Steven Storrie- A Poem

GEORGIA

I didn’t think you’d heard me

I didn’t think you would do that
Don’t you feel we sometimes
Think more of people
Than maybe we probably should?

The small red digits

On the alarm clock say 3am
But I know that can’t be true
If it was you would be lying here
Next to me
Or I’d be in some seedy downtown bar
Wondering if I’d dreamed you up inside my room
 
And I wouldn’t be having to write this stuff
Again.


BIO;  Steven Storrie has worked as a cable T.V repair man, dishwasher, choreographer, ice cream vendor and junk yard attendant. Tired of this he is currently locked in his basement working on his first full collection of poetry, bickering with his neighbours over nothing and storing the baseballs he keeps when they are hit into his yard. His first collection of short stories, We Are Not The Kids We Used To Be, will be released in November by DevilHouse Press. You can find him at the website he runs, 'Black Coffee For Breakfast', at http://renegadepriest11.wix.com/blackcoffeebreakfast

Gopal Lahiri- A Poem

Adversary

Watching every morning then
you used to miss the
the little egret as if running over water
with its vivid yellow toes.

you recall, too the game plan with
snow white ducks and the slick path
the way they mean for you
leading to the ponds and marshes

And those tall cranes stand as statues
gaze fixed on the water and then the
squabbling over tiny fish
end up being funny.

without brush the walking shoes
you know you will throw them,
cracks between the floor boards
and the rose curtain disappearing too,

paintings on the wall,
they are the enemy and they are not,
you think you have the sole right,
You kill them without a thought.

Jennifer Lagier- A Poem & Photo

Solstice Moon

 

Spring evaporates, elongated days

of humid sunshine arrive.

 

Abbreviated night trembles on

the precipice of seasonal solstice.

 

Full moon languidly rises

above wetland tules and mist.

 

Swollen orb pulsates, glows,

levitates between cypress limbs.

 

Dim light infiltrates darkened rooms,

instigates summer’s sensual itch.

Jennifer Lagier and her three spoiled dogs live beside the Pacific Ocean where they entertain poets, a few select mad men and a small gopher snake.

 

 

Joan Colby- Two Poems

THE DAY YOUR DAD DIED

We were young and death had not yet touched us

With its black-gloved index finger

Except for the grandparents who were old

And thus deserved to die. We were young and heartless.

Your dad, only 50, middle-aged, busy,

Then the series of heart attacks as if

The house was being strafed by the aircraft

Of an unknown, but invincible enemy. In and out

Of hospitals, then back to work. We had a baby.

We hardly knew what to do with it

Except love it. Feed it. Keep it clean. Your dad

Smiled and offered it candy it could not eat.

Christmas, he was back in the hospital, this time a prominent

Downtown edifice, where presumably more could be done.

He improved, so we were told. We were expecting his release

By New Year’s. He’d be coming home again, like always.

That early wintry morning, the phone

Urging us to hurry. You drove like hell

Blazed beneath your foot on the pedal

Where all of life depends on motion.

We gathered in the room high above the city.

Your dad, so white, his breath coming hard

And gusty like the prairie winds in January.

The doctor, a sober man in white, looked us over

Told you to take your mother elsewhere,

A waiting room with chairs and a coffee urn.

I started to follow, He took my arm. You

Stay here, he said. Figuring what? I was

The in-law, someone who didn’t matter

In the course of such matters. He handed me

A cool cloth. Wipe his forehead. Hold his hand.

In his, the syringe. He looked at me.

I’m going to help this guy. You understand?

AMANITA: DESTROYING ANGEL

                                                                                      

Smooth white cap of an Amish girl

In a buggy pulled by a trotter. Her hands

Fold over the sins of pleasure.

Frilled skirt of a gypsy,

Dirty white and ragged, her plump thighs

Trembling to dance like Salome.

Symbiotic with oaks,

The hammocks where they gather,

To be gathered by the unwary

Innocent in their little knowledge,

That birds and squirrels consume

What must confer goodness.

Imagine the canny god

Who inveigled the Viceroy to mimic

The sour Monarch or pasted

An eyespot of an owl

Upon a frail wing. The stink

Of spoiled meat should prove

A warning, but greed fills its

Basket. Eat as angels might slicing

The tempting flesh with flaming swords.

Victor Henry- Two Poems

FINDING OURSELVES HAD NOT BEEN EASY

Yes, Yes, Yes, Yes, she said to herself, gazing out the window.  Why not? she asked, addressing no one in particular as she sat behind her off-white office desk, laughing. Adjacent, directly across the street, Tiny Pierre, who sold laughter to the dying, clapped his hands and stomped his feet, jumped up and down, turned circles and genuflected. The afflicted, bed soaked in death, hooked up to respirators, gestured weakly with their hands. Three wheelchair patients wiggled their toes. Dr. Milton and doctors Cavat and Parker stood nearby, discussing a recent arrival's statistical chart, occasionally glancing in the direction where Tiny Pierre was and then wasn't. From Ward 12, the Sick Bay of Life, laughter echoed. For the most part, everyone was happy. Natasha wedged her way, step by step, sliding her left foot first and then her right foot farther along the ledge near the open window at the Universal Guaranteed Match Mates Building, a firm that exclusively endorsed the perfect relationship. Natasha decided she would spend her lunch hour and most of the afternoon, sixty-three stories above pavement, reading Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar.  From the moment she was first noticed on the ledge, a sparse crowd began to gather, taking bets amongst itself and chanting Jump! Jump! Jump! Now leaping two and three steps at a time, Tiny Pierre hurried up the emergency stairway toward the sixty-third level.  By the time he got to the fiftieth floor, Tiny Pierre could barely guffaw. He laughingly cursed the elevators for being out of order today and momentarily paused to check his Daffy Duck wristwatch in order to gage how much time he thought he had before she jumped. Thirteen minutes later, Tiny Pierre reached the top. He regulated his laugh, which took about a minute, leaned out the window, and called to Natasha. Miss!  Oh, Miss! The people below are wondering if and when you are going to jump. Jump!  I only came out here to read.  Catch some sun. Get outside of these walls. You know...escape! Inside the Match Mates rectory, located on the first floor, Reverend Ross was looking into the sacred mirror and adjusting his white collar.  He wiped off his patent leather sandals with a soft rag and rallied a call to battle. Mercy, mercy. To understand all is to forgive all, he sighed. Down in the basement, Ferguson, the attendant of the building, was reloading his pipe and explaining his theory to Mr. Betterway, the President of Match Mates. Now the way I see it Mr. Betterway is that she's only gonna make a small splatter on the pavement of life. Sirens sounded. The Rescue Eight team arrived. An ambulance arrived. A police squad car arrived. Mite-sized gaps closed as the crowd cluttered together to watch. Firemen hoisted an enormous metal extension ladder from below. Stepping to the pavement, Natasha told a reporter that it looked like it might rain.

THE THIRST FOR POWER

 

If a man obeys everyone he needs to obey, it stands to reason that eventually there will be no one left to obey and others will start to obey him.  Which was just the case of the white collar worker who lost no time in finding someone to obey.  Who could he charm?  His next door neighbor's wife.  His assistant supervisor.  His major competitor.  Just last week he had charmed two sweet old ladies in a millinery shop to take his suggestion on which hat to buy.  But then he raised his sights on the mayor of the city he lived in.  His charm seemed so infectious. I'm a leader in my community, the mayor said.  I'm able to get my faithful followers to contribute coin to my campaign in any increment I name.  All legal of course.  And the white collar worker imagined separate bank accounts in different cities.  The only trouble was the mayor worked ten hours a day and had very little time to be charmed.  The white collar worker drank coffee all day while the mayor answered the telephone and conducted meetings.  You know, said the mayor, I'm an active member of the American Legion and the VFW.  I attend parades and ceremonies in honor of my friends.  It was then that the white collar worker heard himself say, Here, let me answer that phone for you.  It's probably someone unimportant anyway.  And when the white collar worker would get impatient and want to lead the 4th of July parade, the mayor would say, I'm only happy when I'm dedicating a park in my honor, or cutting ribbons at a new shopping center I've been instrumental in persuading the public to vote for. But it's not enough simply to charm the person you want to obey, you have to live in their shoes, lose sleep over matters of life and death, and sell your soul to the corporate world so that your city has a tax base that is large enough to pay all your public employees.  So after two weeks of charming the mayor and his staff, two men in dark blue suits, driving an olive green four door sedan, carted the white collar worker off to jail.  They threw him in a cell with murderers, rapists, and con artists.  The mayor, of course, relieved that the white collar worker had been removed, proclaimed that the following week would be "Local Charm Week." There would be banners, marching bands, drill teams, and baton twirlers.  What is the true measure of charm anyway?  Apparently, the white collar worker made one fatal mistake.  He had been charming the already charmed when he should have been charming the ignorant to learn humiliation.  Think of the infinite mindless nonthinking people who would line up in droves to be manipulated.  In no time, had he realized this, he could have been president of the United States.   

Patrick Jordan- Two Poems

Patrick Jordan has been writing poetry and prose since he was ten years old. Through poetic expression and creative writing Patrick sets himself at the center of his search for the truth. In 2014 Patrick created the Facebook group "Notes From The Edge.” With over a thousand members they share their love of the written word and carve out a special place online. There on the Edge he hones his craft into something unique and hopes to spark a fire for all to see. He holds degrees in both Sociology and  Psychology and is currently working on a Master's degree.

         

        

 

Somewhere Out There

 

Somewhere out there
is a person,
with a pencil or a piece of charcoal,
writing about his thoughts.

And as the Sun sets
and the last glows
go down behind the horizon,

he can't help but think about
the people around the world.

 

People in Africa
living in handmade huts,
no running water,

no toilets,
no food,

and dirt for floors.

 

Or,

 

The ones in Siberia
living in log cabins
made by their
great-great grandfathers
still standing the test of time.
Their families still
being warmed by the fireplace
that was made centuries before.

 

Or,

 

The thousands of people
rushing up & down
the streets of Tokyo.
Smog filling their lungs
and the sounds of motorbikes
zooming in & out of traffic,
and the sweet smell of street food

hanging in the air.

 

 

Or a man sitting all alone
with running water,
indoor toilet and a shower.
Appliances that work
and almost every creature comfort
that money can buy
and still not feeling complete.

A man wishing he was in
Africa, Siberia, or Tokyo.

 

Or better yet,

wishing he was somewhere

out there

holding onto a pencil or piece of charcoal
writing down his thoughts
on the rest of the world.

 

 

 

          Would I?

 

        If I couldn't numb myself on an hourly basis,

I would
         scream constantly at the state of the world.

I would

        go mad with rage from all the injustice I see.

I would

         beat my fist until blood poured

         from my broken mangled knuckles.

I would

         break my heart trying to find a way to fix it.

I would

         cry myself to sleep every night.

I would

         beg and plead everyone to help me.

I would
         try my hardest to make sense of it.

I would

         never harm another living thing.

I would

         devote my life to positive change.

I would

         sacrifice myself for the good of it all.

I would

         try and make a difference in this world.

         I would try.

 

I would.

 

 

David J. Thompson- A Photo

                                           "Indiana Autumn"

Bruce Mundhenke- A Poem

Sparrows

Sparrows sitting on a wire,
No one knows their names.
I watch them
As they sit the wire,
They seem without a care.
Their lives mean little
To the world,
Although the Spirit cares,
And should one fall
From off the wire,
The Spirit is aware.

DB Cox- A Poem

when an old man dreams
             
"It's been a long time coming
It's going to be a long time gone
But you know that the darkest hour
Is always just before the dawn…" 
       Crosby, Stills & Nash -
       “Long Time Gone”

the quiet in this place
has turned my mind
to stone
i am no longer
a part of the picture
i sit & count
the beats of my heart
i am leaking time

once i had a family
a silent father
a mother
who wrote me long letters
messages concerning
forgiveness, love, & god
well-meaning lessons
in something or other

the doctors
have been exquisitely thorough
they are able to read my mind
i am convinced
that my thoughts
appear above my head
wrapped inside
cartoon balloons

sometimes they take me
to a private room
where i am put on display
like a circus animal
the doctors talk about me
as if i'm not there
they make conjectures
concerning my future
i have no part in the show
i am becoming wary
of the doctors

morning in the day room
sitting in a lounge chair
with my head tilted back
directly overhead
two spots
where the paint
has peeled away
unblinking dark eyes
that stare down at me constantly
waiting for me to break
waiting for me to confess
waiting for me
to apologize

in the room where i sleep
there's a strange mark
just above the baseboard
it runs all the way
across the wall
& disappears into the corner
it looks like a tripwire
when i'm in the room
i watch it closely
yesterday--
just before sundown
i saw it move

when i looked
along the bottom of the wall
i spied a black-haired boy
on his knees behind the wire
he glanced in both directions
then reached out
& tugged lightly at line
as if he were testing it
then he crawled away
into the triple-canopy jungle
viet cong in the perimeter

slow movement forward
through another day
i gage the time
by the light left in the room

when i lie down at night
i no longer have a reason
or a desire
to wake in the morning

it's a long time
before the dawn
& when an old man dreams
he is forever nineteen
& stranded in the savage days
of his youth

viet cong bodies are strung
from the perimeter wire
to the tree line
two are so close together
they seem
to be holding each other
i walk over to one VC
separate from the rest
half in and half out
of the bush
inches from a clean getaway
i am riding the remains
of an adrenaline high
mind still running
like a wild dog
the wounded soldier
lying at my feet
looks up at me
& blinks the sweat
from dark eyes
now his eyes are mine
& my eyes are his
the same empty stare
of forgotten things
the barrel of my rifle
is only inches
from his skinny chest
he opens his mouth
as if to speak
i pull the trigger

the explosion
flushes a multicolored bird
skyward

Ananya S. Guha- A Poem

Revolutionary

do not follow words

trace them unknown 

strip tease

labyrinths of desire

arcade of sorrows

follow them only 

when you're out of anger

want to tear them into

bits and shreds, revolutionary.