Scott Wozniak- Two Poems

Jackpot on the Dumpster Diver Circuit

 

Walking around

the city

wearing rags

that smell

like bum,

I stroll

from dumpster

to trash can

and back again,

looking

for anything

nobody wants,

but I need.

 

A half-eaten

burrito

is top score

until

I toss open

a lid

and see

abandoned

Doc Martins--

A possession

I never

could afford,

but are now

all mine

for the low

low price

of homeless.

Not Fit For Consumption

How many times

can a man

sell his soul

‘till it becomes

recycled goods

un-fit

for landfills

or rats’

consumption?

Scott Wozniak is a poet and short story writer. His works can be found here, there, and over there too. He sometimes forgets to include his poems when sending them out for submission. For more info, please visit about.me/swozniak   

David J. Thompson- A Photo

                                          "Montana, October"

Jennifer Lagier- A Poem

Moving Toward Death

 

Camille recognizes the slow dance

toward undignified mortality.

Despises drooping breasts,

multiplying wrinkles,

slight incontinence

when she laughs or sneezes.

 

Laments thinning hair,

proliferation of age spots.

Wonders how long

before sex drive evaporates,

mobility shrinks,

short-term memory vanishes.

 

Refuses to relinquish

sardonic personality,

caustic opinions,

hard-won independence.

 

Seeks equally disillusioned rebels

with an affinity for

weed, wine and irreverence

to join her revolution.

 

 

Jennifer Lagier is an aging child of the 60's who can be found sipping peach blinis at Nepenthe in Big Sur while in the company of unsavory reptiles.

Emily Ramser- A Poem

Stage of Grief: Bargaining

I cut open my stomach
and pulled my intestines out.

They slide through my fingers,
blood stunning my hands
and collecting under my fingernails.

I tried to give them to you,
to replace your own with,
but you were already
dead.


Bio: Emily Ramser is the assistant editor of Weasel Press. Her books, Toast is Just Bread That Put Up a Fight, I Forgot How to Write When They Diagnosed Me, and Conjuring Her, are available on Amazon. In her free time, when she's not writing, she works as a third grade teacher's assistant. 

Nate Maye- Three Poems

Dialogue of Soul

my whisper

says to whisper

Be

suddenly I am

my history

says to history

Was

so I was.

 

Hold the Mayo

slathered on my

life is the substance

I did not want

now I cannot rid

my mouth of its

unwelcome presence.

 

Onion

some say

layers, depth,

but all I taste

is her bitterness.

 

 

Donal Mahoney- Three Poems

A New Neighbor over the Fence

I understand what you mean

when you say you’re alone 

and hope someone rings your

bell day or night but that's 

not the case with me.

You say you'd be happy to see 

a Fuller Brush man at the door

if the company still has salesmen

or a man sharpening knives

although I haven’t seen a man 

pushing a whetstone cart through 

the neighborhood in years.

I’d be careful, Ma’m, giving 

a stranger a knife to make it 

sharper than it already is.

Being alone is tough enough 

unless you’re a recluse like me. 

We wouldn’t be talking now but 

I had to take the garbage out.

My wife always did it until she 

passed away a few years ago.

The autopsy was inconclusive.

If a Fuller Brush man or a guy  

sharpening knives rings my bell, 

he won’t come to see me again.

I have a whetstone in the attic

and sharpen my knives as needed.

But thanks for letting me know

you’d like to have visitors.

if I ever feel like talking, 

I’ll certainly ring your bell. 

A Matter of Money

Being bipolar isn’t easy

but it’s tougher

when you’re poor

and have to walk

rather than ride

from one pole

to the other,

a friend told me

in the day room,

on his first day back

from the locked side.

He has a friend still

on the locked side 

who’s bipolar, too, 

with oodles of money

and a private plane.

When he takes a trip

he goes from one pole

to the other lickety-split. 

He’s says he'll give 

my friend a lift should

their trips coincide. 

A First Responder Steps Aside

The hands on the atomic clock 

upstairs finally stopped spinning.

As you know, my dear, the hands

have been spinning for two weeks.

This morning the clock stopped

the way it has so many times

over the years so I took it down, 

shook it and nothing happened.

A shake has worked before.

The clock would start right up.

Now I can't get the battery out.

My fingernails are too short. 

Usually I meet the challenge

since I’m the first responder

but not this time, my dear.

No fingernails at the moment.

I put the clock upside down 

on the leather ottoman where

the battery awaits a pallbearer.

A new battery should do it.

This clock's always had problems.

Still, I’m surprised it’s not  

running for president this year.

A new battery and it won’t lie.

Donal Mahoney

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

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis Missouri. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/ and some of his newer work at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html#sthash.OSYzpgmQ.gpbT6XZy.dpbs

 

 

Ananya S. Guha- A poem

I Dissent

decently I speak to people

who nave no clue about it

but throw tantrums at every 

ghost they meet. their delinquent imagination

stalks haunted geese and wild animals

as they do their sojourns in jungles of cities. 

they take a book or two and read in coffee houses 

and restaurants. debate on the latest situation in the country

not forgetting to gag history in armpits or inflated chests. 

this is a dialogue of the self, not a diatribe.

the folks I am talking about have become skeletons 

impoverished by hunger, yet out to attain Nirvana

which may be elusive, but they see it not as mirage

but a collage of reality. thus speak many worlds

in my world of writers, poets, free thinkers, rotten thinkers

good men and women- motley crowd  of disdain, love and money.

but all intellectuals, where their brain teasers hover mainly 

around the populated world of the internet.

am I going insane? a trifle maybe, since insanity 

is contagious, simply to shrug it off will not do. 

now the latest gaff is to read aloud your poetry 

in public gatherings and pretend how insane you are.

read social consciousness and dissent.

I dissent with the filth around me

I dissent with the sky  scrapers I witness

even as at it's foothold you watch rags of clothes with 

a body secretly  holding it. 

I dissent at the decibel of noises pretending to hold

the conscience of a country where the money makers are teasing 

people with cricket and games of cards. the king and the queen tucked 

away in their palaces, weaning the rich.

I dissent, when over the hullabaloo of floods, drought 

people remain like statues with water flowing silently under

bridges of euphoria.

 

B.Z. Niditch- Three Poems

THE MAYPOLE

We are passing

to another season

near the Maypole

with fresh sunflowers

in our garden hands

day dreams will survive

all barbed wire

of poisoned jealousy

beyond villages

of freezing grey

in Bleak House

watching a departing poet

as a mourning dove sings

by a sailor lost at Hull

at the light of a small river

after a tourist has been

seen weeping by the shore

in a poisoned pen letter

from his girlfriend

leaves us by cool rocks

under a shadowy orchard

wanting new friends.

OFF THE ISLANDS

Backgammon players

crowd in the shadow

of the hospital ship

off islands of the sea

where adventurer tourists

hear me playing jazz violin

in the warm night air 

risking my music life

no longer poisoned

by motionless lovers

yet abandoned

from a warring girlfriend

of once alarming devotions

now under cold sleepy covers

now my gestures move her

in prayer to forgive me.

 

OUT AT SEA

A poet needs to hear

an all clear signal

by the deserted wind

for exiles on the river run

or high seas

that we tremble at this hour

when the air turns cool

by the ocean's sandy beach

near the rocks and stone

of this home harbor

a solitary hawk draws us

emerged from the dunes

he too was searching for

the living waters and bread

in a passport of memories

pausing at a shore to search

for food not poisoned

by tourist traps.

 

 

Lily Tierney- Two Poems

Thoughts

Time without

boundaries

floating in air

moment to

moment reality.

Consciousness

an energy of emotion

soaring at the speed of

light.

 

Yesterday

It dropped out of his pocket

in his moments of today.

He decided to leave it

in the past.

A lesson

the next person

who picks it up

will learn.

Bruce Mundhenke- A Poem

Long Dark Road

I had a choice
Of taking a path
On This journey of mine,
Or traveling a well used road.
The road is paved
And used by most,
The path is not well known.
On the road there are few surprises,
Though it grows darker the further you go.
The path leads to pain mingled with beauty,
And a sweet sadness
Some never know.
To choose the path
Is to find the way,
Avoiding the long dark road.


Bruce Mundhenke enjoys nature, reading, writing poetry, and long walks. He has published poems in Dead Snakes, Calvary Cross, UFO Gigolo, Plum Tree Tavern, Jellyfish Whispers, and Poppy Road Review.

He lives in Illinois with his wife and their dog and cat.