Phenomena
creative springs
are hidden spurs
no not rivers
but brown, loathsome
tigers, wriggling in innards
waiting for a let off
stalking, predatory
till the grey stripes
entangle themselves
in awesome phenomena.
Saturday, April 23, 2016
Robert Cooperman- A Poem
Trump and the Design for the Twenty Dollar Bill
Forget that hag Tubman,
I should be on the Twenty,
my hair Irish-setter flowing,
my look of supreme wisdom.
And forget you’ve got to be dead.
No point to being President
if you can’t do what you want,
from being the face on the Twenty
that I’ll rename, “The Donald,”
to walking into any restaurant in the world,
and getting comped for the banquet
I’ll order for me, my family, and staff.
If corrupt cops can do it, why shouldn’t
the Leader of the Free World?
And since the little people love me,
I’ll put my face on every bill.
The ones on there now: dead losers.
Who cares about Whiggy George
or Warts Abe? Did either get
as many votes as I did? Franklin,
Hamilton? Name one thing
of importance they did.
Okay, Jefferson designed a few huts,
but compared to my amazing projects?
Please. Just remember who’s President,
swiveling in my Oval Office chair,
scaring the crap out of my staff
by punching in nuclear codes,
to keep from getting bored out of my tree.Alan Catlin- Three Poems
Wet Spot 1
All she
needed
was a wet
spot
on the back
of
her way too
short and
tight
denim skirt
to
complete the
goods
as
advertised
costume she
was
wearing,
no
underwear
necessary,
her
black, cut
to
ventilate
Harley
Honey
t-shirt-
the only
thing
left to the
imagination:
where,
when and how
much
Wet Spot 2
He looked as
if he'd
taken
Billy Bob's
Sling Blade
character
way
too close
to
heart,
slowly
articulating
some
obscure
need
for
something
he'd swear
on
a small
stack
of Bibles
was
potable but
anyone with
an
IQ over 79
knew was
more
suitable for
inflammatory
purposes
like
in a lamp
to read the
Good Book
by
After a couple
of
futile tries
to
talk him out
of
his chosen
poison
it became
much
easier just
to
make him
what
he seemed
to
want and
keep
him away
from
an open
flame
Wet Spot 3
Part of his
BOCES Out
Reach training
must have
included:
Stop,
Look and
Listen
before
crossing
between
parked
cars in
inches
deep, more
falling,
rain and
slush,
along
heavily
trafficked
thorough-
fares though
I
wasn't
certain
whether the
training
had extended
to
the best ways
to
store, carry
and
redeem
empty
roadside
returnable,
bottles and
cans,
sliding
through
torn spaces
in
worn thin
plastic
bags, rolling
away
from his
grasp
into the
path
of
Emergency
Vehicles on
call
just beyond his
hands, those
dull,
dark eyes
wide
open, not
seeing
what lay in
wait
G. Louis Heath- A Poem
He Wore A Mango Peel
Asphalt road humming, willows
bending gently in this May breeze,
headlights dull in the breaking dawn,
I am back in Nam, in a jungle my
government deported me to. That’s
what I call that damn draft: deportation
of us poor and minority to do the elite’s
dirty work.
Far too much deportation into the jungle
cleaned out the ghettos and reservations.
Black, red, brown, we fought on that rise in
Vietnam in May, 1966, all deportees.
It was early morning, like today, with
a haze making it hard to see. All I saw
was a mango peel rising up, a perfect target.
I fired, soon saw it was a Vietcong who had a
mango peel on his teeth. Why? Your guess is
as good as mine. But that mango peel sure did
anger me and my M-16.
G. Louis Heath,
Ph.D., Berkeley, 1969, teaches at Ashford University, Clinton, Iowa. He enjoys
reading his poems at open mics. He often hikes along the Mississippi River,
stopping to work on a poem he pulls from his back pocket, weather permitting. His
books include Mutiny Does Not Happen
Lightly, Long Dark River Casino and Vandals
In The Bomb Factory. His most recent poems have been published in Poppy Road Review, Writing Raw, Inkstain
Press, Verse-Virtual, and Squawk
Back. He can be contacted at gheathorov@gmail.com
Jeffrey Zable- A Poem
BIO: Jeffrey Zable is a teacher and conga drummer who plays Afro Cuban Folkloric music for dance classes and Rumbas around the San Francisco Bay Area. His poetry, fiction, and non-fiction have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and anthologies. Recent writing in Serving House Journal, Futures Trading, Unscooped Bagel, Mocking Heart Review, Houseboat (featured poet), 2015 Rhysling Anthology, Revolution John, Abbreviate Journal, Weirderary, Third Wednesday, Mas Tequila, DogPlotz, Bookends Review, The Vein and many others.
THE RETURN
We sit on the roof of twilight
remembering glaciers
that melted in our hands,
and insidious batons
that waved over our heads,
turning to dust
in the moon’s red eye.
We could run with lobsters
through sands of delirium
on marigold beaches,
or jostle with ladders
whose broken tongues
lick yesterday’s salt.
We could burn with fragrance
in a numbing aphasia
at the bottom of the sea
and finally return home
to a city of avalanches
and ten thousand fingers
unraveling our names.
Friday, April 22, 2016
Steven Allan Porter- A Poem
Steven Allan Porter was born February 5, 1992 in Coral Springs, FL to a Jewish mother and a German father. His influences include: Charles Bukowski, William S. Burroughs, Bob Kaufman, Nick Flynn, Steven Jesse Bernstein, Anne Sexton, Hunter S. Thompson, Charles Simic, and Louis Ferdinand Celine. His work has appeared in Red Fez, Degenerate Literature, Wildflower Muse, Wounwapi Literary Journal, and Syzygy Poetry Journal. He currently resides in Henderson, NV.
"Call and Response of the Living and Dead"
Sitting upright, rigor mortis speaks lightning to
their spines, glued eyes struggling to open.
I ask them, "May I get any of you some water?"
Unable to speak (their mouths also glued),
shake their heads.
A woman points to an urn behind me,
I pick it up and bring it over to her,
I ask her, "Who is this?"
She lowers her head and I notice
a C-Section scar on her stomach.
I realize I'm holding her dead baby's ashes.
I hand her the urn and her body bursts into a
swarm of crimson butterflies and I hear a child laugh.
The remaining stiffs lift their arms
like mannequins contorted to hug a
shadowed loner, awkwardly try to catch
the butterflies and they all disappear
into a shroud of ash-like feces.
Gregg Dotoli- A Poem
English Amy
soul level ennui
melts falls dissolves
superwoman AlienPerfect voice
pumps, drums, Bighair, horns
the uber muse
English Amy
sing goddess sing
she walked away
that sun set
some tears don't dry
English Amy
English Amy
Nancy May- Three Poems
Sweet Haiku
you softly hold my heart
hoping for a second chance
spring sunrise
thorns on roses
the beauty of love
touches deep in your heart
memories of our life together
one enduring factor
the love we share
Nancy May’s haiku can be found at 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, 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, Every Day Poets, Cattails, Ppigpenn, Creatrix Journal, M58, The Camel Saloon, Haikuary and the Plum Tree Tavern. She has reached The Heron’s Nest consideration stage twice and the Chrysanthemum consideration stage once. She is working on her first haiku collection.
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