Friday, August 31, 2012

Chris Butler- A Poem

Sunday Mourning

Sundays don’t always shine
and I can’t always find
the bright side
to the horizon line’s

But like a moth to a flame,
I always fly too close to

Thursday, August 30, 2012

Anthony Ward- A Poem


Are you surprised to hear from me so soon?
My nails scratching against your conscience-
Causing your shoulders to shrivel
And your face to drop,
As you look to the ground to swallow you.

But you’re much too bitter,
It would spit you out,
Unable to stand you,
While you ball into yourself             
Playing dead until you can set yourself straight.

Anthony tends to fidget with his thoughts in the hope of laying them to rest. He has managed to lay them in a number of literary magazines including Enhance, Drunk Monkeys, Speech Therapy, Thousand Shades of Grey, Turbulence, Torrid Literature
Journal and The Rusty Nail, amongst others.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Robert Demaree- Three Poems


He would have willed
His brain to Science
Except for what they might find
Recorded, as if upon
A computer hard drive.
He had heard of people
Chopping them up,
Sacrifice of Knowledge.
Browsing history, he saw,
Could be erased.
Memory might be like that,
Vanished with a single click.
But he rather thought
It was always somewhere
Deep inside
And someone knew how to find it.

August 24, 2011

I wrote a haiku
And put it out
For her to find that day:
August twenty-fourth:
Wedding anniversary
Forty-eight good years.
I worried about not saying
Great, or wonderful,
Both of which were true.
But great rhymes and
Wonderful doesn’t scan.
I meant good the way
The Army speaks of good years,
Or Social Security:
Years that count,
That count for something.
In any case,
They are the years that
We have had,
So far.


Things that have not changed:
Cheerful earnestness,
Cell phones turned on, BlackBerries.

Things that are new:
Faculty sign-out sheet,
Hazelnut syrup
By the coffee maker.

Robert Demaree, a retired educator, is the author of four collections of poems, including Mileposts (2009), published by Beech River Books. He has had over 550 poems published in 125 periodicals, including The Aurorean, Avocet, Cold Mountain Review, Dead Snakes, Foliate Oak, Louisiana Review, The Louisville Review, MediaVirus, miller’s pond, Schuylkill Valley Journal, Tipton Poetry Journal and in the 2008 and 2010 editions of The Poets’ Guide to New Hampshire. He lives in Wolfeboro, N.H., and Burlington, N.C.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Jack T. Marlowe- Two Poems

still life with sunflower
by Jack T. Marlowe

o yellow
corpse of

now re-
born on
a kitchen

a mere
for coffee
and cig-

your sad
begin to
shed the 
of light

but the
flies still
love your

and your

to your




big dreams, small change
by Jack T. Marlowe

you can
that big dog
but the wild
yearning for
the open road
cannot be
bred out of
his genes

sniffing at
the tracks of
freedom, his
instincts urge
him to follow

but he is made
obedient by
a short leash
held by
the tight fist of

his master's
voice is not
it is not
it is imbalance:

the deficit
big dreams
small change

the bark of
have and
the bite of
have not

the big dog's
ears droop
his tail
does not

he digs
holes in the
ground of
and buries
the bones of
his dead

another day
he thinks
i will dig them
back up and
chew on them
for awhile


Jack T. Marlowe is a gentleman rogue from Dallas, TX.  A writer
of poetry and fiction and a veteran of the open mic, his work has
appeared in Handful of Dust, Visceral Uterus, Red Fez, Thunder
Sandwich, Napalm and Novocain, Underground Voices and else-
where. Jack is also the mad editor of Gutter Eloquence Magazine

Monday, August 27, 2012

James Babbs- Three Poems

I Didn’t Have Anything

I didn’t have a job
or a place to live
and sometimes
I borrowed someone’s car
or I bummed a ride
when I had some place to go
and I slept on people’s couches
I took turns
staying at different houses
some nights
I even slept outside
underneath the stars
twenty-one or two and
I didn’t have anything
but I felt pretty good
walking around
the warmth of the sun
pouring on my skin
and whenever it rained
finding somewhere to stay
I was young and strong
and indestructible
felt like I was capable
of doing something great
I never felt like
I was missing out on anything
maybe the touch of a woman
every now and then
and sometimes
I went for long stretches
without having enough to eat
the hunger like a hot blade of steel
burning through me
and those were
some of the best days of my life

Something About Windmills

the windmills kept turning
slowly in the sky
I started thinking about you
watching the windmills
slowly turning and
I was wondering about
the last time I saw you
trying to remember
what I said to you
while I was driving past
the windmills turning
slowly in the sky
I remember
you were crying
and calling my name
but I don’t know why
and there was something
about windmills
I kept seeing them in my mind
and I couldn’t stop thinking about you

A Hole

it’s not like a hole in the ground
but the emptiness I feel
somewhere in my heart
since she’s been gone
a hole in the wall
where the light shines through
but this room still gets dark
it’s like a hole
where I bury myself
another place I can go
when I feel the need to hide and
it’s been a long time
since I dreamed anything good and
I don’t know
how many years have passed
since the last time
I wished upon a star
I get tired and
I just close my eyes
but there’s nothing left
nothing there
for me to see

I have published hundreds of poems over the last several years in print journals and online.  I live in the same small town where I grew up.  I work for the government but don’t like to talk about it.  I have a cherry tree and two grapevines in my back yard and several pesky rabbits.  Recent poems have appeared or are forthcoming at Camel Saloon, Horror.Sleaze.Trash., and Word Riot.

Thursday, August 23, 2012

Larry Jones- A Poem


She said,
I think my period
is about to start.

How's that?
I asked.

I'm craving pizza,
she said.

I thought you always crave chocolate,
I said.

That too,
she said.

I don't care
what you're doing
I don't care
what time it is
get off your ass
go out and get me some
chocolate and pizza

I thought.

Bio:  Larry Jones lives with his wife in Utah. He is retired.

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

The Girls in Steno, 1970

When it’s break time
the girls all walk together,
cigarette-protector cases
clasped between their index
tapers and their thumbs.
On each girl’s fingers glow
iridescent lacquers.
When break time nears,
they peek at each other,
twinkle, giggle, nod.
When break time comes,
a bell rings and the girls rise
like Lazarus. High on heels
they click in couples down the hall
to fill an elevator.
They get off at One. There
they float across the cafeteria,
men everywhere,
eyes everywhere.
(Is he the one?)
When a new girl’s hired
the old girls
put her to the test:
Will she join them
for the coffee break?
If she does, she joins them forever,
even after she marries,
retires or expires.

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Ross Leese- Two Poems

sit with me

and we'll tear the bricks from government buildings
we'll let ladybirds crawl onto our fingers
and then pull their legs off
one by

don't go anywhere

just sit with me and we'll shoot down planes
we'll flatten the tyres on every emergency

we'll tell the young kids ghost stories
until they

you and

while the sun sets on
this gunshot

we'll sit and swim the pool
of each others

these are the days of our lives

scour the skies for god
night after sodden

believe in a fairytale
where the good
guys win


smile as the blood
explodes away
from your

sleep with your
as the world

wake up and do it
again and

call it
and learn
to live

Monday, August 20, 2012

Ally Malinenko- A Poem

I’m going to clean the apartment, today, I say to no one
I walk from room to room in my pajamas.
The cats follow.
I’m going to clean the apartment today, I tell them.
One of them runs away, the other just meows at me.
She doesn’t believe me.
I wander from room to room, stopping to wipe
stray cat litter off my feet.
I stare at the piles of books and papers, the chicken scratch writing.
I watch small bits of errant cat hair slide over the desert floor.
But I am. I’m going to get everything up and clean.
I’m going to scrub the floor,
the walls, the ceiling. Everything.
All the clothes will be washed,
the dishes sparkling.
It will be like a new place.
and then when I’m done,

I’m going to push the books out the window
and then the pictures and paintings.
I’m going to hurl every dish we own out onto 75th street
and listen to cars run them over with a satisfying crunch.
Then our bed, our dresser, everything. Last the couch.
I’m going to leave everything sitting on the sidewalk
and close up the windows.
Then I can lay down on the cool floor,
in an empty apartment
and try not to think about the next couple of months.
The dark space that is the fall.
Afterwards, I’m going to write this poem.
And I’m going to send it to you.
Or at least I would, if I could find any paper.
Ally Malinenko is the author of The Wanting Bone (Six Gallery Press). Her second book of poems entitled Crashing to Earth is forthcoming from Tainted Coffee Press and her first novel for children, Lizzy Speare and the Cursed Tomb is forthcoming from Antenna Press. She currently lives in the part of Brooklyn the tour buses don't come to and rambles on and on over at

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Seamas Carraher- A Poem

for Niall Quinn, on his journey

i’m walking in my dream
through a fabulous palace
of touch

the courtyard hums
with the
electricity of longing

danger dances
the walls

i am not this old man now,
my skin is fresh
and the cells
of my mind
shiver with newness

the nightmare has ended
and i’ve woken up new!

only i sleep
and this world
is a dream
and in my dream
down a long corridor
my mind stills tells me
“you better...”

and in that dark prison
all the dead men of my youth
hang from twisted ropes
from light fittings and ceilings

but here
my skin is fresh
my cells tingle
with the electricity of life

and everything is lit
with the ache of longing.

In my dream
only my body can speak
its words lit with wonder
their tongues spitting fire

this must be a language
that knows fear
but not war

so i lay down

i lay down deep
and i am a river
that can never be stopped

a dance of light and touch
and desire
of mingling and miracle

both body and soul.

Now my hands
are like birds
and they fly through the rooms
of your soul
their wings beating

i calm your fears
in the only way i know
and we are lost forever
in this place
we have somehow
never forgotten.

In the Palace of Touch
i am not this old man
with a heart of stone.

i am sensuous
and music
and my limbs are supple.

my words are lips
see how they swell with desire!

my words are a river
like rain or water
see how they soar like birds!

And i am always
across the emptiness
to meet you here.

i wake.

And the room
is filled with birds falling
to the floor

and the news is harsh and peels
the wallpaper from the walls

and i am heavy and cold

and i reach

Séamas Carraher was born in Dublin, Ireland in 1956. He lives on the Ballyogan estate, in south County Dublin, at present.
Recent publications include poems in Carcinogenic Poetry, Naphalm & Novacain, The Camel Saloon, ditch, Bone Orchard Poetry, Istanbul Literary Review and Pemmican. Previously his work has been published in Left Curve (No. 13, 14 & 20), Compages, Poetry Ireland Review, & the Anthology of Irish Poetry.