J.J. Campbell- Three Poems

lonely eyes

i once had a woman

tell me i had lonely

eyes

i laughed and told

her she could do

something about

that

she laughed and

said she wasn't

interested

i asked her if they

suddenly looked

sad

she said yes

but she only

finds happy

people

attractive

i excused 

myself from

the conversation

as i knew i wasn't

going to be attractive

anytime soon

 

 

the world never stood a chance

i miss 

the taste

of your

skin

the lonely

nights where

it was just us

against the 

world and

the world

never stood

a chance

you're off to

god knows

where and i

can't even

fathom that

you have

thought of

me in years

and here i am

reaching for

a towel after

another meeting

with my past

you, a glass

of wine, black

lingerie and

the greatest

two hours

of my life

 

 

before the pain takes over

thunder

in the

distance

back

tightening

up

misery

is

anytime

i see

blue

on a

weather

map

 

 

J.J. Campbell (1976 - soon) lives and writes on a farm in Ohio. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at ZYX, Nerve Cowboy, The Camel Saloon, Pyrokinection, and My Favorite Bullet. His latest collection, Sofisticated White Trash, is available wherever people happen to buy books these days. You can find him bitching about life and sports on his blog, evil delights. you can find it at http://evildelights.blogspot.com.

Brittany Zedalis- A Poem

Liberation

In his eyes reflect a time with turbulent skies,

where he, a weary traveler, roamed with

an aching heart and burning desire,

yearning to be released from chaotic nightmares,

once dancing with the devil, with each pirouette their

eyes grew dark and sinister, beneath fading stars

the earth cracked, his footing lost, a descent

into madness nearly certain, enduring a torrential

downpour as lightning crashed, swiftly

blindsided by salvation, the return of a kindred spirit

once ripped from his soul in the time of gods.

Brittany Zedalis is a 21 year old college senior who is studying to be an elementary teacher. She has been writing poetry for 7 years. She has a poetry blog at: http://the-soul-of-a-poet.tumblr.com/

Perry L. Powell- Three Poems

A Last Litany

This morning: take the smell of coffee brewing.

Or something in the way we norm and grasp.

The taste of salty tears.  A taste of honey.

A swim in the night to earnestness.

And another place I have only glimpsed.

That hole the meteor dug for us. Last night.

And your fear of falling. Going against the rain.

With a need to know how forgetfulness...

As we come home to where I was always going.

Home to where we have never been.  Again.

How will you take me there? And why now?

And why do I feel the touch of warm fingertips?

Now a flash of blue across the midnight sky.

Gives you what I wrote that night before dying.

And Again

Little time to find something worth saying like

tears swept away in a river,

jawbreakers from the box, or

all the reasons for the journey we made.

Such miseries may not be borne

or as constructive as a secret affair

or finding the power cord at hand

for the ones coming after.

A hundred years later

we still count the days.

And the twisted metal

still glows in a morning sun.

Annunciation

The mustard colored snow of spring covers

everything.  A swarm of gnats glimmer

in the sun like fairy dust.  With fingers

rusting in daylight, an old man (who takes

too many pills) considers the nothing

that remains after all the divisions. 

Not Lord Byron swimming the Hellespont. 

He holds few sticks to throw against the storms

to come.  Having draped a curtain across

the times, he is relieved as a busy

man excused from jury duty.  And if

he awaits a singularity that

never comes, what then? Simply that light?

Or just another worrying folk tune?

Bio

Perry L. Powell is a systems analyst who lives and writes near Atlanta, Georgia. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in 50 Haikus, A Handful of Stones, A Hundred Gourds, Atavic Poetry, Black Mirror Magazine, Dead Snakes, Decades Review, Deep Water Literary Journal, Frogpond, Haiku Presence, Indigo Rising, Lucid Rhythms, Mobius The Journal of Social Change, Poetry Pacific, Poetry Quarterly, Prune Juice, Quantum Poetry Magazine, Ribbons, small stones, Stone Highway Review, The Bactrian Room, The Blue Hour, The Camel Saloon, The Credo, The Foliate Oak, The Heron's Nest, The Innisfree Poetry Journal, The Lyric, The Mind[less] Muse, The Rotary Dial, Turtle Island Quarterly, vox poetica, and Wolf Willow Journal.

J.K. Durick- Three Poems

                      Straightening up

 

We learn this early, or perhaps never at all,

The fine art of putting things away when we

Are through, restoring, replacing, cleaning up

After the meal, the party, even simple things

Need this finishing touch, order restored, as if

What happened didn’t happen at all, as if we

Turn back time, return to the way things were

Before the plan became preparation and then

Moved on to whatever left a mess like this, we

Either live with things as they are, or we move

Against them, we start placing them properly

Putting them in their place, cleaning, arranging

Bringing a bit of order to the disorder we made

Being our other self, a bit careless, a bit clumsy

Our active, lovable preoccupied selves, author

Of messes, builder of clutter, heap and tangle

That too busy spokesman for chaos in all of us;

We divide the roles, the labor involved in it,

We muddle and unmake, leave candy wrappers

And empties, disarrange the furniture, fill

The sink with dish after dish, leave clothes and

Footwear enough to dress an army, lights on

And then we turn on ourselves and begin to undo

Pick up, straighten and set it all right once more.

             The Things

 

There are things we have waited for

wished for, longed for, were certain

we could not live without, absent

things we imagine into being ours

just around the corner things, things

just out of our reach, tomorrow’s

things, tantalizing, tempting things

tormenting and enticing things;

we plan and plot for them, polish

up for them, know they are coming

it’s just a matter of when or where

or how they will arrive, at the door

or on the phone, or through the mail,

and then when they’re finally with us

when the waiting and wishing and all

that imagining have finally borne fruit

we sit back satisfied, admiring them,

our fulfillment, our accomplishment

now they have arrived, we have arrived,

but then we get a bit bored, the things

we have get dusty, rusty, begin to wear

begin to be ironic reminders of times

when we knew what we wanted, needed

and waiting gave us something to do.

                      Dog Shit

 

Back then, there was something inevitable

about it, part of being young, part of taking

shortcuts, of crossing any lawn, part of being

clumsy, of step -misstep, of hurrying, of just

being around; dogs ran loose back then, part

of the background, the everyday, wagging or

barking, growling or howling, plenty of warning

except where to step, but we learned early

took it in stride, an inevitable bit of business

dragged our shoe through the grass, a stick

would work, a hose if handy, it wasn’t a slow

process, just part of getting home, not wanting

to leave a trail behind us; when we stepped

in it, we really did and then moved on, but

now we hear other dogs from inside their

house, sound and fury at our passing by, as

we trail behind our dogs, bags in hand, on

the alert for a pause in their progress; we

live in such a sanitary world, our dogs and us,

in a world where the shit we face is more

figurative than literal, where when we step

in it, more is sullied than just a shoe, where

cleaning up is far more complicated than

that inevitable rite of passage, that was so

simple to undo, or even simply step around.

 

 

 

J. K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Eskimo Pie, Pacific Poetry, Ink Sweat and Tears, and Muddy River Poetry Review.

Donal Mahoney- Three Poems

Mom and Pop

They got along fine lying down 

but sitting up or standing, well 

that was quite another thing.

Talking made things worse.

Lying down they found 

no words necessary. 

Had she been deaf 

or he been mute, they would 

celebrate next week

their Golden Anniversary.

Five kids would be there,

born in less than seven years.

Last Saturday, at the wedding 

of a grandchild, they knew

they got along fine lying down.

Metaphorically Speaking

Dive under any 

skirt that floats 

your way, Amish 

or otherwise,

metaphorically speaking.

Be an explorer.

Sail every sea until

you find the eddy 

you want to swirl in

the rest of your life.

Then stake your claim. 

Make it your own. 

Listen to the Muse

Never engage

in conversation

a man with a beard

down to his testicles  

talking to himself

under a viaduct

at midnight 

if all the bulbs

under the viaduct

have been shot out.

Take notes instead

on what he's saying

provided he speaks 

in iambic pentameter.

Take those notes home

and sit next to a candle

at the kitchen table

and weave a sonnet

and send it out 

to every magazine

you can find

and then go back

under the viaduct and 

take more notes and

sit next to the candle

at the kitchen table.

Weave another sonnet.

Pray he talks forever.

Java'Reione Westerfield- A Poem

 The Chills

Speeding minds racing take breathes, bodies dance like the waves of the ocean as you breathe I breathe we harmonize a melody only these 4 walls will understand we step to the beat of silence with only a dim light of a lamp in the corner in our heads we know in our hearts we know from the end of your toes to the tip of your nose chills race each faster than the other because we know your smile your eyes the way your hand gently touches my face this is so wrong but so right can this moment last forever?... - Java'Reione W., 16

Nancy May- Three Sweet Haiku

two kisses

feeling both sides

of your affection

steam train

slowly we start to

know each other

confession

for my oldest friend

a kiss of love

Bio:

Nancy May has haiku published in Haiku Journal, Three Line Poetry, Poetry Quarterly, Inclement Poetry, Twisted Dreams Magazine, Vox Poetica, Eskimo Pie, Icebox, Dark Pens, Daily Love, Leaves of Ink, The Blue Hour Magazine, Kernels, Mused - The BellaOnline Literary Review, Writer’s Haven, Danse Macabre – An online literary Magazine, High Coupe, A Handful of Stones, Lyrical Passion Poetry E-Zine, UFO Gigolo, 50 Haikus, The Germ, Boston Literary Review, Be happy Zone and Every Day Poets. Haiku will soon appear in Cattails, M58 and Ppigpenn. She is a monthly contributor at The Camel Saloon and Poems and Poetry.

She has reached The Heron’s Nest consideration stage twice and the Chrysanthemum consideration stage once.

She is working on her first haiku collection.

Douglas Polk- Two Poems

In God We Trust

In God We Trust

the slogan on our money,

in truth,

a bald faced lie,

the birth of a child,

no longer a sacred event,

or a gift from God,

now only more livestock to be managed,

parenthood to be planned,

and if mistakes made,

the innocent allowed to die,

women can kill before the birth,

was only more unwanted livestock,

In God We Trust

we ask for God's blessings,

in both speech and song,

yet defy His teachings,

more everyday,

We trust in ourselves to know His will,

nothing is timeless,

things can't be written in stone,

or in blood,

In God We Trust

we plan our future,

and buy insurance to protect our life, 

and our health,

trusting the government and doctors to see us through,

they instead of God to decide our fate,

tell us when the end has finally come,

In God We Trust,

hypocrites all.

Serfdom Offered

the serfs of old Russia,

the spiritual ancestors of the people,

now living in the land of the free,

the mindset the same,

their needs to be met by the rich and the strong,

unthinking,

uncaring,

and suddenly not free,

shackled by Biden and the men and women of Washington D.C.,

ignorant and unkempt,

in the land of the free,

the tears of Washington and Jefferson falling unseen.

Nicholas Jebsen- Three Poems

Into The Flood Again

 

I am sad. 

I am sad because I am utterly obsessed.

I am sad because it will never be

An internet quiz once called me 

clinically depressed

But I think I'm sad because the person I hate the most

also, coincidentally, is me.

I'm sad 

because all I can ever think about is scoring

I once used to laugh, because High School is a joke; but these day's it's just too

FUCKING! 

boring

And as I'm blinded by my faults, I'm force fed

Tegretol with a side of Amphetamine salts 

And although perhaps I can see once more, 

I can't help but feel like I'm under forty feet of water

Looking back up at the glistening surface 

as I rest against the ocean floor 

   

I wake each morning to a brand new day

Yet somehow it's all the same, bland, 

smothered under layer after layer of 

omnipresent gray.

They Say I Ruined Spring Formal

 

I  was stumbling, blinded by the shame of my own monstrosity 

Meandering like the river Styx

I hurled myself into the tangled mass of throbbing limbs

And I groped for an easy fix

I singled out a sullen wench

and molded against her swaying hips

And as the music's bombardment was briefly paused

we joined against our lips

Her gaping jaws soon eclipsed the entirety of my face, 

And I collapsed in horror, a broken soul, reverting 

to my rightful place.

I could tell by there stares that they hungered for my failure 

Like angst ridden jackals, deserted and unfed

So I destroyed the stereo, flicked on the lights 

And laughed to their gawking faces and said:

I tire, You fuckers, Of your punitive ways!

And I tire of your almighty plan!

I choose life! I choose love! I choose sex-positive abstinence!

I choose freedom, I choose being a man!

 

  

Rays

She's gone.

Only tears and our love remain, tears and love 

And her soul that is alleged to roam above

But I'm still right here, pen in one hand, 

The other clutching a cheap beer

I'm still right here, The reason why is 

Not currently clear...

I see her in a Facebook memorial page

And yet again in the rays of sun

I hear her laughter out of sight

As it echoes up the barrel of a loaded gun.

Christopher P.P. White- Three Poems

The Swan

I go to that coffee shop every day.
The coffee is never made
The same way
And the girl behind the counter
Always has a different face
That varies in wrinkles, lipstick
And attractiveness.

However,
There is always one constant.

The man in the tuxedo 
Who sits in silence by the patio,
Drinking the same tea:
Milky, two sugars—
Always alone.

I spoke to him once about the weather
And he seemed charming;
He reminded me of George Bailey
In colour
But with a hint of that dull grey
Running through his thoughts.

He was always humming a melody
I seem to recall from days
That existed long before
Mine;
Glen Miller I think.

In his hands,
He held a napkin that read
The name of the coffee shop.
Like a caterpillar 
To a butterfly,
It became an elegant swan;
Folds in precise places
And great care in every crease.

A true work of art.
But for whom?

The man always drew the letters M and O
Under the wing of the bird.
Mary, Olivia?
Were these letters even a name?

He would leave his swan at the table—
Without fail.

I have a hundred now and I still
Don't know
Who the man with the swan is.

I haven't seen him for around three months now.
Maybe he lost the will to live
Without his swan.

The Sad Truth

Those big wheels have fallen off
The train and we lay
Derailed in the mud.

The crows perch on the telephone poles
And heckle us in their deadpan tones;
Louder and more abrasive
With every tear that rolls down
Your weathered cheek.

Amongst the rubble of our accident,
I see tiny bits of something better—
I think people call them regrets.

The ride was a good one baby
But nothing lasts forever,
Not even us.

The sad truth is I can't be bothered
To get on my feet
And dust off all the gravel
And muck.

I'd rather wait for the horror
To blow over—
That's the honest, bitter,
Truth.

In a Bubble

Her warm body radiates 
As my cold hands
Rest upon her strapless shoulders.
The bra she wore
Fell to the floor
Like a solitary feather
Falling from a lavish bird.
The balcony overlooks
A twinkling skyline and her eyes
Hold all of the flashing lights
Together.
She stands there without a fabric
In sight,
Only the materials of creation—
Her skin and bone,
Naked and alive in the cool breeze.
This is what dreams are made of,
I think,
As I hold this hourglass
Against my trembling body,
We remain united for hours
And the rising sun keeps its
Gaze upon the city below,
Whilst we keep our gaze upon
Each other.
The beads of sweat that
Rest elegantly on her forehead
Glisten as we welcome
In the morning,
The last morning we'll ever see each other.
In a bubble we floated
Through the mundane madness
Of a lacklustre life.

Christopher P. P. White is a poet that explores every facet of this mortal coil with a mind doused in cynicism and hope. He lives in Derby, England with his wife and two daughters, with dreams of writing for a living because he can't do anything else. He already has two poetry collections out there called 'The Bare Bones of a Melancholy Life' and 'Higher Powers and Moments of Weakness' and hopes that you'll hunt them down and read them until your full of joy and pain. Feel free to tell him he sucks on Twitter at @CPPWhite.

These poems have only featured in my second poetry collection, Higher Powers and Moments of Weakness.