?

Have you had your fill
of stardom; no longer
hovering around the
Milky Way and having

fun? Are you grounded
These days? Spending
time out by the beach
and howling at the moon.

You left the stars hanging;
stardust in your hands
like glitter confetti. It's
just the stars tears falling.

It's just the stars hearts
breaking; exploding like
supernovas; detonating
after the latest Big Bang.

J.D. DeHart- Three Poems

Greenery

 

Everyone here is green,

young and nascent,

not yet having earned

their true darkness.

Never mind; it will come

soon enough.  Their hearts

will be betrayed, minds

argued with, and the solid

truth of their twenties and

teens will settle into wavy

ideas and more open

conclusions later in life.

They will rise up the vine,

clinging for sunshine,

and see only the moon.

 

 

The Cell Comes Over

 

The cell came to visit,

but we did not see him pass

by, obviously stealing in with

the last of our company.

First, he was fine, a little

out of place.

Soon, other cells swam in

and gathered around him.

So now we have an unfortunate

tumor set up in the middle

of our happy company.

We offer a polite exit,

but he will obviously have to

be cut away.

 

 

Brands

 

Everyone is wearing

their own brand, but I do not see

them, nor do I see the holes

in their jeans.

I see their purpose, absorb

their voice, but the faded

labels and tucked or untucked

virtues do not gain my notice.

JD DeHart is the author of The Truth About Snails, a chapbook.  He is a staff writer for Verse-Virtual and his blog is jddehart.blogspot.com.

Robert Demaree- Three Poems

SEPTEMBER IN NEW HAMPSHIRE

1.

After a storm

Washed sky, unbearable blue,

Rolls up the pond,

Bright sun, warmth you barely feel:

Shorts and sweatshirts,

A day to get apples.

2.

Between Labor Day and Columbus Day,

Between the summer people and the leaf peepers,

The quiet cusp of a new season:

Ferns and asters fading fast.

The woods, dusty pink and ocherous,

Tell you something’s afoot:

Sugar maples, a branch or two infused with orange red,

Or maybe the single leaf of a seedling,

Half crimson, green drained out:

The work of an artist interrupted,

Coming back soon.

SEPTEMBER SONGS 2007

1. Oncoming Traffic

Walking on the lane,

Toward the end of the pond:

Late afternoon September sun

Filters into the woods,

Shafts of light through a cathedral window.

The lane is not the same, though:

The drivers younger, of course;

We don’t all know each other any more.

People talking on cell phones

Don’t have a hand to wave.

2. Growing Season

Burgundy chrysanthemums on the gray deck.

The orchard farm stand opened this morning,

Bright, quiet; remote September sun:

White bags of Mac’s and Cortland’s by the peck,

Crisp, early tartness, polished red and green;

Acorn squash, best with maple syrup.

The pumpkins will get bigger,

Preschoolers will come for hayrides.

But this afternoon on the pond

Betsy Winbourne digs up her garden,

Hauls the annuals to the compost pile,

Cuts back the day lilies,

Trusting, expectant,

Before the first frost

KAYAKING SEPTEMBER 2014

Cerulean September postcard day,

Breeze six knots or so out of the Northwest:

Two small kayaks put in at the public launch,

A young couple from somewhere else

Setting out to see new vistas on our pond.

I would like to point things out to them:

The tutoring camp where my father taught,

The dam, the inlet where Perry Brook

Ends its narrow run down Copple Crown,

The cottage where we lived

When we first came here—what?—

Nearly seventy summers ago.

I might also ask them if they checked for milfoil.

But they are headed the other way.

I paddle along the west shore,

Past the family of mergansers I saw last week,

Their young still not ready

To set out on their own.

My friend Herb, widowed some years back,

Often sits on his dock alone,

Drinking coffee, reading the paper.

Today, though, he has someone with him,

A woman, I think.

“September in New Hampshire” first appeared in Mobius, May 2004. “September Songs 2007” first appeared in Foliate Oak, March 2011.

Robert Demaree is the author of three book-length collections of poems, including After Labor Day, published in April 2014 by Beech River Books.  In 2013 his poems received first place in competitions sponsored by the Poetry Society of New Hampshire and the Burlington Writers Club He is a retired school administrator with ties to North Carolina, Pennsylvania and New Hampshire, where he lives four months of the year. His poems have appeared in 150 periodicals. For further information see http://www.demareepoetry.blogspot.com 

Donal Mahoney- Three Poems

 

When Computers Crash

Take it from me

sitting on the edge of this star

in the universe with

meteors zipping around me.

Worse things can happen 

than having a computer crash

and all your data lost while 

chatting in a hotel lobby

with a woman you met in a bar

then having a heart attack 

and falling to the floor

having your bladder burst.

You lie there deceased, 

a nuisance in a puddle of piss,

as the woman strolls away

and guests in the lobby quiver 

until the manager says   

he’s made a phone call.

You don’t need a computer now.

An ambulance will take you away.

Going Normal

Todd’s tired of being odd

he tells his wife as he lights

candles next to their breakfast tea

and pours two steaming cups.

He wants to be normal, he says, 

the rest of his life

no matter the changes

he’ll have to make

in his modus operandi.

It will be worth the effort,

not having people gawk

and mumble under their breath.

He pours more tea

and butters some toast  

and tells his wife  

beginning tomorrow

he’ll never again excavate

his Roman nose

with his pinkie.

He’ll dig with his index 

finger instead.

On Learning a New Word Late in Life 

Harold, I'm sorry to call you at three in the morning

but you're older than I am and you may have less time 

to relish a word you may not have heard of.

It's "rejectamenta," and I stumbled upon it

early this morning when I couldn't sleep.

I wish I had found rejectamenta years ago.

It means exactly what you might think: 

"matter rejected as useless or worthless."

Imagine how useful that word would have been

in our younger days as a weapon of choice. 

I would have shouted it often when leaving a job

or leaving a nice woman who thought we should marry. 

I would have extended my arm like Adolph and shouted 

"Rejectamenta!" with the roar of "Sieg Heil!" 

For the remainder of my life I will shout it when nettled.

I will shout it at the waiter in that Polish restaurant 

the next time he plops pickled pigs feet 

in front of me obviously short on gel.

I loathe those feet but the gel is marvelous. 

We may be aging, Harold, but we have a word now 

we can whip out of our quivers whenever we're miffed. 

Perhaps the embalmer will tattoo it on my forehead

if my wife isn't looking, assuming she survives. 

Carry on, Harold. The finish line is just ahead.

 

 

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

Tits Up

again,
as
always,
back
to
the
drawing
board,
the
start,
zero.
all
that
hard
work
unravelled
and
destroyed
with
your
soul
temporarily
crippled
by
failure
once
more.

© Paul Tristram 2014

I Don’t Smile For You Anymore

Why are you even trying to get my attention?
I have nothing to say to you, good or bad.
You are just like that time I slipped on ice
and embarrassed myself at 12 years old.
Or like glancing back into a police cell
after completely changing your criminal ways.
A mistake that does not require revisiting!
It’s just pointless and unnecessary?
You had a chance and blew it a long time ago.
Let this be the very last time that you have
any vain notion of attracting me into conversation.
You simply do not exist to me anymore
Please, do me one last favour and remain that way.

© Paul Tristram 2014

Smirk

He wore his Smirk like a weapon.
Used it to answer questions,
as an insult, as a greeting,
a barroom stance,
a final absolute opinion.
I was there the day they took it from him,
with much savagery and violence.
He cried and yelped and bled much
without his Smirk’s protection.
He crawled away a different man,
like a slug leaving something else’s chrysalis.
You should only play with fire
if you can handle the burn.
You should only mess with villains
if you’ve really got the constitution.
Smirks are a carefully selected currency,
imposters are very quickly sniffed out
and snuffed out for the fools they are.

© Paul Tristram 2014



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.
You can read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/

David S. Pointer- Three Poems

Life: Luck of the Draw Series

Once I saw another kid
getting kudos and social
concern from every direction
because his father had died in
Viet Nam, and for a while I
thought about recasting my
own deceased bank robbing
father into a more manageable
Green Beret hero or Marine,
but never did, I just kept quiet
about it most of the time, and
wrestled with the past like an
elongated alligator then the
years tore by and one day my
mom told me how my father
had pistol whipped an ex-Green
Bay Packer defensive player who
had flirted with her when my
father left their table for drink
refills then plowed into the guy
with excessive force immediately
revoking his in-process better
offer for future date night in
a more upscale friendly place.

 

Reckless Driving Elegy

At the demolition derbies’
I’d see annual crowds watching
car after car intentionally and
quite easily plowing into each
other, so that when I heard a
caller had (mis) spoke or over
spoke on adrenaline of Rob
Bironas behind him in a high
powered SUV “trying to run
him over” it didn’t quite ring
out as correct or true, maybe
countless things such as an
agitated driver inside over
bearing metal going off with
road rage adverbs and nouns
trying unsuccessfully to pass
a slow car, or maybe the slim
difference between hospital bed
and digital obituary makes us
all uncomfortable, eyeballing a
mangled, cut, crushed, misshapen
SUV powered by a lead-footing
fatality who if he’d just been a
little luckier might have kicked
a 70 yard field goal for his next
NFL employer in prime time, as
America grapples over a grieving
young widowed bride, blindsided



With This Hammer and Nails

-Dedicated to Ed Guest in Memoriam

After the advertisers,
financial elite and CIA
operatives finished sanitizing
and demilitarizing poetry they
turned it over to the English
professors who elevated the
language and drew in the
perimeters on what would
be called ‘literature,’ creating
an inhumanly constructed system
where they would take poetry
away from the average people
while keeping all the major awards
and corporate welfare grants for
themselves while getting paid for
their career silence avoiding issues
that would offend the economic
paymasters leaving the remnants
of a system similar to giving classical
musicians all the money, accolades
and full time teaching/writing jobs
while starving out the rockers, blues-
men and country types musicians in
the form of small press poetry.

Douglas Polk- A Poem

The American Inquisition

the American Inquisition has begun,

guilty or not,

the accused must pay,

rights now communal property,

the individual has none,

livelihoods taken away,

before juries convened,

or trials held,

guilty until innocence proved,

witch hunts by the righteous,

both left and right,

the Inquisition begun,

justice no longer blind.