Donal Mahoney- A Poem

A Good Neighbor

Cookies for George, 

40 years back from Viet Nam,

are the only payment

the man will accept  

to mow your lawn,

rake your leaves,

shovel your snow.

He sleeps behind 

his brother's house

above the garage.

Every two weeks

he shaves and bathes. 

His brother takes him 

to the Veterans Hospital. 

George has cancer again

40 years after Agent Orange.

But he'll mow your lawn,

rake your leaves

and shovel your snow 

for nothing less than

cookies for George.

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

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Richard Schnap- Three Poems

LADIES MAN

He played the viola
With a sure hand
Coaxing intoxicating melodies

It was the same with women
Releasing the music
Bottled in their hearts

And when they grew tuneless
He would seek out others
Each instrument his addiction

Whose strings he’d caress
Like a true master
With a bottomless thirst



HOSPITAL KITCHEN

The trays came down a conveyer belt
Where I’d empty them into a trash can
The uneaten breakfasts of the sick

They seemed to be never-ending
One after another like an assembly line
Of a factory that manufactured death

And as the stone-faced supervisor watched us
We’d gather in the men’s room on breaks
Where I smoked my first cigarette

But soon I was back at my station
Wondering silently to myself
Which one might be someone’s last meal



WOODEN EAGLE

I stood next to him in the living room
Gazing up at the great carved bird
As he said “Someday that will be yours, son”

A parting gift from the father
I’d lived in fear of all my life
In a house with the climate of winter

It wasn’t soon after his death
That I sold it with the rest of his estate
Setting it free from my memory

For its frozen outstretched wings
Spoke only of a facsimile of flight
Like the love I could only long for



Richard Schnap is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of print and online publications.

Tom Hatch- Three Poems

Panther morning  

 

It is 5:40 AM having twenty minutes 

left to lay with some

Thoughts before having 

to get up I could do this

Like a panther pouncing 

on prey before the morning

Pounces on me 

I am the prey for a moment knowing there is a

Rooster out there somewhere I hear

in the grey morning

With much more vigor 

than I can cock and doodle 

That sounds in my room

The minutes dwindle into 

The shower the night goes

Down the drain is this yesterday

today or tomorrow

 I a spotted panther 

that is what I am left with

Disguised as a man I will 

shave all the fur off anyway

Gnawing on a leather 

Briefcase in the

Crowd of type A

Personalities

Prowling through

Grand Central 

With money on their minds

 

Dipteria of Caddying 

Uncle Gordo was a caddy

Walked with a dip

A mad man he

Saw Jesus and the

Satan many times battling it

Out at the foot of his 

Bed a quilt work 

Of the damned

Slamming his hand

Through the window pane 

His best friend was

Golf Ball Eddy they saw 

Death staring it in the eyes of the Korean War

He walked with a dip too

At 25 cents a piece

Gordo was a master 

At finding the pitted white

Balls in ivy and high turf

He could spot one at

Twenty feet in 

A storm drain

He ran with a dip

Traveled the buses 

We ran with him to catch

The one that took us

To Brentwood entering

The lower part of the greens

Through a hole in the fence

He made years ago 

That was his secret

He told us stories of

The multimillionaires 

That lived along the fairways of the course 

Walking with a dip to the caddy shack

Below the main club house

Under the suspended bridge

That connected the ninth tee

To the ninth green

He shagged balls on slow days

With a white towel on his hands

Good days he carried a double 

Made twenty bucks a bag

I carried a single one day

For the scare crow of 

The Wizard of Oz

He tipped me ten at the ninth

Hole with a coke then

Tipped me another ten at 

The End 

Gordo was my man always

Ready to loan you a twenty (really give it to you)

showing me and my brothers

how life walks with a dip

At the Bel Air country club

Of the wealthy, famous and poor getting along

Fog, dew, crows and shower parting hair 

A showers "thought" this morning 

Fog is a warm cozy blanket

The dew has saturated into my feet on stone floor 

The crows crowed as they fly and throwing themselves out of the fog

The fog is picked up and carried off by 

The arms of the dew into a hazy sun light

The crows gather as a murder on the emerald lawn 

The thought of fog and dew and crows

Is throwing me from the parting of my hair 

A part should be as natural as the falling rain

If I was hunting in the wild for breakfast

Flinging myself around looking for any colored beetle

Under rocks or tarantulas to roast over a morning fire

My hair would have parted naturally by now

whipping my head I grab the brush

A thought of Biting into a well endowed 

Roasted hairy arachnid 

there it is in the mirror au natural 

Back to a morning thought

The fog is gone the hazy sunlight clear

The murder has flown away to the telephone lines

Across the road waiting for me to send them

To their next killing roost not any where near my hair

Michael Cluff- A Poem

             Hendectet Remolded

I will never forgive the edge of the nectarzied sky collapsing
parallel rice paper sliding into paddies of scum and ice
corroding cracked horns of black rhinos now mottled extinct
conifers wave to a group of laborers asleep
under an ivory bridge of indifferent sighs
crawling with wafting and waffling orations
fried in superb juicy  sunbeams
honey-thick and mottled molybdenum
resounds with pitches
waspish  bees
overhear.

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

I’ll Be There In A Minute, Now

The inside of this cupboard
is not as dark as it looks
from the outside.
It’s not exactly warm
yet very comforting.
Not womb-like in the slightest.
More of a temporary escape,
like climbing up into the attic
or down into the cellar.
It’s just that today
this was closer.
We’re having dinner at her mother’s.
I’ll be late at this rate.
I can hear her getting
out of the bath and calling me.
I greedily clasp to the last
few precious moments of calm
and solitude.
I shall say that I was
looking for a shoe,
or give some other reasonable excuse.
Anything
but the truth.

© Paul Tristram 2005

Published in Moodswing, Issue Fifteen, Spring 2005

In Between Medication

She pulled the matchstick
across the side of the matchbox
with a wrist slashing flourish.
Tentatively traversed
her mental situation
more than once or twice,
exhaled and decided
upon corned beef hash
for dinner.
But alas, things went wrong
between the cigarette and her goal,
she cried rivers of anguish
and still does
in between medication
and still no one cares.
The corned beef hash
and metal cutlery
will have to wait.

© Paul Tristram 2006

Published in The Ugly Tree, #16 / Vol. 6:1, Oct 2007 – Jan 2008

Sitting On The Sands Of Rebellion
With My Back To The Waves Of Longing

I will not be pushed
or swayed either way,
my past is a testament to this.
Water grinds down rock
but I am human
constantly moving and changing,
riding the winds,
drinking the rain
and dancing to the rhythm
of my own wild heart.
To label me is cowardice,
to mistrust me is right,
my voice is match to sandpaper
the touch paper of defiance I ignite.

© Paul Tristram 2008

Published in Decanto, 36th Issue, August 2008



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.

Jennifer Lagier- Three Poems

Lunar Eclipse

 

It’s midnight and I'm high on

chardonnay and adrenaline.

We watch night’s crawling shadow

above Half Moon Bay,

feel any sense of responsibility

being quickly erased.

 

You steer one-armed, tires clunking

against highway reflectors,

fingers inside each other’s clothes,

both of us igniting at sixty miles an hour

like teenage lunatics.

 

Tonight I want nothing more

than to slide beneath your hands

in this clockless universe,

smell love upon my skin

while ghostly hills pass.

 

 

Previously published in Curbside Review.

 

 

 

Sex Education in the Summer of Love

It’s a warm Central Valley night.

You are a 16 year old Italian Catholic virgin,

half undressed, wedged between bucket seats

of your boyfriend’s blue Mustang.

After months of his begging, you finally give in.

As he tears his way into you,

a drunk careens from the river bank,

peers through the windshield,

passes out on the car hood.

 

So this is passion,

the romantic act of becoming one

you tell yourself

despite embarrassment, pain.

Outside, the homeless bum twitches.

You wonder what happens now,

feel you’ve been cheated.

 

 

Previously published in the Rockford Review.

 

 

 

Moonstone Beach Bar & Grill

 

Chopped Harleys and Indians

create their own rules.

Jesus co-pilots the biker babe

at a neighboring table.

 

We sip Rosarita Margaritas,

slide the weight of traffic jams

and work-day disasters

from our tense shoulders.

 

Black birds beg at the feet

of burly men in slick leathers.

I envy their mounds of golden fries,

thick, greasy burgers.

 

Fog wipes sunlight from a sky

littered with seagulls.

Tourists shiver, discover

coastal summer is actually winter.

 

I explore every port,

a ship without anchor,

order a second round,

scribble truth on a napkin.

 

 

 

Jennifer Lagier is a central valley and coastal snake connoisseur.

Eric Robert Nolan- A Poem

Turning Forty One

Forty one found me

In midday reminiscence –

Not at the bars in Fredericksburg

Where 21 arrived like a proud, aggressive fleet,

Setting sail against

Easily conquered oceans.

Accurate charts assured my hands,

My future lay

In neatly mapped seas,

Measured leagues in quadrants,

Latitudes, longitudes.

Distant shores seemed

Vulnerable to my every effort.

The water that night

Was a kind of golden bronze,

The cheap, sweet beer

Of the college junior.

Forty one arrives

Where compasses didn’t predict.

Octants are confounded and

Sextants equivocate.

All the almanacs agree

Only that we are at sea.  

© Eric Robert Nolan 2013

Bio:

Eric Robert Nolan graduated from Mary Washington College in 1994 with a Bachelor of Science in Psychology.   As an investigative journalist, his work has appeared on the front pages of The Culpeper Star-Exponent, The Free Lance – Star and The Daily Progress in the Virginia.  Eric’s poetry has been published by Dagda Publishing, Every Day Poets, Dead Beats Literary Blog, Dead Snakes, The Bright Light Café, The International War Veterans’ Poetry Archive, and elsewhere.    His first novel, a horror- science fiction story entitled “The Dogs Don’t Bark In Brooklyn Any More,” will be published by Dagda Publishing on November 20th.

Ross Vassilev- A Poem

the ride

it's slow walking

when yr hands are cuffed behind yr back

and even yr ankles are cuffed together

the blonde policewoman was nice enough

making sure I didn't bang my head on the roof

of the squad car as I got in

I wanted to compliment her

on her big round beautiful ass

but I thought better of it

it was a hot summer night

hot in the back of the squad car too

I remembered the idea

that the whole world is only a dream

but the handcuffs and anklecuffs were real enough

as I watched the full moon rising

through the window of the squad car

I thought about what a million other people

might be doing at that moment

while I was waiting for my ride to begin

at the station

they took away my belt and shoelaces

I found out later that the guy in the next cell

was a co-worker I barely knew

it's a small world.

Jennifer Lagier- A Poem

The Wounds She Leaves Behind

It’s Friday night. In preparation, Camille stuffs
swollen 36Cs into a push-up black bra
exposing promises, white breasts suggesting
last supper to a mark ready for resurrection or death.

The silver see-through tunic is cinched
tightly with a wide, silver-studded belt.
Goddess leggings emphasize her ass.
Camille is hungry, looking for meat,
another night of collecting scalps.

She stalks the rich men’s lounge.
Targets at the piano bar take notice,
calculate their chances while
mentally counting the hundreds in their pockets.
Do it now: purchase an opportunity to escape for
an hour or two between rented thighs.

Michael Cluff- A Poem

 Untitled

Dub-dub drama
people fighting
for the farthest
point above the globe,
it must be done
their way
nothing else
is good or graceful
to them.

A slug
or persimmon tree
never worries
the sun and water
of an average day
completes them.