B.Z. Niditch- Three Poems

MARCH FIRST BLUES

A blue bird carols

in the revelation

of spring that may be

dawning soon

my hand seeks

bread from the feeder

and poppy seeds

imaging summer oranges

are ready to eat

in greensward foliage

children skate

on the  windy icy pond

over the Esplanade

a musician riffs 

as a sax plays

on his fingertips.

PANIC ATTACKS

She calls them

small war raids

when near sundown

she loses it all

in a surviving madness

she telephones us

riddled with voices

messages, cold phantoms

lost tongues into the next

begotten moments

her life leaving

her no choice

we pray and it is

suddenly gone.

AT SOHO

As the last

of wintry wind

grabs my arm

while I carry

the love of four pears

in a straw basket 

of my motorcycle

a poet still practices

his Beat

in an apex of light

by a down town club

where I play my sax

losing direction

without oil or gas

a man from Paris

offers to help me

he plays keyboard

and offers to accompany

me as snow flakes

on our window

shape our riffs.

 

 

Wayne F. Burke- Three Poems

Wayne F. Burke has published two volumes of poetry with Bareback Press: WORDS THAT BURN (2013) and DICKHEAD (2015), and has a third volume, KNUCKLE SANDWICHES, forthcoming (5/16).

Vane

Mr. Gootay, from India

owned a funky restaurant

on the backside of Harvard Square

in Cambridge, Mass. where

I worked as fry cook

putting out breakfast

and lunch

and sweating my hangovers

off

over a sizzling grill

that baked my brain

and made me thirsty again

and one night after work

in a bar in Central square,

where Harvard does not live,

I got the shit beat out of me

and the next day

went to work wearing

mirror sunglasses and

band-aids on my face

and Mr. Gootay asked

"what happened, Vane?"

and I said "I walked into a door,"

and Mr. Gootay

standing with hands behind his back

and wearing a white jacket that

made him look like a doctor,

said

"unbeLEAVEable!"

Punk Fight

the screaming starts

and grows in volume

as two punks get ready

to duke it out;

one punk wings

round-house rights

the other dances

with fists upheld

like John L. Sullivan.

The fight goes on and on

like a bad play;

a girl is called "crack whore"

a guy "bitch"

and John L. Sullivan

spits on his opponent.

The cops are eating doughnuts

or else playing cards

in the station;

a crowd grows to two dozen,

all hoping for a better show

or a quicker end

and when a moon-faced cop shows

the punks split

and the cop

sweating through his shirt

asks

what I'd seen

and I say "nothing"

but he gets an earful from

the fat girl

working at the hot dog stand.

spirit

the spirit flew in

through the window

and went down my

gullet:

I love it

it tells me that

there is hope

that there is a future--

but the night, I said to the spirit

it is so dark

and I am all alone;

and the spirit said that

it knew all about

the dark and

the lone,

and did not think much

of either.

 

 

Jenny Santellano- A Poem

Dead Dad Club

Dear friend
I'm not
a member
but I
feel your
pain

the bludgeoning
blows to
the already
shattered
ego
the
accusations
the
name calling
the
heart-ripping
criticisms

the look
that
look
of disgust
hate
anger
vessel void
of love
or
empathy

Your mirror
cracks
and I 
fall
to pieces

the maddening
memories
won't 
clean up
that mess

Yes
I understand
but
I don't
know

yet.

David J. Thompson- A Photo

                                                    "Idaho"

Lily Tierney- Two Poems

WAGON TRAIN

She was not daddy's little girl,
Cinderella, or Rapunzel.
The only knee she knew
was the one she skinned.

Should of been tough enough
to stop a speeding bullet,
but folded her hand
to an expert bluff.

Still the wagon train moves
westward, and they are
all singing the same song.

Played Softly

The words played softly
upon the page.

All the colors of the
spectrum emerged.

The letters collided
with one another
to offer up what
she really wanted
to say.

 

 

David J. Thompson- A Photo

                                           "Atlantic Sunrise"

Bruce Mundhenke- A Poem

A Concert

We once went
To see Bob Dylan,
A poet on a bus
With a band.
On a cool day
Just before autumn,
When a cool, gentle,
Comforting breeze
Was passing over the land.
We stood at relaxed attention,
With many others
In front of the stage,
A smile on our faces,
We watched him play,
And listened to the words
Of the sage.
He no doubt had been touched
By the Master,
Still very good with age.
We warned some young ones
Who followed his tour
That these days
Things weren't the same.
As the concert was ending,
Security came around.
They grabbed the kid's
Pipe and his bag,
And knocked him to the ground.
As they walked him away in handcuffs,
All his friends could say,
Was bummer, guys,
Guess he'll catch up,
In Omaha, anyways...
Then Dylan and band
Boarded their bus,
And slowly they rolled away.

Marchell Dyon- Two Poems

MAKING A MAN

 

When I am alone I build myself a man

Not of biblical clay

But one fluent in the language of French kissing

 

On his lips when he speaks

He whispers only my name

 

When he touches me

Like a flower I bloom

 

I am Venus to him born from a shell

Pregnant with beauty to him I lack all flaws

He never wants more than what I’m willing to give

 

When I ‘m done with him

I shove him into an overstuffed closet

Hidden away with the moth balls and the winter sweaters

 

There is a commitment here

He is the last thing I think about when I leave for work

He is the first thing I would try to save in a fire.

 

 

 

REASONS WHY YOU SHOULD TAKE OUT THE GARBAGE

 

It is the most manliness of business

It makes me hot

 

Noble domestication is better on the brain then cheap wine

Want to walk me out of my clothes wash a dish or two

 

I’ll do things domestic for you

I’ll tailgate your Sundays with the boys

 

Unlike other wives I won’t pretend to be a fan of the big game

I’ll just serve you and your friends and then get out the way

 

Later like a well - trained Geisha

I‘ll rub your shoulders

 

I’ll ask so little and give so much and won’t nag you

We would not be known as the angry couple on our street

 

If only the garbage would not always overflow

If only I did not have to drag the garbage to the curb

 

If only the most manliness of business was taken care of

I would not feel like I am in this marriage alone.

 

 

 

 Bio:

Marchell Dyon poetry has been published in many magazines including  Eye to the Telescope, Mused Bella online, and Medusa's Kitchen. She is from Chicago IL.   

Joanna M. Weston- Three Poems

A JOURNEY OF HABIT

she lives at the end
of the number 9 bus
line where the tracks
curve round the bay
through the jail
yard past the cemetery

there her husband lives
under daisy    dandelion
and a broken urn

she gets off the bus
goes down the rutted path
sits with him in the shadow
of an ancient yew
and mutters through broken
teeth of a dead child
familiar songs and old wars



JUDGEMENT

a sad grey man shackled to a cop
at the Mexico city airport
is this a jail transfer?
is he being extradited
from home to away?

no place here for family to visit
if he has wife children parents
to say good-bye or did
that happen in prison?

here    just a walk   handcuffed
through the public concourse

eyes slant toward him in case he runs
wanting to see guilt   finding
shadows at his temples
strain-puckered lips

stocky build moves weightily
in old shirt  sagging track pants
to the plane where no one
can leave



ON THE NOSE

I take the bus
to the race-track
watch the tote
compute the odds
lay a bet
on the fourth favourite
win or place
find a spot
in the stands

breath comes
fast  blood pressure
mounts as the horses
pound round the
last bend into
the straight
to the wire
and my horse
streams past
in second place
nothing like
a good bet


JOANNA M. WESTON. Married; has two cats, multiple spiders, a herd of
deer, and two derelict hen-houses. Has a middle-reader, ‘Frame and The
McGuire', published by Tradewind Books; and poetry, ‘A Summer Father’,
published by Frontenac House of Calgary. Her eBooks found at her blog:
http://www.1960willowtree.wordpress.com/

David J. Thompson- A Photo

                                                  "Hudson"