Thursday, May 28, 2015

Donal Mahoney- Three Poems


Tommy is the Man

Tommy is the only man
for miles around who can knot a tie. 
Old farmers come to town on Saturday

and wave from pickups with respect
when they see Tommy on the street
out for a walk in his black suit.

Tommy is the man they know
their families will call to knot 
their ties and close their caskets.



The Capitalist Way

It is easier for a camel to pass
through the eye of a needle
than for one who is rich 

to enter the kingdom of God, 
Jesus told his disciples.
Centuries later Warren

an investor in America
heard about this and 
asked Fu a manufacturer

in China to make 
millions of 12-foot needles.
Then he asked Ahmad 

a bedouin in Oman
to breed smaller camels.
Look for the IPO on Wall Street. 



Before Michael Brown and Freddie Gray

Who celebrates 
the birthday of a tree?
Birds and squirrels, perhaps,
but not Michael Brown 
and not Freddie Gray
and not Rufus Jackson, who was
hung from a weeping willow in 1863.

Rufus stole an apple pie
cooling on a window sill,
a farmer’s wife said
She told her husband about it 
when he came in from threshing.
An uncle found Rufus
and cut him from the tree.  

His family buried him 
behind a willow not too far 
from a barn in Mississippi 
where two men took Emmitt Till, 
a boy from the city, in 1958. 
Both men said Emmitt had
whistled at a white man’s wife. 

The two men beat Emmitt, 
gouged an eye out, shot him 
in the head, tossed his body 
in the Tallahatchie River, not far 
from the grave of Rufus Jackson,
said to have stolen an apple pie, then 
hung from a weeping willow in 1863.


Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Sarah Frances Moran- Three Poems


The Sofa #1

I sat across from her thinking she couldn’t be much older than me.
I wondered if she was gay.  This was in fact the Montrose Counseling
Center that catered to LBGTQ community of Houston so I wondered, is that a pre-requisite? 
It was childish assuming.  She was pretty, blond and had
a smile I’m sure she’d worked on making people comfortable. 

It made me feel awkward.

I wondered these things when I was supposed to be thinking about how to
introduce why I was there.  My palms were sweaty, I was chewing the inside
of my cheek raw and my right foot wouldn’t stop violently tapping the ground.

The sofa was so soft that I sank into it and I hated it. 
It made me feel more vulnerable than I already did.
She looked at me and looked at my file.  She broke the silence,
it looks like you’re battling some depression and anxiety.  You qualified
for a small grant to help with these sessions.  You’ll get ten to start out with
and after that we’ll decide if you need more.

10 sessions.  I’d never make 10 sessions on this sofa.

I looked at her and said, I really hate this sofa,
and that’s how our relationship into fixing my broken started.



The Sofa #2

She wanted to know about my mother. 
I didn’t want to talk about my mother.  I fidgeted uncomfortably.  
This fucking sofa.

I tell her that I’m crazy about my mother.
She tells me I need boundaries.

I want to leave.

She talks in monotones and remains mellow despite
my irritation.
She asks me if I have a habit of not putting myself first.
She tells me I need to find a happy place in my head.
I laugh.

At this moment, there are no happy places in my head.
I wonder how it would feel to have sex on this too soft sofa.
I’m bored.
I’m unfocused.
She asks me why I’m here.  Reminds me that I came here for help.
I start thinking about boundaries.
Fences, houses, landscapes, jails, prisons…how much love we give.

Time is up.  She tells me my homework is to make a list of things
I want to say to those who’ve hurt me.
I scoot up and off the sofa.
I leave.

I make a list I never intend to share.



The Sofa #3

I tell her all about my panic attacks and
my nightmares.
She tells me I have PTSD.

We stare blankly at each other.

She asks me to lay back on the sofa.
Immediately I think of every therapy sofa cliche
in a matter of seconds.
She tells me to close my eyes and think of a happy place.
For a brief moment I think of a beach, palm trees and the sounds
of seagulls
but I don’t know why.

My lack of understanding for my own mind makes me start laughing.
I sit up and look over.

She’s staring at me like I’m the pain in the ass that I am and
I’m pretty sure she hates me.
I’m pretty sure she has no idea what to do with me.
She asks me if I have thought about what she suggested last session
about setting boundaries with my family.

I tell her no.
She tells me she’s going to prescribe me Lexapro.
I say ok.

This begins my mind’s path on anti-anxiety anti-depressants.
I get up off that too fucking soft sofa and head to
the pharmacy.


Sarah Frances Moran is a stick-a-love-poem-in-your-back-pocket kind of poet. She thinks Chihuahuas should rule the world and prefers their company to people 90% of the time. She believes words are immeasurably powerful; more powerful than She-ra’s thighs. To read more of her thigh powered words visit www.sarahfrancesmoran.com

M.J. Iuppa- Two Poems


So Many Layers of Gray

Curse me, my thumb bleeds—silver roadside thistle, gone to needle,

pricks a warning—I didn’t heed its message from death.
I didn’t think of prophesy. I didn’t know the rickety door

to this world would bring me maturity.
What else will be mine before sundown?
I stand toothless— my thumb soaks

 
in my mouth’s comfort.
I think god knows how this ends—
disheveled—dragging  an arm through

a discarded winter coat— I turn

blank face to the countryside burning

in autumn’s fire & think I’m the window

washer’s widow.

I haven’t seen clearly for a year, living
in the dark city of my head.

M.J.Iuppa


 
What You Left Behind

To buy a potted ficus with good intentions,
then leave it happy-go-lucky in a corner of

the living room was hasty.
 
A month of Mondays, you overlooked
that bit of green languishing in forced

heat— its leaves nearly transparent
 
in an illusion of itself. You squirmed, seeing
what you had done in the perfect art of

forgetting.
 
The new tenant threw it away.

 M.J.Iuppa


Brief Bio:

M.J. Iuppa lives on Red Rooster Farm near the shores of Lake Ontario. Most recent poems, lyric essays and fictions have appeared in the following journals: Poppy Road Review, Black Poppy Review, Digging to the Roots, 2015 Calendar, Ealain, Poetry Pacific Review, Grey Sparrow Press: Snow Jewel Anthology, 100 Word Story, Avocet, Eunoia Review, Festival Writer, Silver Birch Press: Where I Live Anthology, Turtle Island Quarterly, Wild Quarterly, Boyne Berries Magazine (Ireland), The Lake, (U.K.), Punchnel’s; forthcoming in Camroc Review, Tar River Poetry, Corvus Review, Clementine Poetry, Postcard Poetry & Prose, among others.  She is the Director of the Visual and Performing Arts Minor Program at St. John Fisher College.  You can follow her musings on art, writing and sustainability on mjiuppa.blogspot.com.

Wednesday, May 27, 2015

Robert Lavett Smith- Three Poems


RENEE LIGHTING A CIGARETTE

Renee was Black, spectacularly fat—
In short, my absolutely perfect woman.
My lust for her was almost superhuman;
She always seemed a bit bemused by that.
And every time she lit a cigarette
I watched in fascination, a non-smoker
For whom her habit only served to mold her
The more exotic, harder to forget.
On Mission Street she’d cup her hands around
A flaring match to shield it from the wind;
I loved the glow it bathed her features in;
Igniting flame made such a sexy sound.
Then, when she exhaled, rags of smoke uncurled
Through streetlight beams—each shining thread, a world.



MY BIRTH-BLIND EYES INVITED NOTHING IN

In nineteen fifty-seven, I would arrive
Just after midnight on the summer solstice,
The hapless victim of divine injustice:
Born early, and at first, barely alive.
My birth-blind eyes invited nothing in.
In the glass coffin of the incubator,
One of so many tombs life had in store,
I struggled fiercely with a fierce season.
Later, when light began to penetrate
That gentle darkness stolen from the womb,
Phantasmal figures hovered in the room:
Something unspeakable was lying in wait.
A lifetime’s worth of trying would not dispel
A radiance that didn’t wish me well.



CONCRETE SHIP
         
            Bimini, Bahamas, summer 1965

The outboard sputtered, coughed, abruptly died,
Our metal dinghy livid in fierce sun;
An afternoon of boredom had begun,
My little sister sullen by my side.
Dad couldn’t start the thing; he tried and tried,
A faulty fuel line must have come undone;
Judging by shadows, it was nearly one,
The hottest hour, and farthest from the tide.
But when we drifted into the green shade
Of the old freighter scuttled on the reef,
Then I began to really feel afraid.
Its hulking presence offered no relief—
Ragged with algae, it lay dead ahead,
A grim leviathan holding its breath.



Raised in New Jersey, Robert Lavett Smith has lived since 1987 in San Francisco, where for the past sixteen years he has worked as a Special Education Paraprofessional. He has studied with Charles Simic and the late Galway Kinnell. He is the author of several chapbooks and three full-length poetry collections, the most recent of which is The Widower Considers Candles (Full Court Press, 2014). Two poems from this newest book have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He has recently begun work on an new collection of sonnets—his second foray into the form—which is entitled Sturgeon Moon, and which will hopefully be published by Full Court Press at the end of the year.

Tuesday, May 26, 2015

B.Z. Niditch- Three Poems


MAY MORNING

Who astonishes the sea
along the ruddy shore
like a May morning
in view at a port of entry
from my new sun shades
setting out like Ulysses
unshaven as Whitman
asking a boat motioning sailor
from the Azores
with a rose of Lisbon
in his girlfriend's clasped hands
if he could help me to unloosen
the anchor from my kayak,
following my helpless shadow
in a yellow raincoat
hovering in the high tidal waves
which rocks
his ditch water arms
that my back is not as strong
nor is my neck as smooth
as his young figure resembling
the curved lines as a man
in the Medusa's raft of Turner
against the showered heat
and boldly in one swoop
he cuts the anchor loose
as the hour is redeemed
against the flaming sky
along a surge of the dark sea.



A NEW WORLD

Those wild strawberries
in our cool hand
which keep us in sweetness
on May's long airy days
we hike on Concord trails
ablaze the meadow flowers
in well-worn denims
through kicking a ball
by cypress
catching my breath
over tall grass shade
against the west wind
of swarming hum of bees
by Walden Pond
reading to a circle of students
overcoming the pine combs
on common ground
over Indian blankets
of spreading light
all of us in turn
reciting words from Thoreau
everyone responds with perception
among the relentless sunshine
on these dales and hills
as nature reveals
the same language, love, nature
that the songbirds call.



RETURNING THE FAVOR

Six seconds
as blue jays appear
in the museum courtyard
awaiting Picasso
and the Old Masters
in our white sneakers,
by our own drawing easels
expanding their imagination
in the hill background
of our jostling crowds
expecting no artistic recognition
in my sequence
of anxious words
being the fourth in line
suddenly taking out my sax
my fingers are lucid
on a scaled sensitive mouth
as riffs in pages of shadows
plays out its snowy notes
in cabins of disarray
and moments of blues
from cherished B flats,
in luminous memories
from my reed of alto range
mingled in fathomless rhythm
why do I always make raves.
 

Marcus Bales- Three Poems


America The Brave

What happened to America the brave
where ordinary people lived so well?
Who traded citizenship to be a slave? 
Who chose to be a denizen of hell?

We used to be in unions, and we'd fight
for safety, shorter hours, and higher pay. 
But now we cringe alone against the might
of those who shipped our good jobs far away.

The bosses once again own all the cops,
the well-trained veterans of foreign wars,
while we buy imports cheap from big box shops
and soon will owe our souls to company stores.

It's fear that they still manufacture here, 
more fear than cause to fear, and it pollutes
our minds as they pollute the atmosphere:
thick with fear of wealthy men in suits.

We vote for those who're poisoning our rivers
and earth and air, and make the planet hotter, 
but fearing for our jobs, with icky shivers, 
we drink not just the kool-aid but the water.

Research and understanding things is hard - 
we ought to want the facts but we just don't.  
Instead we hold mere wealth in great regard 
and fall back on our cant, as is our wont.


Cuba

We're working to more normalized
relations to get back to trade,
and maybe get it formalized
with embassies and mutual aid.

It's tough to overlook the past --
the torture and the unarmed dead
the zealots stole from, and harrassed,
and finally killed for pay instead.

But after fifty years apart
forgiveness, with its softer voice,
has led them to a brand-new start,
and Cuba made a noble choice.


Domestic Terrorism

At one a.m. it's reassuring
that SWAT is here and they're securing
perimeters and crime scenes during
domestic squabbles;
since citizens are enemies,
they bring HUMVees and APCs
to bring a drunkard to his knees
in plastic hobbles.

Entranced by military gear
they view the streets as their frontier,
enjoying inculcating fear
in all dimensions.
Armored like the knights of old
they do whatever they are told
by people who've already sold
away their pensions.

They think they are the guarantor
of order who can always score
with any weapon on the poor
in whom they've shot holes,
they need enormous wheels that shred
the streets and spend the budget red 
for army vehicles instead
of fixing potholes.

Good news! Those potholes will not keep
the treaded tank or big-wheeled jeep
from jerking you up out of sleep
some early morning.
These fearful schoolyard bullies see
the world in black and white, and we
must vote them out, or this will be
our only warning.

Dalon Ryan- Art














#1  Lotus Motorcycle
#2  Nude Dancer
#3  Dalmatian


Can be purchased at:  Fineartamerica.com
                           Artist:  Dalon Ryan     

Noel Negele- A Poem


Family

We were all gathered at the dinner
all family members with different stories to tell
from different lands
and the most successful of us
meaning the richest
a cousin of mine
received the compliments
of accomplishment
like postcards from the mediocre
didnt inflate his chest at all-
restrained himself from getting drunk
from the flattering
but you know
the smirk was there
I tell you
false modesty is the worst kind of arrogance
just like a melody from vivaldi
is a sunray breaching the darkness within

and I stepped out of the house
a house filled with so much talent
and achievement

their children
new branches of future

their parents
satisfied and verified

my mother sitting there
not able anymore to pronounce words

because her sons where drunks and gamblers
hot headed youngsters with scars
and with no tales of accomplishment to share

and I stood on the balcony
staring at the ripples of the sea

as the night slided deeper within itself
waiting for them to get drunk enough
to sleep content with their decisions
joyful and happy for being alive
still

many people like them
throw their anchors
in professions
in relationships

and like many times before
I will listen to them sleep
and wonder
where the fuck do I lack
what is the damn secret
where to drop the anchor...

you know
some people
are broken beyond
repair

but still
that doesn't mean
we don't strive
for a sense of purpose.

They win you know
they always do

as long as they are happy
they are worth
of your envy.
 
 

Michael Ceraolo- A Poem


from Euclid Creek Book Three

"Hundreds of homeless and unemployed men
have built themselves tiny houses
from sheets of tin and wooden boxes
and live in peaceful,
                             if not lavish,
                                               contentment"

(A few years later they would all be gone:
                                                            where they went,
and what happened to them,
                                          was not remarked upon)

                                                                              because

"Cleveland has for several years
been so depressed by adverse circumstances
that a forward-looking enterprise is needed
to revive the spirit of civic pride
that formerly characterized the city"

                                                      and
"Now the country is getting out of the depression,
                                                                        and
Cleveland should show the whole United States
in 1936 that it is leading the procession"

                                                              And
on Saturday March 7, 1936
ground was broken for the first building
of what would be called the Great Lakes Exposition;
it couldn't call itself a World's Fair
because there was official participation
from only one foreign government (Canada),
                                                                though
there was plenty of unofficial participation
from many foreign governments who had
officials stationed in Cleveland
                                             (and,
proving that photo-ops for politicians
have been around as long as photography,
there is a picture of the Mayor
'using' an antique shovel
from the time of the first Clevelanders;
the ground had actually been broken
by someone using a modern shovel
and then placed on the antique
so the photo of the groundbreaking
could be taken)

                          Not much time
was allotted for the construction:
June 27th was the scheduled opening date,
and it would be met,
                               thanks due
to the more than three thousand workers
representing many skilled trades
as well as unskilled laborers
                                           (in addition
to an exhibit at the Exposition
the United States paid many of those workers
through the WPA)
                             "Incredible,
to pass a dump one day and
the next to find it a garden,
                                        complete
with rolling lawns and flowering shrubs"

At noon on the aforementioned 27th
President Roosevelt pushed a button
in the nation's capital,
                                and
the gates to the Exposition opened
The Secretary of Commerce, Daniel C. Roper
(why do politicians use middle initials?
was there another Daniel Roper
he desperately wanted to be distinct from?),
represented the administration at the opening,
                                                                   and said,
"I compliment the people of the Great Lakes region
on this striking significant exposition
symbolizing the material and cultural progress
of this beautiful and productive section
of America"

                    Later
                              on that first day
came the lighting that would try
to live up to the flacks' hype
("the best lighted exposition
the world has ever seen"),
                                       and
the method of that initial illumination
was impressive:
                         a telescope
at the observatory in East Cleveland
was trained on the moon,
                                      and
at exactly 8:22 PM received
the satellite's reflected light,
stored it in a cell at the base,
                                           then
sent it off to the exposition grounds,
                                                     where
it exploded a ceremonial bomb
that started the generators running
and ignited the rest of the lights in sequence:
"a broad demi-lune of multi-colored phosphorescence"
"an exciting and glamorous setting from overhead,
                                                                         and
at closer approach its multiple details
of design and execution are no less imaginative"
(the second year's gate-opening,
and its first-night lighting,
would be much less eventful)

There would be official participation
from three other states,
                                   and,
after much dithering by downstate politicians,
official participation by the home state as well
(foreshadowing future demographic trends,
                                                              and
possibly helping to bring them about also,
the state of Florida had the biggest state exhibit)

There would be rides and a midway
with all the usual attractions

There would be art exhibits showcased off-site
at the Cleveland Museum of Art

There would be theater in all forms,
from Shakespeare to strippers

There would be a Streets of the World,
showcasing thirty-eight nationalities,
some an integral part of the city's 
everyday life,
                    some
with only a handful of residents
in the city

There would be a wide variety of live music
at bandstands and from a studio,
                                                 where
some of it would be broadcast over
the national radio networks

                                           And
there would be exhibits of technology,
                                                        some
prescient yet unremarked upon:
the phone company's offering
of free long-distance calls
from a heavy-traffic area
that offered the calls zero privacy
prefigured the mobile phone's allowing anyone
access to at least half the conversation;
                                                           others
remarked upon less than presciently:
an entertainment reporter wrote,
"A show that would appear doomed
is Television"

The second year would be slightly smaller:
the entrance gate would be moved back
and Lakeside Avenue re-opened
There would be less emphasis on education
and more on entertainment,
                                         with
several new attractions:
                                    foremost
among these Billy Rose's Aquacade,
                                                      with
its Hollywood and Olympic stars
(sometimes combined in the same person),
                                                                and
its large-scale Busby Berkeley-like water ballets
(today called synchronized swimming)
Everything closed September 26, 1937

Nothing today remains from the Exposition;
the last thing left was the Donald Gray Gardens,
                                                                       which
lasted almost to the end of the twentieth century,
when the powers-that-be decided to tear down
the existing stadium in order to
build a new one on the same spot,
and the Gardens were demolished as well
All the other buildings were razed in the space
of just a few years,
                             and
rubble piles resumed their residency on the lakefront
(the last two Torso Murder victims
were found in one of those rubble piles)

Seven-and-a-half million visitors
in the two hundred and twenty-nine days
over the Exposition's two seasons
                                                   (an estimated
sixty percent of those from out of town)
pointed the way for the future:
"Cleveland is going to have a downtown waterfront
in which the people can take permanent pride and pleasure"
"What has been a shambles will be a place of permanent beauty"

But such an outcome wouldn't be achieved
for several decades,
                               and
then realized only partially:
there would be a few attractions built
that would cater more to the tourist trade,
                                                             yet
there would be limited walkways,
no shops or restaurants,
                                     and
a large area taken up by a lakefront airport,
                                                               which
denied access to the lake to those
without corporate or personal planes
 
 

Janne Karlsson- Cartoon





"Janne Karlsson is an artist from Sweden. Amazon is a place where you can buy his books. The Rods is a highly underrated heavy metal band. www.svenskapache.se is Janne´s poorly updated website."