Donal Mahoney- Three Poems

Country Cafeteria

The two weeks
I spent in that small town
on assignment, I saw no blacks
except for two older women
regal in every way,
hair coifed in silver gray,
working in the Country Cafeteria.
They walked like pastors’ wives
as they bused their 20 tables.
White badges on their uniforms
announced in red their names,
their years of service.
They never said a word,
not even to each other.
They just took the cups and plates away
and wiped oil tablecloths pristine.
I took three meals a day in silence there,
the only place in town to eat.
I was the stranger in a suit and tie,
a city weed among stout farmers in old coveralls
who came to town each day to note
“no rain yet” and “the corn is dyin’.”
Before each meal instead of saying Grace,
I wanted to stand and ask these ladies
as they bowed before the clutter on their tables:
If you have worked here all these years,
and lived in this town also,
where in the Name of God,
other than at home or church,
are you free to talk or laugh or sing
or clap your hands in emancipation?



Convention in Miami
for Gerard Manley Hopkins

Around his navel this morning
a halo, a red stipple
Hopkins would love:
"Glory be to God for dappled things..."

It's a gift from this woman
he doesn't know
who welcomed him last night
with open arms and open legs

and sent him back to his wife
this morning, unaware
he was bringing home a souvenir,
a bright halo of crab lice.



Whole and Steaming
Dingle, Ireland

The bathroom carpet,
wall to wall, is blue,
the lightest blue,
to complement
the bowl and ceiling.

Apropos the moment:
I bend the waist
and heave the gristle
from last evening's steak.

Tomorrow I shall row again
to see those ancient men
in caps and coveralls
stand like statues
while they talk
and tap gold embers
from clay pipes
forever glowing.

I'll go there
at the dinner hour
and see them once again
fork potatoes,
whole and steaming,
from big kettles filled
at dawn by crones
forever kerchiefed
and forever bent.

At dawn you hear
these women
sing their hymns
like seraphim
a cappella
as they genuflect and dip
big black kettles
in the sometimes still
sometimes foaming sea.



-------------------------------------------------------------

Donal Mahoney, an immigrant from Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He has had poems published in a variety of publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal- 3 Poems

RADIOACTIVE

Why am I here?
My head is radioactive.
I can read your mind
only when the moon is full.
I check the skies for it.
There is just a quarter moon.
The signal is weak. Your
medicine puts me to sleep.
I want to be discharged.
Tomorrow the moon will be
full. I don’t want to read
the thoughts of my fellow
mental patients. They could
read my mind too when
my head is radioactive.
I don’t want them to know
that I came from outer space.
I was born on the moon.
My mother was a comet.
My father was half-moon man,
and half- human from LA.


MOVIE SET

Where is the camera?
Where is the microphone?
There is a movie set
in this place. There are no
doctors, only actors.

I am not a patient.
I am a movie star.
They wrote a script on the
medical chart. I see
everyone reading it.

They add to the script each
shift. The nurse actors and
social worker actors
write most of the lines. I
need a makeup artist.

I need eye liner and
red lipstick. I do not
need to take the pills. They
are just props. The doctors
are not such good actors.


WHEN YOU WERE BORN

When you were born
did you feel death in the room
with a stupid smirk on his face
and laughing with his cloak
open wide exposing the souls
caged between his bones?

Did you cry or did you give
the bird to that vulture?
There is no peace of mind
in this world with death always
lurking around. It would be
easier if he would let us be.


Luis was born in Mexico. He works in the mental health field in Los Angeles, CA.
His poems have appeared in Blue Collar Review, Camel Saloon, and Pemmican Press.
His chapbooks have been published by Kendra Steiner Editions, Deadbeat Press,
and New Polsh Beat. Pygmy Forest Press published his first poetry book, Raw Materials.

Chris Butler- A Poem

Regret

Every sun that sets
regrets
each rise it can’t
forget.

By day I try
to capture beams
in tupperware containers,
and at night
I return the light
back to the charcoal stars.

A short term
lifetime
is too long

…

ago.



Chris Butler is a twentysomething nobody shouting from the Quiet Corner of Connecticut.

Russell Streur- A Poem

DEVIL’S BOTTOM ROAD

Devil’s Bottom Road
Maybe kill you quick
Devil’s Bottom Road
Maybe kill you slow
Trick to take you six feet under cold
Any card you show
Devil's Bottom Road
No place a girl like you should go

Your hair’s a mess your dress not buttoned right
Your hair’s a mess your dress not buttoned right
You been down I know
To Devil's Bottom Road again

Mist is on the river ghost is in the pine
Mist is on the river ghost is in the pine
Trick you taste champagne drinking five cent wine

Odds are crooked on the cape
Dice won’t pay what’s due
Moon comes rising up through black tupelo
Devil’s Bottom Road going to spell the death of you

You don’t come home last night till morning breaking down the door
You don’t come home last night till morning breaking down the door
I know you’ve been
Down to Devil’s Bottom Road again

Mist is on the river ghost is in the pine
Mist is on the river ghost is in the pine
Trick you taste champagne drinking five cent wine

Devil’s Bottom Road
Maybe kill you quick
Devil’s Bottom Road
Maybe kill you slow
Trick to take you six feet under cold
Any card you show
Devil's Bottom Road
No place a girl like you should go.


Russell Streur is a born again dissident residing in Atlanta, Georgia. His poetry has been published in the United States and Europe. He currently pours drinks at The Camel Saloon, an online poetry bar for dromedaries, malcontents and jewels of the world. Which one are you? http://thecamelsaloon.blogspot.com/

John Tustin- A Poem

BLIZZARD OF ICE

A blizzard of ice
swirls around my heart,
encircling, penetrating.
I shiver and shake,
its conspiracy,
frostbitten, blue,
numb, naked, fetal,
unprotected.
Ungloved.
Unloved.

The words unprepared.
Hang limply like frosty breath
in the blizzard air,
branches heavy with snow,
the scorched earth
a barren wasteland
of white and blinding nothing.
Walking, staggering,
frostbitten, barefoot,
cradling my love unreturned
with one crooked arm.
Ragged.
Deaf and sightless.
My tongue paralyzed,
dying for a drink.

The sun can’t crack the clouds,
the ice,
blizzard of ice and hollow noise,
blank air.
Howling and sirens.
Abandoned on the tundra
by my mother,
by my God,
by myself.


John Tustin writes when sober and submits it when drunk. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry is his link.

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal- 3 Poems

WE ARE ALL SPIDERS

I see spiders all the time.
We are all spiders.
We got it on in Noah’s Ark
and multiplied in numbers.
We left great numbers
in Australia and Mexico.
We wanted to learn to
speak English and Spanish.
We did not care for other
languages, but we learned
to swear in every language.
We crawl everywhere
and spin webs. We eat flies
for the protein. We do not
like to eat them when they
are still alive. We’re not pigs.


A BEAUTIFUL MIND

I have a beautiful mind,
just like the movie,
a beautiful mind.

I am God’s child.
I was bathed in the blood
of Jesus Christ
to protect myself from
the witchcraft of warlocks.

I do not take medication
from the beady eyed
doctor. If anybody needs
medicine, it’s him.

I can read, write, do math.
I have all my faculties
intact. You could test me.
Pencil pushers and computer
wizards can’t prove that
I am a mental case.

I have a beautiful mind.
Don’t you think so?
Have a good day and
tell your friends about me.


COINS, PINS, AND TOOTHBRUSHES

I see officers
in monkey suits
shooting at me
with banana guns.

I hear voices that
want to insert
madness into
my mind forever.

They command me to
cut myself and
swallow coins, pins,
and toothbrushes.

The coins will make me
rich once they turn
into gold as
I slip into death.

The pins will bring me
back to life as
the pain will bring
a jolt to my heart.

The toothbrushes will
keep my teeth clean.
The bristles will
tickle me and make me

laugh. The voices will
get jealous and
stop talking their
nonsense all day long.



Luis works in the mental health field in Los Angeles, CA.
His chapbook, Songs For Oblivion, will be published by
Alternate Current Press.

Gary Beck- Three Poems

Domesticity

 

Wanting you

not in circumspect discretion,

but letting the explosive madness show,

until your knowing, testing,

then letting me take you,

erupting an insane hunger

swallowing you,

chaining you inside me.

Secure,

a mocking laugh startles me,

stabs in midnight whispers.

I whimper awake,

your head beside me on the pillow,

little girl’s face crinkly with sleep.

I shake you.

I scream your name.

I shatter you awake.

I cry: ‘Do you love me?’

‘Whatta you crazy?’ you yell.

‘I gotta go ta work in the morning.

Lemme sleep.’

You mumble: ‘Dopey sonofabitch.’

Pat me.

Not knowing to caress or strangle,

I lie rigid, staring at the ceiling,

you asleep. I awake.

The alarm rings,

you stretch,

shut it off,

roll on me,

prison me beneath you,

run your tongue along my neck and under my chin.

Whisper: ‘My possessive little boy.’

Your hand takes root on me.

You weld us together.

You moan an ecstatic ghost cry of tremors,

then still.

We doze.

With you melting on me,

the long night fades.

 

 

 

Two Songs of Lust

 

Blondly erotic

with lost eyes

she chokes from too much wanting.

I feel some pity,

but mostly

would lay hands

upon her body.

 

She walks by,

a triangle between her thighs

cripples her.

She is soft,

like fingers holding rotten plums.

Her hips are agonized rotations

that summon hands

to roam her body

and I cannot resist.

 

 

 

Zoo Threat

The leopard prowls from wall to wall

cursing the bars with flame eyes,

climbs like housecat to its perch,

yawns elegantly,

full of dangerous grace,

stretches black-spot length,

sits,

watches the watchers,

speaks with jungle tongue:

Sssssss

I will get loose.

Sssssss

I will find your children in their lair.

Sssssss

I will pet them with my claws for throwing peanuts.

I will kiss them with my fangs for laughing.

I can wait.

One dark night…. I’ll be free.




Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn't earn a living in the theater. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His chapbook 'Remembrance' was published by Origami Condom Press, 'The Conquest of Somalia' was published by Cervena Barva Press, 'The Dance of Hate' was published by Calliope Nerve Media, 'Material Questions' was published by Silkworms Ink, 'Dispossessed' was published by Medulla Press and 'Mutilated Girls is being published by Heavy Hands Ink. A collection of his poetry 'Days of Destruction' was published by Skive Press. Another collection 'Expectations' was published by Rogue Scholars press. His novel 'Dark Strains' will be published by Post Mortem Press. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway and toured colleges and outdoor performance venues. His poetry has appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City.

Colin James- A Poem

THE BARBARIANS HAD ACTED REGRETTABLY

My son found the dragon’s teeth amongst
some rocks and fine white sand. He washed
them clean in a tidal pool. A Hermit crab
showed interest followed, scraping with its claw at
the tip then sucking the remnant root.
The boy threw sand disturbing the search
for scales as dense as death. He reclaimed
his find and climbed up on the rocks with me to sit.
We examined the harder than fire inner blackened.
Easily sold to tourists later, paying us much more
to guarantee their safe passage here and back.

Bryan Murphy- Two Poems

Bloody Student Cuts

A viewing platform:  
the world sees him
lotus-knee’d on the flat roof
of the prematurely aged
“New Building” of a tired university
raised beyond its means,
tasked beyond reason,
refused life support, just
to keep a bottom line black.

In front of him, see
a slim spire, city symbol,
split the mountain background,
aspire to higher matters, above constraint.
Built as a synagogue, abandoned
for fear of a fall to earth,
now the nation’s cinematographic mecca,
it hints that human genius may endure,
though all will pass.

A drabber edifice, way below,
lures the protestor’s starry eyes
to meaner aspirations, baser options,
a secure footing in a young man’s world
mediated by televisual rituals
and largesse for a mogul’s minions and mignotte.

Too late the lure. The image
sweeps the world in a different format:
a photograph, stamped even on Web front pages,
portrays the youth as Sisyphus unchained,
calling us to our consciences,
reminding us that even here,
in this good-life cage, or our own lands,
a voice can still be lifted
to penetrate clamour or silence
with “Enough is enough!”

He’s marked, that lad: bad attitude,
immortalised, brands him a future.
One saving pathway beckons from the dark:
to trade his looks and locks with Mammon,
shine them with Saviour’s shampoo, whatever,
then splatter them across the waves of air
to spare us worry over life’s tough choices.



Rule of the Road

It’s only a car - blood’ll wash off -
not even yours. Moment’s distraction,
pressed the wrong pedal;
he was probably drunk, too.
Pile out. Moving - still alive.
Gather up the broken body,
shove it on the back seat.
No arguments! Where’s the hospital?
Get there before police show up.
Leave him to do the forms – who else
would know his mother’s maiden name?
Hope he lives. Hell of a dent!
Still, it’s not as though it’s yours.




Bryan Murphy is a translator who lives and works in Turin, Italy. His own words have recently appeared in The View from Here, Transparent Words, The Camel Saloon, Snakeskin and Pygmy Giant.

Amit Parmessur- Three Poems

POEM 1: Bottled

Sitting amidst sparkling tombs at midnight

I am holding a green bottle in my battered hands

All the crimson wine in my belly is ringing,

ringing luscious bells on her melodious name

My barbaric beard glistens in the milky moonlight

like an inverted pyramid housing mummified dreams

I scan solemnly the bittersweet sky resembling

an empty page, one upon which I try hard

to decipher the promise made by her juicy lips

I crave to feel her soft crayon-like fingers,

to know the twisty paths of her clumsy toes,

ready to hammer my tingling heels to fit her footprints

I want to undress her hip and her navel,

making them my pillow on alternate nights,

nights to be spent on a broad bed of fragrant silk

I muse. My girl is the bottle mouth,

I’m the bottom on which the bottle stands

The body of the bottle, which my hands

want to strangle is the tyrant keeping us apart

I wish I could crush it and unite

the mute mouth to the passionate bottom

Why,

but why is it that each time I look at this

tomb without flowers over there,

I see my odious name carefully laid on it

POEM 2: Nirvana

Nowadays I am lunching on the nectar

of devotion in the fecund Abode of God,

the formless Force to whom all forms belong

I was turned into a net, a huge net with infinite holes

tied together with the strings of my failures

I just wanted to flow in the river of her virginity,

feasting on the passion of her delicate heart

My end started by making a spectacular dive,

in a deep pool of my own blood

I ended up as dying drops in a desert full

of dehydrated travelers, but I

am enjoying the divine force around me

now

She broke my chest with a smiling hammer

and stole my heart. She glued my eyelids

to my forehead and stole my mind. She drank

some of my blood, thinking it was Irish wine

She whipped my sandcastle with the

lightnings in her palm and turned me

into an old bottle to be kept under a broad bed

I have arduously climbed a mountain made

of my own swollen bones held together

by modest but shattered dreams

When I inhale I feel like a living dead,

when I exhale I’m a withered flower

but I am enjoying the divine force around,

waiting for when, where, why,

and how I shall be stung again.

POEM 3: reproaches from the dead

pouring some blood into my teacup,

I tried new heights of spirituality

through the rickety window,

I could see a madman shooting

at golden shooting stars,

with an erect blade of grass in hand

and in the neglected garden,

I could find bloody flowers sprouting

amidst the glistening moonlit leaves

soon in the distant darkness

I could make out a few

angels coming out of the swollen soil

my adorable grandmother,

my drunkard of a grandfather

and my brave girl

I shook my head; grandmother was surely

coming to remind me about cleaning her grave

grandfather would ask me why I had

neglected his wife just like he did when alive,

I tossed the blood into my mouth

my dead girl knew that I had betrayed

the promise of never loving someone else

with the dead folk approaching

I closed my frozen eyes,

plugging the bottle of whiskey

into my own glass-cold mouth

unaware that there was a snake in it

I shouldn’t have killed those shooting stars

Aged 28, Amit Parmessur has been published many times in his homeland Mauritius. He has been published and is forthcoming in over 30 magazines including Carcinogenic Poetry, Leaf Garden Press, Long Story Short, LITSNACK and Eunoia Review since starting to submit his poems late 2010. He is very close to the land of his ancestors, India.