Lee Lincecum- Two Poems

The Value of Hard Work

he can

dig a well

skin an animal

jury-rig

a diesel engine

with just some ether

and an old rag

good for him

now he can

drink water

eat venison

and drive his

beat up old truck

until those

two bad knees

finally

give out

 

Hard Working Gal

my ex-girlfriend

called the other day

she still runs

a cash register

and stocks shelves

at a grocery store

despite a hard earned

English degree

not sure

i have anything

clever to say

about that

at least

she's smart enough

to spend most

of her check

on bourbon

and drink herself

into oblivion

every night

so she doesn't

have to think

about things

too much

Bio: Lee Lincecum's work has appeared in publications such as The Burning Shore Review, Asphodel Madness, and My Favorite Bullet. He was co-founder and Managing Editor of Whisper &Scream Magazine until its close in 2011. He is 32 years old and lives in Texas.

Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Deity

 

The thing of it is,

says Johnny O,

none of us knows

 

whether he is

while others announce

after looking around

 

they beg to differ.

The thing of it is,

says Johnny O,

 

some would say

he’s here, he’s there,

he’s everywhere

 

while others would say

after looking around

no one can see him

 

anywhere--so how

can he be everywhere?

The thing of it is,

 

says Johnny O, 

he’s right over where?

Let’s look around.

Brenton Booth- Three Poems

WHEN THE CITY SLEEPS

Watching the walls cave in

after midnight;

the murder silent,

the way asleep,

the whole city invisible,

and nothing to worry about:

all the lights on in my apartment—

and anything now possible.

DIE TO LIVE

I’ll never write the great poem

or have the perfect blonde

or own a silver sports car

or live in a large house,

but those things don’t really

matter;

they are just the invisible

chains

handed down to us,

and people give up whole

lives

trying to achieve them—

not realising they are killing

themselves in the process,

I think in my small summer

apartment in Sydney at 11:10pm

on a Wednesday

a portable fan cooling the room

and two days off work,

which I know is not much:

But what is?

IN THE RAIN

Waiting

on

the

walls

to

collapse

&

the

tenor

cockroach

to

sing

Ava Maria

on

a

cloudy

Monday

night

in

Sydney—

the

fruit

bats

screaming

in

the

tree

by

my

window

&

rain

pounding

against

the

roof

on

this

cold

night,

that

was

meant

to

be

summer.

Bio: Brenton Booth is a writer living in Sydney, Australia.

Virginie Colline- A Poem

Magritte's Pipe

Is this a pipe?
Doesn't matter

Ashes to ashes

Virginie Colline is a French translator living in Paris. You can read her latest poems in Egg, Nostrovia! Poetry, Turk's Head Review, Poetry Jar and Mad Swirl.

Frank C. Praeger- Two Poems

Last Missions

No whistling down
the vacant corridors
of deserted malls.
A gestural flim-flam
enlightens more than recognized
as do singular imprints
that can not be read
or clogging of sluices
or thorns and burrs
or flowers shredded
or parrots that refuse to speak
and the last missions that never were;
and not alone
and not indifferent
abandoned stone
grave as shrouded furniture.

Gargoyles, Licensees, and Planes

Recycled, blown-up Christmas cards.
Tote bags mislaid.
Lipstick and rouge garishly laid on.
A misapplication to a beauty school.
A missed appointment at a hair salon.
Riddled with misgiving
a charismatic smile
as down the hall armed personnel wait.
Baggage lines - stranded
someone complains, `it's hell.'
How quiet passages can be.
The interdiction of people,
but maybe, just maybe, it will all come about.
Above, gargoyles abut,
below, licensees are bothered,
and the planes, planes - that was expected.
Nobody will have left.
The waiting areas filled,
stairs
emptied.

Paul Tristram- Two Poems

Daisy Chain

"I hate her" I said to myself
as I walked to the off-license
so focused and eager in my anger.
Then they approached laughing
and one of them threw a daisy chain in my face
and said "Smile, Mister!"
I walked away feeling ashamed of myself
but still I smiled.
There are beautiful angels everywhere.

 

Published in Inclement (Poetry For The Modern Soul) Winter 2012

 Broken Still

I watched him

breaking pallets,

a suicidal slipper

somewhere near the bottom

as the sledge hammer head

broke into the wood.

After awhile he finished

and I picked up

that sledge hammer

and broke the second step.

He never understood

but I had his attention

and took it with me

through the winding lanes

that led to now

and here it is

broken still.

Published in Decanto, 61^st Issue, October 2012



Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches 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.

Linda M. Crate- A Poem

magnolia girl 

 

rosemary blossoms cling to the magnolia’s 

in the early arms of may, I collect them from

her in a single plucking of one blossom on

days where I feel like being the magnolia 

girl, I place them in my hair like girls wear

dead swans about their neck, but I think 

that wearing magnolias is a bit more 

humane, if we’re perfectly honest with

each other; I wear the magnolia’s out in

the eyes of a public skepticism I ignore;

fashion is only relative to those that wear

it, and I am comfortable within the limits

of my own skin to make a fashion statement

such as this, it’s not like I’m wearing gaga’s

meat dress or ripping heads off bats like ozzy.

I’m just the magnolia girl with flowers in 

her hair, laughing as the teeth of zephyr pull

my hair back, wafting the scent of roses and

their sisters past my nostril as I commune in

the company of nature and my pretty friends

that come to me in flitting blossoms of 

words more infinite and enormous than the

depths of the ocean which would whisk my

magnolia’s away if it were given that chance.

Leeroy Berlin- Three Poems

west side, best side

we’d walk down veteran

between the cemetery and the university

whistling angler’s lures

to sexy fish

caught in flourescent nets

on the way to maloney’s

the honorable dead must have envied

our raging erections which

at the time

didn’t seem sacrilegious

but hindsight

suggests

that flinging full rubbers

over the tombstones

was some kind of sin.

under these watchful eyes

the trick to unlocking a door

surreptitiously

is to lift the bolt

with tension

even to turn the lock back

as though you’d changed your mind at the last second

but with insufficient force to stop

those urges

that drive half dressed teenagers out through their parents’

front doors

crawling through open windows

in pursuit of the testicular imperative

and the quest

for something more tactile

than textual

something that could be felt

and not seen

because what was seen was known

to those watchful eyes

that peered from second floor windows,

surveillance cams,

and satellite flybys

on our every move.

lizards in my room

i have to be careful these days

when i wake up in the middle of the night

not to scream too loudly

or jump too suddenly

so i don’t

startle my unwelcome roommates

clinging to the ceiling.

i used to chase them out with a broom

but they just came back

and after a week

in and out

in and out

i gave up.

i told them, alright you can have the ceiling

and i’ll take the floor

eat the mosquitoes and we’ll call it even on the rent.

stay out of the fridge

and don’t watch too close when my girlfriend

comes

over.

Author bio: Leeroy Berlin recently tried his hand at manual labor.  He decided he still prefers typing too much to anything that resembles actual work and went back to writing poetry and leaving the electric bill unpaid.

Dawnell Harrison- A Poem

Braided noise

Braided noise
In the twined night

Listens to forgotten
Feelings etched

Into the hunchbacked
Willow trees as their

Branches touch the tips
Of the ground.

Love stands true
In the wind-torn night

As the twisted trees
Lean in to hear

Soul’s murmurings
Slated for the evening’s
Long call.

Ali Znaidi- A Poem

A Dream’s Breath—

 

A hint of spring in your breath

to take me to new horizons

where there are no rotten eucalyptus

leaves on the dry ground.

A hint of spring in your breath

imbued w/ the ambrosia of angels

to take away the cruelty

of the sirocco wind,

& to wipe out pessimism &

melancholy—sediments

in unsettled souls.

A hint of spring in your breath

to fill in the empty glasses w/

red wine imbued w/ Apollo’s

majestic grandeur.

A hint of spring in your breath

to decant life into the dead

chalices of aspirations.

 

 

Contributor’s Bio:

 

Ali Znaidi (b.1977) lives in Redeyef, Tunisia where he teaches English at Tunisian public secondary schools.  He writes poetry and has an interest in literature, languages, and literary translations. His work has appeared in The Camel Saloon, Otoliths, The Tower Journal, streetcake, The Rusty Nail, Yes,Poetry, Shot Glass Journal, Ink Sweat and Tears, Mad Swirl, Unlikely Stories: Episode IV, Red Fez, Carcinogenic Poetry, Stride Magazine, and other ezines. His debut poetry chapbook Experimental Ruminations was published in September 2012 by Fowlpox Press (Canada). He also writes flash fiction for the Six Sentence Social Network—http://sixsentences.ning.com/profile/AliZnaidi.