Two Poems: Journey & Oasis (John RC Potter)


Journey     
By John RC Potter 
 
Living in an age without innocence, 
trying hard to look straight ahead. 
Yet the past stares you in the face, 
walking in the wake of the love dead.  
 
How can hope have the ghost of a chance, 
when lovers make do with left-over dreams? 
And all things forbidden lose their allure, 
as we become forsaken and lost in schemes? 
 
It is pain that gives us our own character, 
And how we deal with it gives definition. 
I will love and make mistakes without regret,  
not waste any time with false contrition.  
 
We are wandering in this wilderness together, 
not resting for long for fear of recognition. 
We find ourselves in the rescue of another, 
running blindly in a circle toward perdition. 
 
The age is new but the parchment has faded, 
as we enact old agonies with energy renewed. 
We frantically try to patch up our tired world, 
unaware it is we who have become unglued. 
 
Before we can ever return 
to the promise of our youth, 
we must find that part within 
which we lost along the way. 
 
Life’s most enduring journey  
we must make all alone: 
the love inside will carry us  
from day into night into day.   
 
 
 
 
Oasis 
By John RC Potter 
 
I’m not mad 
I’m no mad 
Nomad.   
 
I’m a nomad 
wandering this barren desert 
finding pockets of water 
that dry up 
as fast as 
any welcomed oasis  
after  
a dry spell.   
 
Camels store water 
in their humps, 
they can walk  
on hot sand 
without getting burnt.   
 
People store love  
in their hearts, 
yet must walk 
on broken glass 
and endure getting cut.  
 
NO MAN 
NOT MAD 
NOMAD: 
 
Finding love a desert 
of dreams 
that blossom 
in the dead of night 
and  
disappear 
as abruptly 
as any hazy mirage; 
cover your eyes 
harden your heart: 
love,  
       like the desert 
can blind you. 

John RC Potter is a gay man from Canada, living in Istanbul, and an international educator (currently university counsellor, formerly principal & teacher). He has experienced a revolution (Indonesia), air strikes (Israel), earthquakes (Turkey), boredom (UAE), and blinding snow blizzards (Canada), the last being the subject of his story, “Snowbound in the House of God” (Memoirist, May 2023). His poems and stories have been published in a range of magazines and journals, most recently in Blank Spaces, (“In Search of Alice Munro”, June 2023), Literary Yard (“She Got What She Deserved”, June 2023) & Freedom Fiction (“The Mystery of the Dead-as-a-Doornail Author”, July 2023). John RC Potter – Author Website (author-blog.org)

Poetic Trilogy by John Creekmore



Meditation


I breathe in, I breathe out

Especially when things make me want to shout.

I breathe out, I breathe in,

And allow the cycle to start again,

And though the world may be the same,

Within my soul it's a different game,

For when my eyes are on my breath,

I have no fear of life nor death.


​

Traitors


The years betray me, slipping away

Like traitors in their defecting;

But they look at me with shameless eyes,

Saying man, what were you expecting?





Solace


Death comes not boldly, on a pale horse rampant,

Nor as a conqueror wreathed in battle smoke.

Rather, as a tap on the shoulder from one unseen,

Who was yet there all the while.

No drums, no regal panoply, no rows of trumpets sounding,

Just the momentary snuffing of a candle,

As when a workman closes shop at the end of the day.

This is not the Grim Reaper; no, nor the Destroyer of Worlds,

Only the silent revolving of a door,

The settling of waves gently back into the sea.

​Poems by Michael H. Brownstein 


Sometimes We Dream In the Language of Souls


The river no longer between them
the road to someplace else took them home,
the great mountain in the distance a nursery rhyme to the summit.


They took turns studying the color of stars,
drew maps of the shape of Chicago,
created a story room of polygons with tooth picks and wood glue.


One evening a deer appeared across the street,
walked out of the alley towards them,
took a number of steps in their direction and then fled between two buildings.


Moments later it was where it had first been,
crossing toward them, pausing at their yard,
then rushing away into the small woods behind their home.


They began sculpting things with discarded wood,
found objects and a miscellany of broken glass,
large metal pieces they welded together to make into large animals.


The river grew into a field of wildflowers,
the road only knew its way home,
the deer came out from its hiding place near where they sat,


walked close enough to them to touch,
raised a hoof towards the mountain, nodded, 
and, yes, they stood and followed her into a fog on the mountainside.




A Dream


one soul to another
the gentle handprint of spring
a fresh glaze of breeze
the stream moving quickly over rock
symphonic composition of silence
a melody of cicada
one soul to another
rainbows of cotton candy




Rediscover Your Soul


There is no passion in you
one dead landscape of a woman.
Heavy vines bury seeds,
decay wraps itself around brush.
Who do you need to help you weed,
help you clear the pasture of your body,
enable your skin to ripen in sunlight?
Who among us knows?
This is how we bury ourselves
when every morning we wake to fog
unhappy with what we might easily change.


This morning--
let your dreams blossom into color,
let their perfume waft into your essence.
Wake up.
Open your window.
Let the sunshine in.
Let its warmth form your smile.
Let its light welcome you home.

---

Fragments of a Dream

By Kenneth Vincent Walker



I see an elephant’s foot
Standing firmly in the
Sand, all wrinkled and
Gray, a snake wrapped
Around its massive leg.


So what is the relevance
Of this vision expressed
Within a dream? Oh, the
Answer lies with those
Who can interpret what


The imagery all means.
Maybe it is nothing but
Some scattered thought
Gone awry, or perhaps
There is something there


You nor I can conceivably
Affirm nor deny. For we
Must remain open to any
Obscure possibilities as
Irrelevant as they seem in


This fragment of a dream.




Dreamzzz…

By Kenneth Vincent Walker



When asleep—reality is
Suspended and a new
Reality apprehended to
Coalesce with this shell


As the cerebral cortex is
Misfiring, arcing, sparking
Electrical impulses unto
Unconsciousness for the


Unconscionable to dwell;
An amphetamine of sorts,
A mental acetylene torch
Melding hope, fear, desires


To surreal sensory overload.






A Vanilla Moon

By Kenneth Vincent Walker


Outside my window
The Moon low in the
Sky peeking through
My blinds capturing


My eyes. Morning is
Awakening; a Vanilla
Moon unmistakably,
Undeniably, calls out


Gently, softly, for me.
Breathtaking beauty
Beckoning me from
My deep slumber to


Awaken; rescuing me
From these recurring
Bad dreams that I’ve
Been buried under in


Subconscious reprise.

I Am the Very Model of a Modern-Day Apologist

A Gilbert-and-Sullivan-ish Poem

By Daniel Kemper



I am the very model of a modern-day apologist;
I’ve information only useful to an archeologist.
I know the kings of Chronicles and quote the reigns historical
from Saul of Kish to Zedekiah –sort of categorical;
I’m very well acquainted too with matters mathematical.
I understand the priestly codes and everything Levitical.
About the Urim and the Thummin I’m teaming with a lot o’ news---
With many cheerful facts about utensils of the temple’s use.


I’m very good at exegesis, gnostic numerology,
ancient Hebrew anecdotes, catholic angelology.
In short, in matters only useful to an archeologist,
I am the very model of a modern-day apologist.


I know our Christian history, from Polycarp to Augustine;
I know what “in hoc vinces” meant to holy Roman Constantine.
I quote in Aramaic Herod and his crowning treacheries
(and how Salome out-foxed him by using his own lecheries).
I grieve abominations by Antiochus Epiphanes
and weep as Jeremiah wept when he was held in Tahpanhes.


Then I can hum a psalm in freygish or some other eastern scales
And whistle out the top ten from those silly-songs on Veggie-Tales.
Then I can sign a credit card in Babylonic cuneiform,
And tell you every element of Caiaphas’s uniform
In short, in matters only useful to an anthropologist,
I am the very model of a modern-day apologist.


In fact, when I know what is meant by “sympathy” and “sentiments”,
when I can tell the difference between winning souls and arguments,
when such as pseudopigraphae and forgeries I’m wary at
and when I start to act upon “The Great Commission-ariat…”,
when I have learnt the proper role of modern archeology,
when I know how to socialize apart from sociology,
in short, when human sympathies no longer seem to bore me,
you’ll say a better-trained apologist has never been before me.


For my seminary knowledge, though I’m plucky and adventury,
has very little impact on the people of our century;
but still, in matters only useful to an archeologist,
I am the very model of a modern-day apologist.

Daniel Kemper is an unaccomplished man. He has walked The Bridge of No Return across the Sachong, and returned. He’s carried an acolyte’s cross at dawn and heard poetry at The Gates of Hell at midnight (Rodin Gardens). He’s touched the bones of Dinkenesh (“Lucy”) and climbed Masada at Dawn. He’s been How Berkeley Can You Be and walked the Pamlico Sound barefoot. He’s brought two children into the world and taken his father out of it.
He’s written when there was no one he could tell and he writes now bring out things of value and to engage and embrace all those who are doing the same…

Mars Needs Women 

A Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin

​
The Mysterians


“When they arrived, they apparently
did not want to talk with humans.”
Benjamin Rosenbush


Parked their outer space rigs
in some wilderness outback
and commenced to unload.
Communicated by code with
control rooms in space agency
saying they only wanted the small
area they were already parked at
and there was no point refusing
as they were already here.
Had an uncanny rapport with four
legged feral creatures, night birds,
carrion eaters and predators.
Showed no sign of expanding
their territorial imperative though
I thought of the movie Mysterians
where the aliens gave new meaning
to the phrase, “give them an inch
and they will take a mile.”
Burrowed underground, creating tunnels,
warrens, subterranean habitats that
filtered the heat out of the sun
creating new energy sources and
life forms previously unknown
to our planet.
I always thoguht The Mysterians was
a not too subtle comment on foreigners
ruining our country and usurping
our way of life with crude special effects
that would have made Ed Wood blush.
I could see now that I was wrong
in my assumptions and that this was
the different kind of strange invasion.
These aliens were intent on establishing
themselves and destroying us from within
just like so many people who were already here.





Spiders from Mars


The t-shirt said:
OUTER SPACE CADET IN TRAINING
Squad Captain
and looked like one of those
red jerseys on the doomed ones
Scottie beamed down to a new
planet on a mission without
a major recurring character
to save their butts when the mission
went south. Red jersey equals death
and I wondered if it applied here.
“So, what do you get when you
graduate and where do you go?”
“We get wings and we go where
they tell us to.”
“Like pilots.” Is aid thinking
of kamikazes.
“Sky pilots. Like Major Tom.”
I was going to ask him where
he was based and what the final
exam consisted of but I decided
not to bother. If Major Tom was
involved, it wouldn’t end well
and neither would he.





Mars Needs Women


After a few bit parts in low budget,
Grade B movies as “Well Built
Girl in a two piece by the pool #3,
Eye Candy in an evening dress at
the nightclub #3 and, finally, her
biggest on-screen role, Amazon #4
in Zsa Gabor’s entourage in space
soaper Mars Needs Women, #62 on
all time worst movies ever made.
Her agent dropped her after the reviews
and no one would take her calls anywhere
for any reason as if she contracted
bad review leprosy on set.
The book on her was that she was
pretty enough, and reliable and always
showed up on time but her voice
coach said she sounded like
Shirley Temple on nitrous and nothing
was ever going to change that.
Waited by the phone dressed as Zsa’s
faithful maiden until she became
a kind of Miss Havisham of the casting
couch, hoping someday for a remake.
She’d be ready and willing when they called.
Mars always needed women.






Outer Limits


He had that permanently stunned
look of someone who had gone
to sleep in one world and woken up
in another one just like it only totally
different in one crucial way like in
that episode of the Outer Limits
where everyone in the village he’d spent
his entire life in, no longer recognized him.
Not even his wife or his children
and he began to wonder if, somehow,
he’d become a changeling from outer
space or they were. It was as eerie
as it gets as what was familiar was
now totally hostile and threatening
and everyone, even the viewers, hoped
it would be resolved by the next commercial
break but there didn’t seem to be any.




Forbidden Fruit


One of the possibilities was
she had taken acting classes
and learned makeup secrets
of the stars and how to impersonate
normal. Beneath that thick layer
of cosmetics and thin veneer
of well-crafted lies, lurked
the bastard daughter of Jekyll
and Mr. Hyde, blasted on uppers
and Double Vodka Crans.
Said she could take a man
to places they had only dreamed of
which sounded like a bad remake
of a 50’s sci fi Classic like
“It Came from Outer Space”
that was nowhere near as good as
it might have been. Handling
rejection in style, she whips out
a photo of a girl who might have
been Drew Barrymore in rehab
after “Firestarter” but probably
wasn’t. “She likes older men.”
21 was probably older in her world.
They might make an interesting
2 ‘fer, you’d have 20 to life
to think about.

Feelings

By Paddy Raghunathan

For Shalini

I claimed I was happy, 
but the candle of my soul burned, 
and like a poorly made candle,
began crumbling into separate pieces.  
It seemed like my life was dissipating slowly into meaninglessness, 
even as I kept up a cheerful front on the outside.  
I wanted to take cheer from the beautiful skies, 
the verdure of the trees and the lush green grass.  
I looked to take comfort 
in how much I was better off than so many others in life.  

But I continued burning inside, 
and instead of solidifying into one sticky mess, 
each separate piece had burst forth and moved rapidly away, 
as if on its own volition.  
They wouldn't die for some reason, 
for I would have died with them.  
I was caged in the universe of my body, 
as the pieces moved away from each other 
at increasing speeds.  

Then I became one of those tiny pieces 
and was no longer whole.  
From within that piece, 
I could telescopically picture 
other pieces flying away from me.  
Sometimes I could feel the fading tremors 
of my whole exploding with a big bang.  
At other times, I could sense a piece 
radiating like a pulsar from a distant past.  
Another far away piece would disappear into the void, 
collapsing like a black hole 
pulled inward by its own gravity.

Why, I don’t know, 
the piece that was me 
clung on to hope, 
and I’m glad it did, 
for another galaxy came colliding into me.  
You came into my life.  

Bit by bit, 
each piece contracted and joined back, 
but I will never be whole again.  
I don’t want to be whole, 
for we are now one universe, 
and you its better half.  

All this I want to tell you, 
but it would sound too convoluted.  
So I condense all of the above 
into one terse statement, 
“Love you, sweets.” 

I know you’ll understand.

The Universe Trilogy 

Poems by Alex Andy Phuong


The University of Reality


Lost in space
Without a trace
Searching for a place
To call home,
And while all roads
Lead to Rome,
There really is
No place like home,
So the universal
Facts about the universe
Reveal fundamental truths
Of the human experience,
And although aliens
Might involve science fiction,
There is, indeed,
Friction between
People on Earth,
So recognize
Without the need
For a disguise,
And be part of the real world,
Especially since the Earth itself
Is actually
Not at the center of the universe.





Out without a Doubt


A place gone with the wind
Wondering where to begin
Vanished without a trace
Marveling at the wonder
Of outer space
Living life on Earth
For all its worth,
And from the miracle of birth
Comes the opportunity
To find a place
In the universe
Without the need to rehearse
For the performance of a lifetime,
So strive for a sense of unity
While establishing an identity
To cope with the harshness of reality
By being a beacon of hope
For the love of humanity.




A Race in Outer Space


Intergalactic battles
Involving more
Than Star Wars
Preparing for confrontation
For the sake of civilization,
Yet the practice
Of humility
Can lead to the discovery
That the power of hate
Creates destruction,
So appreciate
Life at home,
For the Earth itself
Is the only home
For human beings,
And no one knows for sure
If the human race is alone
Within the vast mystery
Of the universe,
And yet history has shown
The horrors of bloodshed,
So do more than just
Get ahead in life,
And instead try
To make use of life
For that within itself
Is a must.

Airborne

Poems by Kenneth Vincent Walker



Andromeda Galaxy


Well then, when are
We leaving for the
Andromeda Galaxy?
I must stop to get
A box of Dramamine
And a good book to
Read along the way.


Actually, I’ve been
Waiting my entire
Lifetime to depart
Straightway at the
First opportunity to
Light up the sky as
A sparkler and spray;


To stray toward the
Heavens and beyond
In a tin rocket ship, a
Vessel of imagination
To a destination of my
Choosing before losing
All my marbles as they


Continue to roll away.



Universe Realigning


And here we’ll rot upon
This forsaken rock, this
Lot not of our choosing.


Oh, so froth with hatred,
Foiled plans of escape,
And dark desires mired
Waist-deep and rising.


Fearing nearing the end
Of the line as time winds
Down and stops ticking.


For linear time is merely
A concept of one’s mind
To satisfy Man’s desire
To find his way through


The universe realigning.



Airborne


I’ve managed to
Launch a rocket
And with no one
Aboard but myself.


I’m headed toward
The outer reaches
Of our galaxy, yet
With no body’s help.


As the sky is clear
And the stars are
Nearer to the Earth
Than ever before


I was hoping some
Of you would come
Along, but I guess
I’m just insecure.


Now that’s okay for
I’ve always found a
Way to get far away
With no one’s help;


As the sky is clear
And the stars are
Nearer to the Earth
Than ever before, Lo


I am now airborne.

Poetry Collection by 

Chelsea Lynn La Bate



WHO DRUGGED THE MESSENGER?

Leave it to my psychiatrist
to prescribe a life sentence of poison
for riding the rainbow bridge too hard
between immaculate worlds.

The initial trip is always a deep hit
for commoners and family members
who confuse awakening with lunacy.

The “doctors” have no education
on third eyes, invisible ears or
inaudible symphonies.

I don’t know what field they stand in
but they will soon be alone
when all of the children are freed
and we have no more need
for their “medicine.”

But let us remember,
even this padded cell has a door -
How do you think they got me in here?
My work as a messenger is to remind you
that every box has an opening.

Divine Intelligence lives
everywhere on Earth
though it seems to be utterly
lacking in this “hospital.”

Poet, scribe, seer. . . . .
My sentence was lighter this time
My scrolls were not destroyed
My captors even expressed care.

Still, no one can make me eat
that purple chicken in the cafeteria,
just like I can’t force you to believe
this Great Ending we’re living
is the beginning of all beginnings,
beginnings like we have never known.


Chelsea Lynn La Bate



THE UGLY ONES

This morning I rose
sipped the sweet ambrosia of awakening,
drew in the song of the dawn
bowed and blushed.
Then the waters presented
a thousand diamond rings of light.

I gave thanks for the grand and the clean,
for the unseen and eternal.

The Voice leaned in and smiled,
“That’s good little lotus,
but have you thanked the ugly ones?”

“Remember to sing for your executioner
as she paces down the hall to escort you
to your death.”

“Give away your finest dresses to the jealous,
who make it their work to burn you
in the community square.”

“Save your purest words for the blind
and the violent.”

“Plant chrysanthemums around the unmarked tomb
where they plan to bury you,
leave a mark of beauty where your blood will pool.”

“You will rise again.”

“Be sure to ask your crucifier
how his day has been
as he escorts you up to the cross.”

“Offer that one last loaf
to those who have robbed you
cleaned your house,
done you the honor
of separating the fakers
from the true,
the needed from the excess,
the loud from the crooked,
the finite from the eternal.”

“Love is easy to love,
so remember to love the ugly ones.
Only then can we all go home.”

Chelsea Lynn La Bate



SOMETHING IS TRYING TO KEEP US TOGETHER

Something is trying to keep us together
because everywhere I go, there you are.

What are the chances we would meet
on a green mountain in Appalachia
tangled with rhododendron,
whipped by fragrant wind,
then find ourselves
on a rhinestone studded sea
sipping silver needle tea,
flushed with fuchsia sunsets?

How did you find me
on the drenched streets of Paris
peddling a bicycle up that great hill
into the spinning blades
of The Moulin Rouge,
my red velvet blazer unbuttoned,
a poem bleeding blue in its left pocket?

Then again you found me
in the yellow-gold sands of Morocco
disguised as the camel’s feet.

Funny you should appear as the star
in my dreams when I thought my
exhaustion from living would plague me
with nights of eternal darkness.

And is that you in the feathers of my breath
whispering the songs of endangered birds?

Strange how when I tell no one
where I am going, I sense you behind me
flanked at my shoulders,
guiding me like two great wings.

But tell me, do I have permission
to love you in return? May I kiss the feet
of You who does not have feet? May I embrace
the body of You who does not have form?
May I hold hands with your Holy Handlessness?

Your love is making a lunatic of me!
Bowing to palm trees,
kissing the wet mouth of lakes,
holding hands with shimmering
swords of sunlight.

One can only hope
to those with conventional rituals
who need God to have a beard
or a bible or a building
that these raw and spontaneous
acts of devotion
will simply appear
as dance.

Chelsea Lynn La Bate



MADNESS

On my way to madness
I took off my housedress,
left it loosely arranged like a donut
on the floor
where I thought
I would die alone.

Then I leapt,
not out the window,
but to the next room
where I was found
by officers and neighbors
naked on a puffed, white blanket,
swollen with victory
still stuttering to God.

The battle had been won
between light and evil,
predator and victim,
snake and dove.

I had been deeply afraid,
but when I pressed palms with death,
I found myself in great company.

Does an alarm sound in the heavens
when a child of the Earth
is approaching the gates?

Who curates the unseen team
that guides us beyond?

I purged the house,
littered the lawn with
a thousand glittering buttons,
drowned books in garbage pails,
laid out old clothes as bait,
for the demons.

I was instructed to run fans
to scramble my scent,
stack hangers as traps,
cover every black hole
that could be used by spies.

Reflective surfaces
became aid to keep watch,
dance, a release
blue flowered shawls draped me
in the Holy Mother’s protection.

Now in my sane mind I ask -
When does medicine become addiction?
Creativity, delusion?
Imagination, mania?

Is trauma the gateway to enlightenment?

How can the cries of our ancestors
be soothed if we don’t fall through
dimensions to sing beyond the veil?

And how will we ever shake loose
that which is plaguing us
if we are afraid
to worship wildly
in a house
which is seldom visited?

Chelsea Lynn La Bate


TODAY I ASKED THE BUTTERFLY

Today I asked the butterfly
what it’s like to be a butterfly.
She perched on the purple skirt
of a petunia and asked -
“What’s a butterfly?”

I blushed with shame
at the notion of assigning a name
to someone who never named herself,
someone who is so absorbed in being
that she doesn’t need identity.

I started to move in ways
I had never moved before.
Losing my name meant
I could become the unknown,
a pattern, an echo, a prayer.

I mimicked the bear, the great moose,
the rhino, the squirrel.
I morphed and shifted,
but when I thought of the butterfly
I felt the most uplifted.

I didn’t know the God in me
until I became the small,
winged one who drinks from
the hearts of flowers.

Chelsea Lynn La Bate

The Strawberry Blonde

A Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin


Strawberry Statement
after photos by David Thompson


“You’re either on the bus or you’re
off the bus.” The Merry pranksters said,
cruising the highways, speed freaked
Cassady at the wheel, Kesey and Company
along for the trip, in a time where anything,
even significant social change, seemed possible
but nothing was. The Silent Majority is
rules, streaming down the highways,
headlamps on, signaling their support
for Mr. Nixon, his wars, his high crimes and
misdemeanors, his uptight, sexually repressed,
drunken way forward into the future of now.
Not on this bus, or another, like the one
wrecked in a field, abandoned, windows
broken, seats ripped out, protruding springs
through horsehair seats and vinyl covers,
not even underage lovers go there now
or the secret smokers, underage drinkers,
just the field mice and the spiders, lost
tweakers in between squats with nowhere
else to go. Someone has painted God and War
on the rusted side of the bus, words still visible
between the brambles and the weeds, elemental
proclamations like Love and Death, though when
the movie is made it will not be directed by
Woody Allen, there will be no laugh lines,
no jokes about eternity and what lies beyond,
just a ragged chain of mute humans being led
into the void by Death.








The Bridge to Nowhere 1970


Just another been down so long looks
like up to me early May afternoon,
drinking hair of the dog from plastic
pitchers, sharing joints in between
rounds in the purple jesus death mobile,
Frank’s deep purple Mustang that had
more guard rail dings in it than a demolition
derby special. Tunes on the jukebox
are the sound track for a Southeast Asian War
of attrition, a crazy as hell movie that
hadn’t been made yet but would be a hundred
times over before long, each one more
insane the last.


“Something happening here.
What it is ain’t actually clear
There’s a man with a gun over there….”


and more than few of us in this room
will get to see the man up close and personal
before long at the end of the long and
winding Lennon and McCartney road
without a strawberry field at the end of it.
All our respective notices filled out
and ready to be mailed once the draft
classifications change on G-Day,
Graduation Day. That day feels like
a time delay death sentence fuse burning
down to the end; no one is speaking of
what to do, but everyone has a plan for what
happens when the bomb goes off.
There is no levity here, in this tavern now,
long after the party had ended and
the desperate hangovers have begun.
No one sings, as they once would have
done, when “Bridge Over Troubled Water”
plays.












Strawberry Blonde


Busty blonde from a bottle
buys cosmetics from CVS
store flashing a wad of bills,
serious cash, acting casual,
tells the thin pixie cut girl
behind the counter,
” The boys would like you,
you’ve the face for it.
Nice, trim athletic body.
Seriously, ever think
about it? Dancing, I mean.”
“I’m too flat chested.
Don’t know how to dance.
I’m not flash like you.”
“It’s just a pole, some hot
rock music and moving
like you mean it. Work out
a routine. I’ll show you
around. You can make
some serious cash. Tax free.
More in a night than you
can make pushing keys
in a CVS drug store in a month.”
Two weeks later, the new
girl is talking to some sleaze bag
in a polyester suit that was
never in style about making
movies. Who knew? CVS
stores as stepping stone to
the stage and screen.






Sweet Dreams Are Made of These


Late night, low lights in the bar,
the only prop missing: a beautiful
woman in an evening gown and a tenor
sax for mood music. Must have been one
of those nights out of central casting;
swank hotels full, lounges shut down,
piano bars short a key man; nowhere
for a classic blonde, in a cut-to-the-thigh,
white dress to go, but here.
“What can I do you out of?” I asked.
“I need something warm inside me.” She said.
“You’ve come to the right place.”
“I certainly hope you’re the man who can
give me what I need. What do you suggest?”
“Depends upon how warm you want to be
and how far inside you want to go.”
“Oh, all the way inside. And I want to feel hot.”
“You look like a Strawberry Blonde to me.”
“Even if I wasn’t, I’ll bet you could make me one.
All right if I smoke?”
“Certainly. It would be my pleasure to light you up.”
I snapped the Zippo open and shut.
Put the red cocktail down before her on the bar.
“You’re a real fast worker. Anyone ever tell you that?
What else can you do?”
“Name your pleasure.”
“We’re still talking about cocktails, aren’t we?”
“Sure, we are. Cocks and tails are my specialty.”
“A girl can never be too careful. You know,
I wouldn’t want to be disappointed.”
“Don’t worry, I rarely get complaints.”
She smiled. Withdrew another cigarette from
a gold case. Tapped it on the bar and put one end
between parted lips. I didn’t hesitate to provide
her light. It felt like the beginning of a beautiful
friendship.








From the Life of the Poet: The New York City Lorca


Five hundred pounds overweight,
she sits on a wrought iron chair
reminiscing of her days among freaks:
"I bench pressed my weight every
day of my life until I hit 50.
I added a hundred pounds then
and tried it one handed." Sits
rubbing the scar on her right arm
where she tried to have a tattoo
of a bird of paradise removed:
"It belonged to a lover that tattoo.
A thin man seven foot tall who
liked the circus, liked clowns,
wild animal trainers, high wire
walkers, anything that moved."
Sips Strawberry Yoo-Hoo through
a flexible straw, says: "It's
all there in the back yard,
the circus." Rusting chrome bicycle
frames scaled down for dwarfs, hollow
50 lb. weights, ventriloquist dummies
unclothed among weeds sitting in sand
boxes, mouths wide open, containing
spider webs that block in their voices,
tales of the tent scaled down to ruin.
"I'm 65 now, they paid a good buck
to see me in my prime. I'm the original
bearded lady, what do you think of that?"
She must be pushing 75, full of lies,
hearing side show barker voices filling
the hollow cavities termites leave in
the hard wooden spaces behind her eyes.

About Strawberry Fields

By Kenneth Vincent Walker



“I told you about
Strawberry Fields
You know the place
Where nothing is real.”


It has now landed in
Central Park, New York
After a pot-shot from
A dork in the dark.


Strawberries splat on
The pavement in front of
A brownstone home in
A hard way on a bad day.


Happiness fades away
Abruptly as a warm gun
Speaks emphatically,
Loudly, tragically and is


The ultimate antithesis
Of “love, love, love…
All you need is love…
Love is all you need…


Love is all you need.”

Three Poems by Robert Nimmo

​
Slave to the Unexpected

I was a slave in times long past,
I sat beneath the pharaoh’s feet,
I saw the dreams that Joseph cast
Watched Akhenaten’s sun retreat.
I felt the waters ruined red
And smelt the stench of flies and lice, 
I saw the livestock lying dead
As pharaoh’s first born paid the price.
When Alexandra’s chariots tore
Across the delta’s golden silt;
I switched that seat to Ptolemy’s feet
And changed my shenti for a kilt.
But now I gleam beyond the stars
Where long dead rockers play guitars.



In Pursuit of Xanadu

He takes the honey dew like wine.
Elixir of the distant muses sucks him
round the vortex into caves of dark
desire and intellectual indolence.
He sparks and flares and momentarily
manages a glimpse of genius,  a
chance to build that dome in air;
then boards the craft and travels with S.T. 
down Alph through caverns far beneath 
the slopes of Mount Abora.
Yet ere he hits the sunless sea
or hears the woman’s desperate prayer 
he bursts from out the darkened realm:
a demon-lover,  wild of eye,  unkempt of hair 
and finds himself afloat and musing.
Alas,  his dulcimer-less damsel has 
no vision;  unrefined,  she cracks
the sunny dome with caves of ice
rasping rough:  “Beware!  Beware!”
He smiles and muses,  does not care
for he on honey-dew has fed,
has lipped the milk of paradise.



The Voices of Gravel Fell

Can't you hear them calling where the wind greets kiss of morn
subtle underneath the natural tone 
of casual conversation
wafting through the stark and trembling fingers 
pointing heavenwards
touched with trepidation.

Whistling over moorland wreathed in purple hangings 
dancing with the stippled pebbling water 
fanning from the surface 
of a thousand wind-skirled lakes 
keening in the colours spreading westwards 
caught within dimensions of a long forgotten time 
when man had need to tell 
of love and crime.

They sashay off the sea in a petticoated pirouette 
and echo down the dunes
like the kine ‘cross sands of Dee. 

Gasping through the fat-boughed oaks 
and tinkling through the thin
a message of the distant 
and the timeless dispossessed
a weary whisper sweeping hills as old as hills themselves
alluding to the manic and the sadly unconfessed.

They're there.  
I know.  
I've heard them as they gather with the storm
and then descend like banchees in a coven lost,  forlorn.
Folks say they come to harry;
I think they come to warn
Travelling from a realm that time forgot;
I think they’ve come to warn
But no one knows from what.
​

Making Beautiful Together

By Lucinda Berry Hill


Red is just red
'Till you blend it with blue.
Then it is violet,
A beautiful hue.

Peanuts are  peanuts
'Till you mix in some butter.
Then add in some chocolate

For a treat like no other.

Coffee you say?
It starts as dry grounds.
When water is added
It's a taste that will rouse.

If we all came together,
If we merged and we mixed
Just think of the sadness
And the pain we could fix.

So much could be made.
Great things could become.
Kindness and goodness
As taught by God's son.

Acceptance, equality,
Not one being slighted.
Conquering evil.
Strong and united.

I'll be the red.
You be the blue.
Together let's make
A more beautiful view.


Author Lucinda Berry Hill, of Coffee with Jesus ©

​


A Chance For Your Heart

By Lucinda Berry Hill
 
In your embrace,
You hold close, your heart.
Sparing it pain
From falling apart.
Closing a door,
Building a wall;
Not letting it feel,
You think it won't fall.
There's always a risk,
Always a chance
In every step
There is with romance.
Life holds many loves;
That makes who you are.
But there's one who was made
With a song for your heart.
How tragic it'd be,
To not take the chance.
In shielding your heart,
You may miss the dance.

 Lucinda Berry Hill Author of Coffee With Jesus   ©

Haiku by K.A. Williams


North Carolina


I live in the South
Grits is a breakfast food here
Yes, we do say y'all

One of the first thirteen states
Mountains and beaches
North Carolina's my home.
​

EXODUS

Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin


Timequake


“If you had a choice of planets to
go to, right now, I mean which
one would you chose?” I had to admit
that it was a clever, attention getting
conversation opener from someone
you’d never seen before. Maybe it
was because I was reading Vonnegut’s
Timequake, he must have thought I
was an empath, someone simpatico
with whatever worlds in collision
scenario he had worked out for
Earth and the cosmos, so I tried,
“Trafaldamore,” on him for size.
“I never heard of that one before.
I see you’re reading Vonnegut.
He’s a great writer.” I thought,
“But you’ve never actually read one
of his books.” I thought about giving
him the bad news about Kurt’s passing
away but decided against. Some things
are better left unsaid to certain people.
Instead, I said, “Yeah, his Venus on the
Half Shell is my favorite. What’s yours?”
“Sirens of Titan.” Now there’s a planet
that might be interesting to live on for
a few days.” I thought, “Yeah, if the babes
were anything like the ones on the garish
cover of my 1960’s vintage cover of Sirens,
it sure as hell would be. But with him along,
the galaxy was in even bigger trouble than
Kurt ever thought.” I still had my heart set
on Trafaldamore and continued in that vein,
“As I recall, the atmosphere wasn’t user
friendly for humans.”
“That’s okay, we could build a glass bubble.
I built one of those in high school. That was
the year my lab partner and I made the laser.
Three years in a row the FBI came in to our
school and confiscated our experiments.
It was only last year that they declassified
what we were doing. I grew up in Brooklyn.”
I nodded and gave one of my serious expressions
that might have suggested growing up there
made all the difference in the world, if you
were inclined to think so. I tuned out his
Rube Goldberg explanation of how these
experiments had the potential to change
the world, if only they would have allowed him
to go on with his work and put on my neutral
feigned interest look that was meant to conceal
terminal boredom. I thought his theories might
even contain something potentially amusing
but it was so buried under the rubble of his
thinking, that a mere bus ride stuck next to him
wasn’t long enough to excavate those deeply
concealed nuggets. I left him in mid-sentence
about his travel plans back to Titan. I wished
him luck. He was going to need it.














Exodus


Without water, travelers lost, are
drawn to black holes flash floods
fill with poisoned liquids.
Polished skulls of animals, long thought
extinct, light the way into the night
like O’Keeffe long horns shedding
absorbed heat through hollow cavities
where brain matter should be.
The landscape they encounter is
something Sidney Spenser could
imagine after The Rapture: all graves
opened, dead men walking, appearing
as familiar as neighbors, faces distorted
by the effects of bad dreams and shared,
salacious gossiping.
The man in Buffalo skin robes, who
appears among apparitions, holds an
empty hour glass to mark his spot
on the map where there is no time.
Follow him if you dare or risk being
left behind.






Sleeper


I receive transmissions.
That’s what the antennae
are for.


Transmission from space.


All kinds. Mostly radio
signals these days;
clear days you can pick up dozens
of stations right here on earth.


Battle plans. Outlines of what
the future will look like once
we take over.


It won’t be pretty for you guys,
that’s for sure, but given what
you’ve done to this planet
what do you expect?


Yeah, lots of people have said
I’m a few pills short of a commitment.
Truth is, I have been committed.
Bunches of times. In fact, I’m out now
On a kind of work release program.


Gathering information. That’s my job,
Kemosabe. I’m working incognito like
James Bond only I’m better looking.


Nothing some cosmetic surgery and a few
false teeth couldn’t fix.


Gotta cigarette? No, how about a quarter?


No, it doesn’t pay well. Hey, when you’re
a sleeper agent, you have to take the good
with the bad. You know, go with the flow.
Be authentic, dude. I’m as authentic as it gets.


I do have one major worry. Sometimes I get
Video messages. I know most people would
need a TV for that but I’m different.
The problem is the signals are changing
and I don’t have a converter box.
What if a vital message comes through
after the change and I don’t get it?
Where will I be then? What will I do?








Bus Riders of the New Millennium


"The truth
of the myth
is that she
could smell bones."
"O'Keeffe's Bones
by Lynn Thompson


The ones with headphones receive
their transmissions directly from the gods,
contained in coded lyrics in old
Vanilla Fudge rock hits slowed to
glacial, stoned aged pacing,
"People get ready
there's a train a comin'
picking up passengers
from coast to coast----"
Specific orders, detailed mappings,
plots and plans, where to connect
with The Others heeding like callings
are somewhere in the black spacing
between the lines, so intricately concealed
you can see them speaking to unseen
mentors, significant shapes and invisible
forms, their speech unintelligible, non-
sensical as spoken runes, offers an
explanation why they appear so hostile
and distracted, their clothes mismatched,
soiled and fragrant, at least, one item
so out of place, so incongruous,
it could only have been deliberately
placed about their person for like minded
aliens to recognize for future referencing
when everything begins coming together,
drawn by The Ultimate Tower of Power,
Radio Free Babel, the Newest Age sound
destined to clog our airwaves, our space,
our homes, now theirs, as they approach
Event Horizon just this side of the light.






Taxi Drivers of the Apocalypse


He turned three
shades of white
when I finished
calling Duff's
for the totally
toasted on Happy
Hour beers, regular
retired guys, sd.
"Do you know
what you just did?"
"I called a cab?"
"No, you didn't,
you just killed
those guys-"
"Yeah, well some
of those guys
have bad driver's
records but, to
the best of my
knowledge, they
haven't killed
anyone yet."
"That's not what
I mean-taxi cab
drivers steal
your body at night
& take it on long
journeys to other
worlds in dreams
you can't escape
from."
"Those guys are
so toasted they
wouldn't even
notice, might even
do them some good
to get a change
of scenery."
"It's already too
late, by the time
they get their
bodies back,
they'll be all
used up. You'll see."
"Boy are they in
trouble if the
resurrection is
the real Y2K problem."
"You won't be so
so smart when
your turn comes."
"Not to worry,
I'd rather walk
to where I'm going
and if the weather
is bad, I can always
take the bus."
"Where you're going
the bus doesn't stop."

Yun Scarlet Tanager

By Kenneth Vincent Walker



To the deceased Yun
Scarlet Tanager of the
Morning Mystic Sojourn
Passed the Element of
Evil, unto the Holiest of
Holies, in the Courtyard
Of Remembrance.


Cloaked in femme fatale
Black fabric amongst the
Very finest garments in
Existence and encased
In alabaster passed the
Element of Evil along the
Fragments of December.


We beseech thee Yun
Scarlet Tanager despite
Youthful acquiescence
Of the fading morning
Passed the Element of
Evil approaching the
Phosphorescent Embers.


Choked, found facedown
Upon the pavement in a
Flurry of falling feathers;
A bloody arrangement
Scattered passed the
Element of Evil that no
Longer could be resisted.


We grieve Yun Scarlet
Tanager; the weeping
Mourning doves gather
Passed an elementary
Upheaval which indeed
Has released this plague
So grievously upon us.


Alas, Yun Scarlet Tanager
Forever your name shall
Be memorialized by this
Tragic fate that’s befallen
Us passed the Element of
Evil now in the Courtyard
Of Remembrance.

Colorful World Trilogy

Poetry by Alex Andy Phuong



World Tour


The world for sure
Is the only home,
And while all roads
Lead to Rome,
Environmental biology
Proves that the Earth
Is like a dome,
And across the land and sea,
People live their lives
Within reality,
And the people who try
To do more than pass by
Really do make differences
That directly impact
This only place,
And a tour itself
Does not have to involve a race,
So instead pace,
And use the present moment
And lessons from the past
To continue the lifelong tour
While acknowledging
Future references,
For no one knows
What the future has in store,
But the more that people
Try to endure,
Hearts really do
Become even more pure,
And that certainly is for sure


Dear Sphere


Dear Earth,
Life upon this sphere
Not exactly
A Golden Globe,
But the Academy
Involves education
As well as transformation,
And while pollution
Has tainted the sphere,
Now is the present time
That is truly here,
And do more than
Live within reality,
But also establish
Uniformity
While embellishing
The world
With any form of beauty
While also promoting
Tranquility,
For remaining calm
Can allow people
To carry on
And marvel at the wonder
Of the break of dawn,
And let the heart go on.





Lyrical Spherical


Lyrical language
Spherical sphere
Traveling around
To become found
Lifting oneself
Above the ground
Finding one’s place
Upon the only home
Doing more
Than sightseeing in Rome
For a Roman Holiday
Is more than cinematic
Especially since
Letting loose
Relieves the pedantic,
So enjoy one’s time
Upon the Earth,
And live life
For all its worth
For the gift of birth
Allows for endless possibilities
Within an otherwise boring reality,
And strive for authenticity
Through sincerity and integrity.

Poetry by Peter Magliocco
​

Peligro Alto Voltaje


What the sign said, beneath a b & w drawing of crossbones-skull:
You (the virgin sacrifice in my louche-romantic lore)
Posed beneath it. Standing in front of a large crimson vertical door
That fine day in Mexico City, a transplanted Nevada girl I painted
As you primped in colorful cowgirl garb, a tribute to those who sang
Down by the river in a seismic spring. Maybe the wrong place
To pose, wind rustling against your floral blue scarf?
Just a patterned close-up. Dark web with Lorca dwindling,
Sight depicting unicorns in gothic stream, yourself never waking?
If I dabbled in burnt sienna it was for the last time.
My fingers strafed the contour of your thirtyish figure
In its stunning posture, & no words censor my epistolary reverie
To be later mocked by life’s discerning critics, for they espied
Something askew in your endangered spirit.
In a barely there, tree-colored aura with limbs
Hanging down by your side, your hands flesh-white
With incendiary ghosts of history I wanted to capture again,
To bring forth slaves & liberators alike now integrated
In pallid sight beneath the unforgiving sun (& Aztec gods
With devouring eyes denuding you there, in public view?).
Where revolutionaries might once have danced
To men’s & machines’ electrifying passion.
What scarred juniper or far reaches of Mexican Orange
The daydream’s music unfolds beyond seeing, a dying growth,
Flaming your cold face in morning.


--Peter Magliocco




Democracy in America


Come to me in remembering, something I see
In those old photos of parents on Parisian excursions
By Notre Dame and Shakespeare & Co.
As people strolled along glancing at book covers.
Come to me old night, something I sense myself
Inhaling your multitude of familiar essences
So enchanting (or chilling) under lunar rising
We played under hide & seek on happy streets.
Familiar as the suburban landscape’s real dream
As kids aping old Hollywood’s cinematic France,
It was all Proustian in my blue mind & red heart.
My spirit reveled in a domestic sight & sound
Growing with the intensity of spiritual scripture
I was lost in a blasphemous rapture of youth,
Adrift on another time & river far away musing
In the mirror of Lon Chaney’s 1920 masks of horror.
The Pacoima suburbs were my bastille of strangeness
Because I could not fathom the adult secrets there
Ruling me as I studied my Democracy in America
By de Tocqueville pictured on our b & w T.V.
Regally reposing in the prosaic family living room
Like a cyclopean dull eye espying my boyhood
Askew on the pitfalls of 1950s family values,
Where my foreignness never came out of the closet
Protecting sleaze secrets of my parental cover-ups
I became Quasimodo in forever adolescent misery

--Peter Magliocco





Silent History


If I told you I was sorry would you
Know I’ve studied every event of my personal life
To measure against the greater history of others.
I am the hoarder of old newsprint relics
Smudging my flesh with blue fading ink.


I keep my own truth hidden in crèche alleys
Of the forgotten humanness my lies long ruined.
If you are a saint, sing to me of sweetness,
If a devil cry to me of some lost humanity
In file slots marked under no known history.


When did it begin, the real history of knowing
Things that happened to prior civilizations
Before they vanished into the abandonment
Comprising gaps in the chain of evolution?
Abandoned like strange houses untouched


By time or the hands of scavengers,
Only a few will see what remains there
To flicker through a wounded consciousness
You absorb like age brandishing the forgotten
Memory of your human spirit’s vanquished sight.

--Peter Magliocco



BIO:


Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, Nevada, where he’s been active for years as writer, poet, artist, and editor. He has recent poetry in Flashes of Brilliance, A Too Powerful Word, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Trouvaille Review, Impspired, and elsewhere. His latest poetry books are The Underground Movie Poems (Horror Sleaze Trash), Night Pictures from the Climate Change (Cyberwit.net), and Particle Acceleration on Judgement Day (Impspired).

Panchavati, An Introduction
 
— Original Author: Maithili Sharan Gupt

Translated by Paddy Raghunathan

Written in Hindi by Maithili Sharan Gupt, who was given the title of 'National Poet' by no less a person than Mahatma Gandhi. 

The full moon’s mesmerizing rays 
Appear to skim the lake and sand,
As moonlight, fresh, diffuses 
Over the nightly sky, and over land.

The earth transmits a joyous pulse 
From melodies of green grass blades.
On cue, the trees begin to sway 
When gentle westerlies pervade.
 
The shaded woods of Panchavati
Enclose a modest leaf abode,
And keeping watch from a high rock 
Is a young prince who’s calm, composed.

This warrior, why’s he still awake 
When all creation’s deep in sleep?
He’s used to pomp and luxury;
Now he’s constrained by vows he keeps.

What’s this brave youth’s avowed purpose 
That sleep’s been sacrificed like this?
The jungle’s where he must now live 
While abnegating princely bliss.

That which he dutifully guards, 
What wealth resides in that abode?
In whose defense, his body, mind 
And soul are thoroughly bestowed.

To cleanse our tainted mortal world, 
She who accompanies her Lord,
And now resides in this leaf hut,
Is Lakshmi, whom three worlds adore.

She represents a brave clan’s pride: 
It’s apt she’s guarded by the brave.
It’s lonely, night has just set in,
And nightly beasts can act depraved.

Even when there’s no one nearby, 
It’s hard to silence a man’s mind.
He starts conversing with himself, 
As thoughts, replies, are intertwined.

Every so often, he looks up,
And joyfully surveys the scene.
All to himself, the fearless warrior 
Advances thoughts that are pristine.

How fresh, how dazzling the moonlight!  
O, how devoid of noise tonight!
How beautiful the night’s sweet odor,
Does anything here lack delight?

Things haven’t stopped, they’re on the move, 
And accompany nature’s dance,
But how they continue sequestered, 
As though they’re in a peaceful trance!

The beautiful earth scatters pearls 
Whilst everyone is fast asleep.
When dawn takes hold, the morning sun 
Recovers them in one fell sweep.

Later the sun opts for a break, 
Bestowing upon lovely evening
A gentle, almost zero darkness,
Which gives to dusk a fresh new meaning,

Whence glittering like liquid dew, 
The moon’s rays take a happy turn,
And soulful nature shows her joy 
By shedding tears of sweet concern.

For errors made unknowingly, 
Indeed she punishes us harshly,
But then she nurtures both the young 
And old just as impartially.

It feels like ’twas just yesterday, 
Yet thirteen years have gone so fast!
Seeing us come to the deep jungle 
Had made our father full aghast.

The time will come soon when our term 
In this deep jungle will be over,
But what would be more satisfying 
Than wealth I’ve gained from this exposure?

My noble brother will then take 
On weighty tasks of governance.
Busy he’ll be with royal duties,
And won’t give us a fleeting glance.

Keeping in mind the good he’ll do,
I certainly won’t feel denied.
Don’t we aristocratic men 
Know how to take such things in stride?

----

Original translation / crib: Panchavati, An Introduction
 
The beautiful moon’s graceful beams 
Flicker playfully on water and land.
Fresh moonlight has diffused
Over the surfaces of the earth and sky.

The earth radiates a pulse
From the notes of green grass blades:
As if on cue, the trees begin 
Dancing in the gentle breeze.
 
In the shades of Panchavati
Is a beautiful leaf cottage,
And on a clean rock in front of it,
Is a steady, brave and courageous prince.

Why is this archer still awake
When the entire world sleeps?
He’s someone used to luxury,
But he appears to live like an ascetic now.

What’s the vow this avowed, warrior’s made 
That he’s completely given up sleep?
The jungle is where he atones,
And renounces princely pleasures.

That which he now guards,
What’s the wealth hidden in that cottage?
In whose defense he’s concentrated
His body, mind, and soul.
 
To cleanse the mortal world’s impurities, 
She who’s come here with her Lord,
Is Lakshmi of the three worlds,
And has taken abode of this cottage tonight.

She represents a brave clan’s modesty, 
So isn’t it apt a brave prince stands guard?
The countryside is sparse, night has set in,
And nightly creatures ever ready to perform dark magic.
 
Even though there isn’t anyone around, 
Man’s mind won’t stay quiet,
He keeps speaking to himself 
And keeps listening to himself.

Every once in awhile he looks around 
For his own enjoyment,
And in his own mind, the brave archer 
says something anew.
 
How clear the moonlight is,
How noiseless the night!
How beautiful the odor,
Is there any direction that’s unhappy?

They haven’t stopped, even now they move, 
Those destined to dance and remain active,
But how sequestered,
how peaceful, and how quiet!
 
The beautiful earth scatters pearls 
Whilst everyone sleeps.
The sun gathers them up always 
When it becomes dawn,

And later takes a break 
While bestowing upon evening
A slim, almost zero darkness, 
Which gives it a new form.
 
Graceful moon rays, almost like liquids, 
now take a joyful turn,
And Mother Nature, soulful,
Sheds a tear with them.

Indeed she punishes us harshly 
For mistakes made unknowingly,
But she then takes care of both
Old and young just the same.
 
Thirteen years have passed away
But it seems like only yesterday
When our father was aghast
That we were coming to live in the jungle.

Now that time is near when 
Our term in the forest will be over,
And what wealth would I find
More satisfying than this?
 
And my noble brother will take on
The mighty task of governing his subjects.
He will be busy, constrained,
And will brush even us aside.

When I think of the good he’ll do 
To our people, I shan’t feel denied,
For can’t we princely men 
Take such things in stride?! 

---

पंचवटी प्रसंग


चारु चंद्र की चंचल किरणें, 
खेल रही हैं जल थल में,
स्वच्छ चांदनी बिछी हुई है 
अवनि और अंबर तल में ।

पुलक प्रकट करती है धरती, 
हरित तृणों की नोकों से,
मानो झूम रहें हैं तरु भी 
मंद पवन के झोंकों से ।

पंचवटी की छाया में है, 
सुन्दर पर्ण-कुटीर बना,
जिसके सम्मुख स्वच्छ शिला पर, 
धीर वीर निर्भीकमना,

जाग रहा ये कौन धनुर्धर 
जब कि भुवन भर सोता है? 
भोगी कुसुमायुध योगी-सा 
बना दृष्टिगत होता है ।

किस व्रत में है व्रती वीर ये 
निद्रा को यों त्याग किये? 
राजभोग्य के योग्य विपिन में 
बैठा आज विराग लिए ।

बना हुआ है प्रहरी जिसका 
उस कुटीर में क्या धन है?
जिसकी रक्षा में रत इसका 
तन है, मन है, जीवन है!

मर्त्यलोक मालिन्य मेटने 
स्वामि संग जो आयी है,
तीन लोक की लक्ष्मी ने 
ये कुटी आज अपनायी है ।

वीर वंश की लाज यही है, 
फिर क्यों वीर न हो प्रहरी
विजन देश है निशा शेष है, 
निशाचरी माया ठहरी ।

कोई पास न रहने पर भी, 
जन मन मौन नहीं रहता;
आप आप की सुनता है 
वह आप आप से है कहता ।

बीच-बीच में इधर-उधर निज 
दृष्टि डालकर मोदमयी,
मन ही मन बातें करता है 
धीर धनुर्धर नयी नयी-

क्या ही स्वच्छ चांदनी है ये 
है क्या ही निस्तब्ध निशा,
है स्वच्छंद सुमंद गन्धवह
निरानंद है कौन दिशा?

बंद नहीं, अब भी चलते हैं, 
नियति नटी के कार्यकलाप,
पर कितने एकांत भाव से, 
कितने शांत और चुपचाप!

है बिखेर देती वसुंधरा, 
मोती, सबके सोने पर,
रवि बटोर लेता है उनको 
सदा सवेरा होने पर ।

और विरामदायिनी अपनी, 
संध्या को दे जाता है,
शून्य श्याम-तनु, जिससे उसका 
नया रूप झलकाता है ।

सरल तरल जिन तुहिन कणों से, 
हंसती हर्षित होती है,
अति आत्मीया प्रकृति हमारे 
साथ उन्ही से रोती है!

अनजानी भूलों पर भी वो, 
अदय दंड तो देती है,
पर बूढ़ों को भी बच्चों सा, 
सदय भाव से सेती है ।

तेरह वर्ष व्यतीत हो चुके, 
पर है मानो कल की बात, 
वन को आते देख हमें जब 
आर्त अचेत हुए थे तात ।

अब वह समय निकट ही है जब, 
अवधि पूर्ण होगी वन की ।
किन्तु प्राप्ति होगी इस जन को, 
इससे बढ़कर किस धन की!

और आर्य को, राज्यभार तो, 
वे प्रजार्थ ही धारेंगे,
व्यस्त रहेंगे, हम सबको भी, 
मानो विवश विसारेंगे ।

कर विचार लोकोपकार का, 
हमें न इससे होगा शोक;
पर अपना हित आप नहीं क्या,
कर सकता है ये नरलोक! 

Lady Sings the  Blues

Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin
​

My Dream Date with Billie Holiday
 
Lady Day sings the blues in
Open-All-Night-Club, as a Resurrection
Jazz Band takes the stage to play their
tall black flutes, reeds stained by eternal
flames, rusty valves soldered to their
frames, impossible to move,
toy pianos and kiddie drums
too undersized to play, tin horn bent
and bored by plumber’s snakes, router tips
still dangling from a well-chewed spout,
crude painting on the dented shaft.
the headless jazzmen are all dressed in
identical red suits, furious fists clenched
in the burnt sienna air amid a choking
wedge of flame.  Lady Day strokes the blues,
the reds, the yellows, the white hearts
out of our ever-loving night, high on death
and tea bag dreams, her voice a razor blade
and we, in this open-all-night-club, are the skin.




 
Strange Days
 
“I can hardly wait…….”
                Juliette Lewis
 
“I’m going to a place where the sun shines
brighter and the stars are always out.”
                Gary Evans, serial killer
 
There they are, Mardi Gras
made up, juiced on Purple Jesus,
the cocktail and the prophet,
rapture guided and call girl invited
down unlit spiral stairs into flat screened
night, celestial events inside, asteroid
belts and flame out comet eyes
in newly discovered, candle powered
hipster dive, holy roller, thrum jazz
blues crazy upbeat paradise pulse,
broken crack pipes and scorched essence of tea,
a shooting gallery for popgun deadbeat
poets and their unventilated nightmares
spreading like carcinoma calloused skin
spiderwebbing closet space no one can
move in, least of all the half white-faced,
half black-faces mummers miming
a play of words, “When the music’s over
turn out the lights, turn out the lights….”
 
 
 
 
 
 
Angles with Dirty Faces
 
They called themselves undercover experts.
Not agent or spies, just proficient at what
they did best.  Were always ready to go,
and for hire, at the right price. Dressed up in
“alternate reality gear” for kicks, depending
upon their mood, and what kind of town,
they were planning to go out in. 
 
Sometimes they were suicide blondes
with shag cuts, obvious hair dye jobs over
black roots, frizzed out and wild the way
“Blade Runner” replicant Pris liked hers.
Were long-legged and favored blood on
their teeth like murderers following an
intimate hit.
 
Other times, they were Amy Winehouse beehived,
all hair extensions streaked with wild colors
for a rainbow effect that was impossible to ignore.
Had voices, then, like the jazz singer, three days
gone, blue faced, and struggling for air.
 
Were black angels with detachable wings,
dressed for a come-as-you-are party in another
world. Had fine art removable tattoos all
over their bodies like Maori warriors
returning from a mountain outback hunt.
 
Swore they has no allegiances to anyone but
themselves, but could be bought for a satchel full
of unmarked bills. Would be loyal until the
money, or the contract ran out, whichever came first.
 
Saved images of their victims in gold leafed
albums as if they were collectible souls in
the devil’s back pocket.  Were always on the look
out for new conquests as if they needed to complete
some kind of pre-determined set, only they knew
the order of.
Bird's dreams
 
included:
a jazz ballet
(but no operas
like ragtime
king Scott
Joplin) to work
with Hindemith
(Hindemith!) at
Yale, a record
w/ Yehudi
Menuhin,
all dissolved,
ending in
the drunk
tank, psych
wards of
Bellevue
 

 
 
 
 
Bird's blues
 
near the end
Charlie Parker
was an under-
ground man;
when asked
where his
rack was,
like his crib,
Bird sd.,
"Nowhere man.
I ride locals
to the end or
'til they kick me
off, which ever
comes first,
then I ride
back to the other
end; place to
stay, no man,
haven't been
staying anywhere.
Same same w/ studio
work, nobody asking
but I'm ready
to play."
-Everyone
sd., "Hell, Bird
we thought
you must be
asking too much,
must be expensive."
"Expensive, shit man,
I would do just about
any kind of work
for train fare."
 
 

 
Bud Powell's
 
ineptly ad-
ministered
electro-shock
therapies
left him
on a kind of
work release,
a jazz pianist
in search
of a key;
he was stuck in
a kind of disharmony
not exactly music,
his short term
memory no longer
than a measure,
"What key
we in, Brother?"
he asked the Birdman
on stage.  Birdman
replied, "The key
of S" Old Bud
considered that
mysterious key
of S before playing
the key of whatever;
measure by
measure they
improvised
in that trans-
cendental
random
key of



​

Three Poems by J.B. Fite


​​Lord Crane


Elegant watcher wading in the weir
Patiently waiting for prey to appear.
The sun on your face, of shadow no trace
All the small things should be fleeing in fear.


Most every movement incredibly slow,
Your spear keenly sighted and aimed below.
A flash or a splash, a split-second dash
Then the shocked feast is impaled by your throw.


How is it death comes from such elegance,
Destruction from regal intelligence?
Grand beauty shown cloaking deadly skills honed
The white of doom shows nature’s preference.


This is how the wild forever would be;
Splendor heralds death on land and at sea.
Its vision stuns, the poor prey does not run
And death is the tribute paid to beauty.






The Old Place


Once there was a family here
Where now is all plantation pines
Theirs a cabin – I see the lines –
It was their home for many years.
This farm was poor but to them dear
A world whole in its small confines
Labored they as the soil declined
While doom unturnable drew near.
The court said, “Go.” They left the land
The last hog killed; the last mule fed
No more to plough the ancient sand
But them to haul away instead.
The wood is gone, rot at an end
The chimney stands; its fire long dead.








To Clio (muse of history)


Through the ages you watch our slow progress
As we wander over the land and sea.
You note our small lives, O, blessèd goddess
Seeing what is done both low and kingly.
You mark every brief and fleeting success
And note those times when our courage does flee;
You know our failings, what we should confess
But you do not know what else we could be.
We might, perhaps, rise above what has been
Throwing off our long bondage to the past
Seeking a future without and within
Where who we once were no longer holds fast
To whom we shall be in ages unseen
When your view of what was may be recast.

---

Songs of the Shadowman

Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin


Rimbaud's Season in Hell


Each season in hell begins
the same way with a bad
mixture of demon weed and
high test speed, loud music
in some underground cave-
like place that spinning lights
can't illuminate, can’t reveal,
the cracked spaces between
the carefully layered skin
covering his sunglass shaded
eyes. Only darkness penetrates
all the way inside where
the custom cocktails of,
Pernod and Wild Turkey,
mix the way oil does with
water, making the voice that
finally issues forth from
the depths of his being
sound like a summons
from another world.
They sound so convincing,
so real, no one doubts
the truth of what he says,
no matter how outrageous
it sounds. No one ever fails
to obey his orders no matter
how outrageous, or depraved
those orders might be.
Where this man is going,
is not of this earth and with
the grace of some kind of
god, he might go back to where
he came from, and stay there.






Trial by Snakes


All the peaks on
the plains of pyramids
have been leveled to
become altars for a parish
of acolytes, those seeking favor
from lords of underworlds
and other worlds, through
sacrificial rites and prayer.


The men are dressed
as wizards in long robes
emblazoned with the intaglio
of sacred arts of divinations,
conical hats embossed with
cosmological symbols from
a universe of foreign objects
hastily summoned by magus
staffs or pole axes of fighters-
for-freedom, later used as
tools for unearthing relics, or
as a pointer for the blind
and infirm walking after dark.


Lesser men than these are
known by the colored loincloths
they wear, decorative patterns on
their clothing determined by which
order of the samovar they belong to,
and by thin bands of tattoos on
their arms, inscribed with hieroglyphics
of the tribes they have been born into,
in this world and in the other.


Veiled women are brought
to anterooms for show trials that
determine what levels of service
they are fit for, or whether their
lives will be forfeit to propitiate
angry gods whose appetite for new
flesh is well known.




(----)
Once the test of snakes has been
ordered, the women are bound
and made to listen to the snake
charmer's flute, made to suffer
a blanketing of slithering adders;
a trial few emerge from the same
as when they began.


A select few are not poisoned,
or driven mad by their ordeals,
and are released into the Royal
Chambers for inspection, com-
prehensive reviews and the designation
of chores.


It has been written that one woman
shall triumph above all others and be
made queen.


In this manner a clear line of
succession will be assured and
order maintained free of all
outside corruption






The Grandmother


The old lady across the street watches
neighbors with late husband’s field glasses
propped on a swiveling stand. Glasses so heavy
she can’t hold them herself, but are as accurate
as an infantry field officer needed them to be
in the last great war. She is wizened, shrunken,
has eyes like that owl in Twin Peaks in the woods,
who is presumed to be observing everything.
Whose call in the night is meant to signify,
in a cliché cinematic way, something is about
to happen, or has happened, that will greatly
change major plot lines in the show or on
the street This owl is not quite like the symbol
of spiritual significance for native peoples
the written words, When the Owl Cries
Indians Dies does, suggestive of a journey
into other worlds, on scared grounds,
far removed from a small urban street divided
into blocks that are actually territories
for rival drug lords, meeting in the middle
to construct makeshift memorials for foot
soldiers killed in the line of duty.
She’s seen it all, this forward point observer,
may not be the wise old granny of fairy
tales and myths, may not even by owl like
in her imparting of knowledge, but she sure
can deliver a witness identification profile,
and save authorities time, manpower, and effort
as the go-to-person for street crimes and
general on-the-hot-spot information.
On the street they added her to the time-honored
statements of Inevitability which now reads:
death, taxes, and grandma.








Shadowman


Even asleep, he dreams of being awake,
unable to sleep, sees himself on stage,
an audience of thousands at a black and
white movie of someone else’s life watching
him as if he were both the subject and the object.
Senses his life is a series of perfect Kafka
moments: in both heaven and hell at the same
time with closed doors to choose from, each one
offering an escape to nowhere.
Then he seems himself in court, defending himself
before a Congress of Insomniacs, all of whom
are threatening to fall asleep. Feels as if his life
is being held together by strips of duct tape
and that his brain is trapped in some kind of
ongoing fugue state suffering a series of psychotic
reactions like mini-strokes, each one more
debilitating than the last. Hears the morning
room mirror crack as he shaves himself with
the honed edge of a clam shell, feeling Giacometti
thin and shrinking; just one more drunken angel
hitchhiking from Gospel to Gomorrah.


In a studio he records Martian music,
reads from scores dictated directly from God
whose presence is manifest in all the messages
scammed from street vendors and gravediggers.
Proudly claims to be directly descended from
a long line of Resurrection Men, “A dying
profession, even then”. Said, with a straight
face, and meaning it, as the black sheep stricken
from the family tree with an axe and a bludgeon.
Makes do, with others of his kind, as a leader of
a team of disaster tourists, who make their living
pick pocketing dead people at mass casualty scenes.
Takes morning strolls, in his dreams, in minefields,
using prisoners of war as sweepers. Says he wants
to film the interior of his mind but all anyone would
see is shadow men painted on outdoor graffiti walls,
chalk outlines where the bodies had lain.












The Blind Topologist's Algebraic Problem


is laid out on foolscap,
representative numbers, theorems
raised as lumps on parchment
for well-trained sensing fingers
to explore, confiding what is
unknown to his footman, that
keeper of the flame, a man of
many wild talents as his barely
concealed third eye on his forehead
reveals, as well as, special knowledge
of other worlds outside our under-
standing of the nature of known
dimensions, hypothetical places
unseen but known to be as real as
impossible ones; those volcanic
in nature places where failed species
leave a legacy of spawning a bestiary
of nightmares to be measured in
calculable generations, their life forces
spanning an ultra-blue horizon as
transparent as gossamer wings, extra
lids for the nictitating shades of
evolution, shades that move so fast,
their brief existence in relation to
space time continuum is an illusion
for the eons, one so nebulous and
deeply rooted, it may never be dispelled.

Poetry by Benjamin Baum


Universal

A hundred million years ago,
One billion miles away
Some tired old star went supernova,
And spewed stardust throughout space.

Particles of nitrogen,
Interspersed with oxygen.
A vast degree of carbon,
And no small share of hydrogen,
Wed
In an interstellar storm.
A primordial matrimony,
And thus, a planet was born.

And then the dust that remained
Of that long-forgotten star,
Became atoms
Then molecules
Then living cells--
That make up what we are.

So next time you stare at the stars,
Or look between the galaxies,
Allow a moment to appreciate
That you, my friend,
Are the universe incarnate.





Constellations

I used to be fearful of the night,
Of laying alone,
In sheets and shadows,
Counting my demons
Like stars in the night sky.

But now
I draw them into constellations.
Heroes and villains
Hidden,
Deep within the galaxies. 




The Cartographer of the Universe

Bring me the cartographer of the universe.
There are things I must know:

Like where is the end of everything?
What are the coordinates of infinity?
And are we truly alone?
Find me that man who lives in the moon--
I have a humble question, or two:

Like who made you master of the tides?
And how hard is it, to decide
The proper elevation of oceans?
Bring me the Belle of Amherst--
With her eternal rhymes:

See if her hope still has wings,
And whether she has an affinity
For living, or what’s beyond? 

A Duet with the Grim Reaper

Poems by LindaAnn LoSchiavo


The Grim Reaper Arrived Too Early


Amid buffed blackness of the guest room’s drapes,
His baritone commanded me to GO!
“What’s this about?” I want to say. But “No!”
Emerges first. “I’m staying!” There’s no cape,
No hood, no scythe. Night hides his shrunken shape,
Revealing just his James Earl Jones audio
Repeating GO!  Asleep, I’m puzzled, slow
To understand. I rise. There’s no escape.

Lost in the territory of morphine,
You turned off your oxygen, approached death’s ledge.
Observed by him, I help you breathe again.
His timing’s off — — though we’ll soon reconvene.
A grimace rises from the bedding’s edge
As if to say, “Not now. I’ll tell you when.”


 
    

My Mother’s Ghost Dancing
 
That year morphine became a minuet,
Sweet pianissimo. Its soft pedals stilled
Anguish, reproached relentless timekeeping --
Tick, tick — mortality’s metronome.


Before my mother died at home, she learned
That cancer’s like a Depression Era
Endurance contest: the dance marathon,
Odds stacked against her, swaying in slow mode.


Despite defiant hair, a plump physique
Deceiving guests, illness hokey-pokeyed
Her organs, shook breasts off, rhumbaed her cells,
Vitality an unremembered song,
Mere noise until sweet exhalations ceased.


Her corpse was wheeled away. The tempo changed.


Dynamic force reclaimed the rooms, infirm
No longer. Energy expressed intent
As if Mom were at a debutante’s ball,
Star of the floor show, sequined, applauded.


The mind’s embrasures, freed from pain’s embrace,
Seek entertainment, longing to erase
What’s real. Belonging to another realm--
Where everyone’s transparent --Mom’s got plans
She’s telepathed. But first she wants to dance.


A coldness sidles up to seize my hand.

Poetic Trilogy by Kenneth Vincent Walker



Transcendent


I’ve transcended time
And have befriended
Those no longer alive
And yet am dead to
Those surrounding me.


My literary friends come
To mind whenever I feel
The need for comforting.
Their words are eternally
Inscribed for the ages.


Time turns the pages
To another chapter of
A future where the past
Rings like a bell across
A chasm for this living,


Breathing anachronism.




The Sea of Radiance
And Non-Existence


Swaddled within this
Cocoon-like skin, this
Protective barrier of


Earthly organisms; a
Capsule discarded of
An avatar ascending


Gloriously unimpeded;
Attractively splendid is
This supernatural realm.


Yet one more alternate
Universe has unfurled
Of worlds unexplored


In close proximity to
The Sea of Radiance
And Non-Existence;


Between Heaven, Hell
On Earth or a glorified
Hereafter; as Paradise


Materializes once more.




Kinetic


In reflection
Of a journey
Throughout
My countless
Incarnations;


Expectations,
Achievements,
Humiliations,
Bereavements
Or exhilaration.


Upon inspection,
Inadvertently
Seeing my highs
And lows have
Connection to


All of the above.

Extraordinary Fairy

By Alex Andy Phuong



A fairy flying high
Up above and beyond
Leaving the past behind
And letting bygones
Become bygones,
And it is amazing
How time does fly,
But this fairy
Does have an alibi
As to why it abstains
With being atrocious,
Especially since the young
Are sometimes precocious,
And that is because
This good fairy
Does its best
To be supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,
Just like what Mary Poppins sang about,
And as this fairy
Continues its journey,
The long road ahead
Does allow
For this fairy to make a vow
To live with nobility
And authenticity,
And to continue on
Before the final bow,
And to keep flying,
Just like how Dory keeps swimming,
And knows that each new day
Really is a new beginning,
But rather than fixate on winning,
Appreciate the opportunity
To soar.

Jo Anne Robinson, the Mother of the Civil Rights Movement, and Others No One Knows--But Should

By Michael H. Brownstein



Once when I was teaching school,
the request was made of me to create
a lesson plan for Women's History Month,
and I got right on it beginning
with famous women of color, but--
too many took their fifteen minutes
and made them into Jesse Jackson time.
Rosa Parks was not the first to get arrested
for not giving up her seat, just the luckiest:
Jo Ann Robinson, literate and intelligent,
made her into the icon she became,
used her position as a university professor
and drafted and published numerous letters
until Rosa Parks let her use her case
to get the point across--and it worked:
Robinson ran the the Montgomery Bus Boycott,
introduced the world to Dr. Martin Luther King,
and in the end helped to end one corner
in the vast realm of racism.
Harriet Tubman, smart and original,
famous for the underground railroad,
a woman with headaches who could not read,
but really was one of our greatest spies
who could memorize Confederate orders
and pass them on word for word to Sherman.
Then there are the teacher heroes--
Augustine Witt and Barbara Appleberry,
two brilliant instructors who changed
the intellectual fabric of Chicago's southside.
So it goes--individuals not afraid to stand
and change the wrongs in our society.

Three Women: Dorothy, Peggy and Lucy

By James B. Nicola


Diversionary Tactics


Just when one of my circle at the Algonquin
said Is she still alive, I looked beyond him
and saw a dark old lady rise across the room.
Her eyes were black as wit and sharp as murder,
and he didn’t see her coming. Suddenly she stood
in front of me. I looked away from him
and up at her, then all our eyes turned up
and around at her and the young thing next to me
said Who’s she? Damage control. I shot up
suspecting who it was and gently parked
my lips on her right cheek. It was too cold
to balance with her left, plus she disengaged
then anyway. Because I recognized her,
though we had never met, I introduced her
as an old friend of mine. Miss—Mrs., rather,
interrupted me when I was introducing the group
and said she’d never remember all our names,

so would it be all right if she just called us
George, Edna, James, Robert, and so on,
as she recalled the bodies in the chairs.
She asked if we had favorite chairs and always
sat in the same ones, and I said no,
and she said Good because you’re sitting in
my chair, if you don’t mind. And we all laughed
as I got up and she sat down and spent
the night regaling us with stories of
the Oak Room when she and her friends held reign
and when she left I answered my friend’s question
by saying, So. Does that answer your question?


for Dorothy Parker, 1893-1967




Above poem was originally published in Manhattan Plaza (2014)




Miss Lee


She had the cognac voice, the brandy breast,
the corrugated heart, as iron as
the mullion giving panes the strength to hold.
A bout of Fever gave her discernible flaws,
a nick in the ribbing, a bubble in the glass.


But how she fought. How many comebacks can
you count to? The one Goodman in her life
died young, but she sang on, ran off, sang on,
and disappeared, then crooned and wrote again.
Now the iron, the glass, the ribs, the bubbles, are gone.


I have but one of her, in vinyl, scratched,
and set it spinning on the turntable,
sitting by my window with a shot
of something, wondering Is that all there is?--
then pour another, wishing it were not.


(Peggy Lee, 1920 – 2002)


Above poem is from Stage to Page: Poems from the Theater (2016)
but originally published in Loch Raven Review and Measure





Lucy van Pelt


Dreaming that Schroeder loved her as his queen
she let her dreams grow into an obsession.
Then he ran off with someone seventeen
and she fell into a bout of depression
so bad her brother had to bring her to
Emergency. From there, Intensive Care.
Then they transferred her to the State Home where
she told me, when she finally realized who
I was, that she’d never even been kissed
by anyone but Snoopy. Now she lives
in the city, alone. Her therapist
tells her that only someone who forgives
herself can be healed. So she keeps a list
of faults she shows me when I am in town
and drop by. Though I wish she’d put it down,

she’s almost proud of her new ones. They’re all
part of the process, she says, they bring hope.


I usually bring more snapshots for her wall
of Linus, her brother, my sister Sal-
ly, and their children, who are our nephews
and nieces, but seem only to confuse
her, sometimes, they’re so numerous now. Char-
lie Brown, she cries, through wild tears, Charlie Brown,
you never should have let me jerk that ball.
You must hate me today! I tell her Nope.


She shakes. I ease her to a seat, assure
her, Childhood trials, they say, build character.
Don’t think about it. I don’t—nor of her,
often. But I do sit with her an hour.




Above poem is from Wind in the Cave (Finishing Line, KY, 2017)
but originally published in Caveat Lector and 2 Bridges Review


just out:
Turns & Twists
Quickening: Poems from Before and Beyond
https://www.cyberwit.net/authors/james-b-nicola
hear three of the poems at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xnw7Oba-6XI
Fires of Heaven: Poems of Faith and Sense
http://www.shantiarts.co/uploads/files/mno/NICOLA_FIRES.html 
Out of Nothing: Poems of Art and Artists
https://www.shantiarts.co/uploads/files/mno/NICOLA_OUT.html
Wind in the Cave
www.finishinglinepress.com/product/the-wind-in-the-cave-by-james-b-nicola

Give Her Soul Her Due

By  Gabriella Garofalo



To M. W.


Forget it, c’mon, she isn’t looking
For baptisms, dreams, only the sound of grass,
While teens are flying on bikes, skates,
And her soul is daunting the fire,
That white space great for the ranting of silence-
So, spin it nice, and keep them sweet,
That awful lot, clouds stalking her soul,
Then ask for light, the best artisan to get the job done,
And fix a shattered soul-
‘Cause neither trees nor men she owns,
Only blue, deserted words, a desert waiting
For a trawled night where a runaway teen is hiding
In the hall, yes, really her soul time would hold so close,
Her lover back from blue and his brave quests-
All right, enough for now, just stop that blue rogue
If you need the light to leaven days of birth and winter,
Careful now, comets are so choosy, they make such a fuss
When light calls for you, swearing she’ll even rekindle
Your nicked names, your greenery, and venues,
Just a sec before words rub you, Father,
You, your blue, and your sky-
So, God, you’d better hide, but let her soul decrypt the sky,
Throw her a handful of light getting lost
Before prophets went missing out of the blue
For playing foul with starving souls-
See, the branches are shaking their heads in the night,
As they already know a promise will be broken,
No words, no smiles, no smarmy warmth all around,
No prophets when in jumps life, all huggy,
So keen to be your bestie-
Thanks but no thanks, sorry, and don’t you dare blame her-
If dull days and first seasons stock already sold out
She’s one of them, so just leave her alone,
And give her soul her due.


*******




To S.


And that was her Lethe, the infinite sand
Waves always tried to ambush along with February,
His harsh season, her hunger, and voices
From the undergrowth,when mothers, and the moon
Kept playing trusted advisors,
‘Get that green off your head, and give birth
To meetings, dancing parties, maybe write’-
Don’t listen, no way, as long as your soul
Looks like a green-eyed meadow pleading
For water to slake the unquenchable thirst
Of stones, beds, boulders,
And your wrath is brewing like wine,
Ready with blades, bullets or words-
But oh but what’s there to bite for a bit of diversion,
Only the usual harsh edges, drawbacks
Among breaths, grass, and the green hanging out
Next to her while she’s looking round
For fresh days madder than words-
As she lost all of them, home,
Walls, furniture, dust everywhere,
She lost ‘em to write, and give soul
To those weird colours, maybe red, maybe white,
And sure, they remind you of game cards,
Or prayers hurled at you, God, just to rive
A nicely assembled sky-
Or maybe, who knows, those two souls live side by side,
The midribs of a world where blues and twos
Lash the place where your mind stands still,
No one to shield the walls-
But c’mon, my soul, buck up, bug out from those colours,
‘Cause among hidden trees, denuded branches,
And a naked house you might even glimpse
A bed, a window, a first time miracle, even your life-
Well, almost.


*******


To M., W.


It gets her goat when those restless clouds,
All mixed up with house moves and exiles,
Go so tender and advise her to play the wise little ant,
To skimp on life, and never waste herself, Heaven forbid-
Meantime, a tramp is crying her eyes off
While desperately clicking on her mobile-
Look, it won’t happen, her light shall never burst forth
To starving trees if white with hunger or desire
Her days disperse the grass, or the prophet's fire,
And she whiles away her time in some swank cafe
Wondering if it’s a wise move for the soul
To hide away all wrapped in blue, to skirt
Those mothers dicier than Lethe,
Ever so ready to charge against white hair,
Weird limbs, those words only wind listens to
When she walks through her pages
In a winter smashing up words, questions, maybe grass,
And her truce with life looks shakier than dawns,
Now that the moon can’t get the screeching sounds
Of loves braking abruptly, and demise lither than heather

Shows her cool and a crippled smile
When stumbling on weird limbs just a sec before
The blades of grass show up, but who cares,
If the wind is her close friend, and he’s moving,
Yes, not those arches, those shrines that can’t stalk
Her heaven if hunger or light cut the skewed trees,
But who cares if the wrath of time is setting
The green ablaze, or shaking the clouds-
As ever, she smiles, gives thanks, plays along,
Only she’s dying to break into the dark, snuff words out,
And yes, give her some slack, as truths or tricks will out
If you silence a moon who sheds light only on weird limbs-
And who cares, of course, if she ends up running out
Of life, limbs, and light.


*******




To S.


What’s happening, deserts and their thirst
Get no words as poets stay secluded
In ghettoes clouds and waves set ablaze-
And no need for self-control if burnt limbs
Shake the time when their green sows
Words among lovers, as words
Can’t feel safe in her mind’s undergrowth,
No antibodies, no ramparts, no walls,
So don’t trust those shapes turning up uninvited,
Yearning for hanging out
With first seasons, light or wind-
See, demise is blowing out stars dreams fires,
Her nimble fingers dance among the stocks
Of bargain outcomes, ready to grab
Souls, rooms, meadows, her ready-made food
When she gets hungry, and no,
Flowers can’t help, those captives lying still
In the white ambivalence of a crystal holder,
Nor can help woods ablaze with fear
For trees at stake, so she just shivers
When the light’s hands wave if shadows
Cut and cry, ‘cause her soul can’t get
God who keeps blind fires among her words-
Sometimes they hide, sometimes they beg her
For a trench warfare, but it’s winter only,
The endless search for sins, not her fault
If they’re going to slip the slant stares
From skies, or rainbows, and that be her choice,
The eternal blue of dust, a bread the cold wolfs down,
The answers streets give her when doubts or questions
Tear the sky asunder:
Those bundles of rags in the corners, tramps curling up
Among stale food, wine pouches, and a nonchalant blue

From passersby who got spared, got dosh, even time-
Those guns ‘n’bullets parading as life.


*******

---

Elegy for Miss Emily

(For Emily Dickinson)

by Kenneth Vincent Walker



Quote: “I must go in
The fog is rising;”
Famous last words
Of a reclusive poet


Hiding within writing.
Never seeing a need
To venture out alone.
Her sanctuary was


Her home where she
Sat in her room and
Wrote what she felt
Deeply within her soul.


To write with such
Fervor, her destiny,
Her unequivocal fate;
Miss Emily dear, lo


Your carriage awaits.

Queen Anne, Queen Jane and St. Lucy 

By James Scannell McCormick



“God Send Me Wel to Kepe”:
Anne of Cleves Returns Her Wedding Ring


Richmond Palace, 16 July 1540


After she had dined that evening, she returned her wedding ring to Henry calmly desiring “that it might be broken in pieces, as a thing which she knew of no force or value.”
– Saaler


She has just stood up from table, a manservant (Robin: she is
Careful to learn names), having decorously pulled back her rose-


Worked chair. “Your Grace,” he says, from habit. He’s mistaken,
She knows: She is now to be simply “the Lady Anne,”


The King’s sister, “not carnally known of the King’s body.” Candle-
Light yellows the plate: quail, bread, sweet apples. A single


Glass of Rhenish, untouched. Outside, sky darkens to swallow-
Blue, fills with swallows themselves sharp and swift as Cupid’s arrows.


Beneath the new five-pointed headdress, her face now has something of that pale
Grace of the Holbein portrait, in her eyes something of will.


She faces a window: no one sees her work off the ring, lightly
Set it on her palm as though testing its heft. Its hold. Turned, she


Remembers at once another turning: Rochester. Last
New Year’s Day. She had stood at another window, frost


Fingering the panes, to watch a bull-baiting. No snow. No wind.
But eye-searing brightness, and how the bull had wound


And wound the stake, the hemp rope creaking. And how the men –
With switches and sharpened sticks, how the bulldogs, had leaped, jabbed, run


At, run from the dark bull, from whose mouth – torn, red-frothing – she had
Not been able to look away. She had stood, as though herself tied,


Between stab of afternoon air charging in and shove of fire-heated inside air
Plunging out. But to what end, this suffering? she had thought. For
Whom? The English had howled and clapped, the clip and fall,
The strange song of their language around her. Then, a hush; then, a tall,


Heavy man, in mask and motley, among five others. Eyes, whispers. No
Word: his weighing look, his outstretched hands, as though


Balancing, with a gift: sables, their sleek black worked with garnets.
I thank you, she had begun – then, from below, in the stone court,


Sharper shouts, a quick, ringing howl: the bull had gotten one
Of the pack on his horns, and she turned to see the dog – writhing in


Air, red-sided – arch and fall. From the window, to the man, and through
The eyeholes in his mask – what? He turned, curtly, and left. A silence so


Winter-dead that she could hear a knot as it popped in the fire. She
Had thought, What have I done? her hands cold with panic. Only


Afterwards, upon his re-entry, in purple, had she known her mistaking:
He the King, and to be her husband; she in the balance. And found lacking.


Thus the smirk of the priapic cupid carved into the oak headboard
Of the bed in which he reluctantly fumbled her. And no more: Good-


Night, sweetheart, nights; mornings, Farewell, darling. To her ladies’ boldfaced
Prying, goading – as though she were a goose-girl taken barefoot from the iced


Rhine’s mud-flats: I am content. And so she’s been sent away “for her
Health.” And so the polite sneers of the deputation, proffering annulment. For


Whom, to what end, this suffering? She turns now from the sable-black
window: the paired swallows are gone. But now the crickets tick


And sing. She will play cent tonight. And she has changed her mind
About the wine. Taking it, she calls Robin, places the ring into his hand.



“Even as Perfectlie as God Made the World”:
Queen Jane Refuses Her Husband the Crown


The Tower of London, 19 July 1553


I will tell you...a troth whiche perchance ye will marvell at. [....] For when I am in presence either of father or mother, whether I speke, kepe silence, sit, stand, or go, eate, drinke, be merie, or sad, be sowying, plaiying, dauncing, or doing anything els: I must do it, as it were, in soch weight, measure, and number, even as perfectlie as God made the world; or els I am so sharplie taunted, so cruellie threatened, yea presentlie some tymes with pinches, nippes and bobbes, and other waies I will not name for the honour I beare them, so without measure misordered, that I thinke myself in hell.
– to Robert Ascham


“Come down off there, child,” says her father. Alone, she had
Been sitting – as she had been told – in the Chair of State, its rose-red


Damask canopy breathing slightly to a breeze of heightening
Summer. “That is no place for you.” Alone, she had been listening


Through a window narrowed for archers: still cries and calls
Of unruly merry-making – still sack and dancing in all


The clotted streets in London. The night before, from this window,
She had watched bonfires on every corner of Petty Wales, and how


The bells – St. Katherine, St. Dunstan, St. Margaret, All Hallows,
And, across the river, St. Mary Overie – had rung and rung to the walls


Of the Tower to proclaim Queen her cousin, whom her cousin
The newly-dead King had named “not lawfully begotten.”


How shocked silent the crowd when she had come to be crowned
Not much more than a week ago. Tottering on her chopines, she had


Gripped her husband’s arm. He talked, made much of her. Over her train
her own mother fussed. But how silent the crowd for Jane the Queen.


At the narrow window she had been thinking, This is no place for
Me, the Thames shallow and turning slowly at the wharf of the Tower,




Watermen cross-cutting the ebb-tide past Syon House, where,
She is convinced, her husband’s parents have fed her poison: her hair


Is falling out. At Syon Guildford sits alone – sulks – in the garden
Beneath a linden and squinting up through branches at the sun,


Sunlight making a corona of his hair. Making a crown: his
Desire and delight. She thinks back nine days. “Your Grace


May take it boldly,” had said old Winchester, Lord Treasurer,
As he brought her the Crown. “And soon I shall have another


Made to crown your husband.” “Your husband,” had said her
Parents in the spring, “is to be Northumberland’s son.” Honor


Thy father and thy mother, she had thought. But refused. They
Beat her. And so she married, he tall and in white, she with milky


Pearls twisted into her hair. “You shall make me King!” Tears
Of rage in Guildford’s eyes. So am I springed, she thought. Fear


And fury in equal parts. She could feel the edge of her stomacher
Biting her ribs. A duke, perhaps, she had countered from the Chair.


But never King. In the Tower, rumor spreads like roots of a grafted
Rose. In had burst her mother-in-law to bully her: “My son” – she lifted


Her set jaw – “shall not share his bed with a wife so unnatural!”
Their leaving drew out all the air from the room. She had sent Arundel


And Pembroke to bring him back. I was compelled, she will write in a letter
To the Queen, to act as a woman who is obliged to live on good terms with her


Husband. Her father has begun to wrench down the canopy. “Those
As well,” he says, without turning to her. He means the robes, she knows.


She works – she had had no help in tying it – the gold-cord knot.
From her shoulders the Tudor rose-red velvet pulls of its own weight.


“Here,” he says, tugs the fabric from her, piles it on the Chair – the same
With the ruined damask. He is leaving. She asks, “May I not go home?”



St. Lucy:
(Before the Tomb of St. Agatha)


What do you see? Her mother would turn, find her –
Three or maybe four, her father alive –
Alert and staring bright-faced at…what? Where are
You looking? her mother would ask, spooked by furtive


Worry. Then she would start, and blink a bit,
And flush quickly. But never answer. Now,
As they kneel alone in catacomb blackness lit
By a linen wick in oil, her mother knows


That same alert staring: What does she see,
Here at the crude tomb of a cultist dead
Fifty years? But she’s alight with certainty:
This single trip will heal the ulcers that bleed


Her mother weak. She smiles, her lids lowered.
Her mother gasps, presses her midriff. She’s cured.

Drinking Bitter Lemon with Medea

Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin


Reconsidering Medea


She only drinks Schweppes Bitter Lemon with Boodles Gin,
always lounging on the modern art of furniture,
carefully composed in designer clothes, she is
conversant in three dead families of languages,
gossip stronger than civilization, what is
never lost survives in her colored contact eyes,
a different color for a different day, a different
mood, she waits patiently plotting her revenge
against perceived slights, the real and the unreal,
surgically removing all the diseased parts of her
life, the living, and the dead, waiting for the doorbell
to ring, envisioning a strange youth delivering her
offering to an offending party, a package rudely
wrapped in brown paper bags, encased in layer upon
layer of twine, metal bands, plastic casings,
the unveiling, tedious, arduous, making the process
of removal more important than what waits inside. Unencumbered by wraps, the gift box is of the finest,
most expensive kind, the paper swathing the folded
garment inside, hand-woven as the embroidered cloak made
from the finest silk it cradles, "Magnificent!"
the recipient says, "What have I done to deserve this?"
he wonders, pulling the cloak around his shoulders, adjusting
the fit to his frame, "A lifetime of Infidelity.
Cruelty beyond human imagining to a loved one."
She says, thinking of the customized garment label
sewn into the fabric in letters too small to read:
The wearer of this garment will be destroyed
in ten seconds unless this garment is promptly removed.






New Year’s Eve in the House of Atreus


The costumed people blow their little
cardboard whistles, wave their metal noise
toys over their heads, drink pink champagne
out of plastic glasses singing Auld Ange Syne
loud all night around the heated pool,
The host watches all the odd couples
dancing, their plastic leis bouncing around
their flushed necks, their conical hats
sliding down their foreheads, costumes
increasingly more wrinkled, stained
and disheveled as the revels proceed
as the head waiter passes out boxes of glitter,
trays of body paint, stick-on tattoos
of mythic creatures, bold warriors from another
imagined age. Poolside, all the steam trays
are laden with homemade foods, exotic dishes
spiced with flavorings no one recognizes or
can resist, loading their overflowing plates
higher and higher as they drink, as their
appetites exponentially increase.
Near midnight, Trojan Women begin singing
the Dies Irae of the Berlioz Requiem,
the gathered revelers fall quiet, anticipating
the end, Clytemnestra guiding the old man
in his white robes, showing him where to
swing the sacrificial scythe.




Caresse Crosby's Black Sun


"Our eyes were opened to a blaze of Sun,
Clean sun-built dawn the day we owned New York,
I did not guess
I did not guess
That madder beauty waited, unaware,
To take your hand upon the evening stair."



(Mary) "Caresse" Crosby, Invited to Die


Caresse Crosby like a surreal
Lady Macbeth or, was it Desdemona?
according to Orson Welles, photographed
silhouetted against a castle window,
an outpouring of light, her arms extended
like some prehistoric bird paused
for flight, the billowing, silken folds
of her diaphanous gown a black cancer
on a field of white or is it something more
benign? designed by a disciple of Max Ernst;
on the edge of a precipice, she seems
unaware of all the tragedies just beyond
the brink, that await her.






My Dream Date with Anne Sexton


In the poetry workshop
the white-haired man read
“Lycidas,” the original, and his
corrections, the improved, new
version. The one he swore was
infinitely superior to Milton’s,
his normally deep voice turning
shrill as he spoke, “Your home-
work assignment if to rewrite
the fairy tale of your choice.
Class meets again next Monday,
as usual.” Though everyone knew
it never would. After class Anne
and I went to the movies, shared
a cocktail shaker of extra dry
Schenley’s martinis, watched
with horrified fascination, the opening
sequence of latest Bond thriller,
thinking, later, the best thing about it
was McCartney singing,” Live and
let die! Live and let die!” over and
over, like a mantra, or some kind
of twisted dirge. Afterwards Anne
said, “I think I’ll do the Brothers Grimm.”
“Which one?” I asked.
“Both of them, preferably at the same time.”
“But they’re dead.”
“It was a joke. Their fairy tales. Do them
as if they were an Alfred Hitchcock movie.”
“Which movie?”
“Lifeboat.”
I thought about being cast adrift.
About how it would feel to be absolutely
alone, abandoned by God. About all that
awful rowing.








My Dream Date with Edie Sedgwick


“no one takes pictures at funerals”
Elizabeth Hand


Her face reflected in vanity mirror,
part pixie, part Ophelia after suicidal
plunge, unstuck in time on Warhol
Factory screen test set, one of many
trolls of the night, stars for a day,
myself included, awaiting a turn before
the camera, a chance to show off all
her prettysadfaces, the whole gamut
of expressions from perplexed to strung
out with no hope for a fix, her ruined
mascara a black line on her too white
powdered face, one of a harlot’s ghosts
still alive but wondering, “how much do
we have to pay to get out of doing all
these things twice.”






My Dream Date with Marilyn


“The stories from my sleep bleed into morning…..”
Daniel Woodrell


as in four-reel movie, each one
an outtake from a dream evolving,
a cutting room clipping pieced to
something else: a body part, a bone,
a face fused to a manikin’s body,
outlines for a costume drama sketched
onto a bald head, an upper torso
a Black Dahlia killer might admire,
might require to complete his mission
to construct a perfect woman out of
spare parts and story boards.
Even swimming naked in the in-ground
swimming pool, cannot dispel the sense,
she is nothing more than an otherworldly
image, camera lights reflecting what her
misfit eyes conceal. Everyone mistakes
her anxiety for misplaced vanity, fear of
becoming what she already is inside,
a Norma Desmond demimonde, one whiskey
glass away from being a pickle jar specimen,
something clearly labeled a curiosity,
fit only for display.






My Dream Date with Zelda Fitzgerald


“In the morning,
in the evening,
ain’t we got fun…..”


Martinis for breakfast at noon,
room service all day long,
a coma induced like a nap
before a night out on the town,
champagne cocktails and canapés,
dressing for after-dinner drinks
and dancing, before the royalty
checks diminish, dwindle to nada.
Writing trash is easy but Art is
elusive when you are burning all
of Millay’s candles, perpetually hungover,
sick of it all, until the next invitation
out, the next dance emporia opened,
these floors illuminated by spinning
overhead lights, piped in music so loud
our skin vibrates, eyes rock and roll,
more drinks, designer drugs sold at
flat rates only the beautiful people
can afford, in clubs that have no windows,
no clocks, only that days that last all
night, that enable the marathon dancing
to go on and on to the music of time,
“burn baby burn disco inferno,
burn baby burn we’re gonna burn
that mother down.”

Above: Hans Axel Count Von Fersen the younger, Swedish Ambassador to France, and Queen Marie Antoinette



A Wistful Love Song

By Sochukwu Ivye 

Your heart holds strength to drip and contain peace
This mould drains nerves but you not spend a piece
Nights rouse my heart to hand him thoughts on you
Days ooze gloom but light my psyche with your hue

Chance I thought had cleared my eyes about things
while now in my dazed head your grand touch rings
The least known health for fondness I should nurse
but shunning your worth would do my stance curse

The days gone made me of hushed touching songs
Now your snapshots in my head right tense wrongs
My spurned love and hushed music thus throws off
You rouse my strengths and raise me from a trough

You seized space and raised your realm in my heart
Your presence has owned my breath since the start
Your footfalls bring no strange guests past my ears
I could place them with eyes stitched shut for years

Fate has marked our homes beneath the same roof
Who doubts that luck trails me may bare their proof
My best loved soul's time and mine lodge fenced in
My love is spurned and my dream wears hence thin

We hear that soulmates squash gloom in our souls
You breed my peace though we play opposed roles
You breathe God's likeness but grant the least heed
That paints your unharmed breed and mystic creed

God's crown saves the boundless prize for the pure
but dressed in vast charm, my whole world you lure
Life groomed you to soothe my heart shorn of faith
My doubts shrink; so I might breathe a blithe wraith

You are my straightest course to God's brave realm
Your poised voice and tranquil mien clasp the helm
My psyche is grown to hug whom bears your name
Paths that steer your taste and mine turn the same

My soul lays wounds when my eyes meet your legs
Those legs bear your grace for which my soul begs
They spun else thoughts but wake my rare worship
Stretched pillars of your health and poise they strip

Your footfalls croon through blocks to find my soul
The message from your fair limbs grows me whole
Those garden-fresh limbs herald what dwells close
They would foil earth here and the stones it throws

The tunnels through which your beauty flows down
The favoured path those legs tread sheds its frown
This passage cures my world and clears my breath
My veins and bones are cleansed to slow my death

This form of warmth and none else wraps my mind
More heights past this strength my fad will not find
Countless moons might thus meet me a lone youth
Chance has not merged us but you please my truth

Your gleam lights my heart to watch against gloom
Strength fills my sack to witness my dreams bloom
Should countless months want to build us, I please
They may sleep for the grave does no soul squeeze

Though a few more years we could both have earth
I could throughout most years comb for your worth
Like Noah braved months to launch the famed boat
which a few weeks' flood, as God knew, would float

Eyes glimpse your merits but your home sees more
A cutlass tends whom comes through the rear door
This wide-eyed and nosing house my dream braves
I should grow bright and fetch what my soul craves

This piece gleams most among my themes on love
Verse that glides through my soul to greet the dove
These words judge my thoughts on you my content
Bliss that strayed in what one-time passions meant

This road looks the farthest my dream has crossed
My head is not robbed of breadth though looks lost
Except God, you came the best worlds would flaunt
None else in their prime could do your height daunt

When my eyes greet yours, my soul springs to bliss
When your eyes gift mine your smile, our souls kiss
Would that my soul's fullness an eye could glimpse
To guide my views to close breasts, my voice limps

The breath of God, through my heart, fans my brow
I could climb heights and walk through gorges now
To unfurl your heart which grounds unknown furled
I would spend, besides breath and health, the world

Our eyes paint our still minds when we trade words
This here is as though we penned some tame birds
To conceal our hearts' warmth, we freeze our tones
The cold hands of our masked truth prod my bones

How these signs roused to hand no clear message!
Could this blank news not mean a hushed presage?
These years should, not better but not worse, rouse
When my soul lolls worst, my flesh might not house

Eyes can meet the shushed fears you push to mask
and your held warm smiles in which fond eyes bask
You stretch your good self to some strange defeats
Free your strained heart; grant her the worthy treats

My strength slumps when I wake my spelt romance
when my legs were trapped in your maze-like dance
What struck my heart thus loose to pluck the crown
but grew yours in strength to let kind dreams down?

Desire filled my heart and weighed down your verve
That might have lured this ceaseless cold you serve
Discernment spurned my psyche and thus still does
but my stretched heart for you makes my faith buzz

The word-craft brain, Chisom, your tropes are spells
Your words fare well with what in else minds dwells
To leave my face clean and flame strong, you watch
but your fears that heed fore years none can scotch

My views and deeds might have betrayed my hopes
Now, my heart looks false, and as though he gropes
As my heart hopes that things come to whom waits
my staunch faith and work will grace my heart traits

Your heart dwells the most charming my eyes know
Chance walked my eyes there times next to your no
My eyes felled your doors but soon were dismissed
Thus, by your wholesome grace my breast is kissed

Well, my lone thoughts bear your home with a smile
My heart kneels down and courts your mind in style
When my notes spurn you, I brave countless threats
True; whilst the heat feels too close, the aim sweats

That I should charm the crown tempts my cold care
She could yield loose or serve my rout smelled bare
The madman who talks and laughs my breast spies
since my challenged soul now breathes in his guise

Dumeje's marked eyes and mind prompt more drive
Who plucked the four-leaf clover should soon thrive
His luck would guide our stuck hearts to the church
where priests lie that the grave keeps our last perch.

Two Acrostic Sonnets

By Mike Mesterton - Gibbons


King Charles III

 King Charles the Third was overheard to say
"I cannot bear this bloody thing!" His pen
 Nib had discharged a curt communiqué:
 God damn it, Charles, your date is wrong again!
 Charles couldn't read this bulletin. Although
 He understands his potted plants, when inks
 Admonish him, he doesn't seem to know
 Resentment builds if he blabs what he thinks.
 Lamenting with "Oh, God. I hate this!" would
 Exacerbate his plight: an inky blob 
 Sprayed over him. Poor Charles did not look good.
 In vain, he tried to do a wiping job ...
 Ink had its partner's honour to protect.
 It warned His Nibs: his nibs deserve respect!

 St. Bernard's Road

 St. Bernard's Road in Solihull is where
 Two neighbours disagreed about a tree
 Belonging to ... well, that's what kept this pair
 Embroiled in leans upon their property.
 Retired Doc Martin moaned: "It hid my land."
 Next door his neighbour fumed: "It leaned my way,
 And it was worth well over fifty grand.
 Removing it was criminal——you'll pay!"
 Doc duly went to plead his case in court,
 Supported by an arborist who said
 Removal did no harm: the tree, though short
 Of branches, which were worthless, was not dead ...
 A moral isn't very hard to see:
 Downed foliage can leave you up a tree!

Poetry by James B. Nicola


​
The Alchemy of a Prompt:
Three Empty Chairs


Constellation of an assembled three
once random seats still vacant. They would be
more, wouldn't they, with an identity?
Not Virgo, since they are not celibate;
nor Gemini, since they're more than a pair.
A Balance: two plates and a fulcrum? Or
maybe some seated souls could fill them: true
or fictional, still living or long gone,
perhaps not even human. Animal,
vegetable, or merely mineral,
putting on a Good Face? What's their story?
Or do they have a story? Do you?


I don’t. Just the thought of you and three dumb chairs
you bade me find and arrange, which I’ve done.


Possibly you. Plus three chairs of the Possible.


*


Wynken, Blynken, and Nod? Then who am I?
Mother? the moon? the sea? their wooden shoe?


Larry, Curly, and Moe? Then I’m a kid,
agog that madcap hijinx might ensue,
watching for incorrigible Falls.


Huey, Dewey and Louie? That makes me Uncle
Donald or Scrooge. Or Mister or Della Duck.



Mama, Papa, Baby? Call me Goldilocks.
Shadrack, Meshach and Abednego?
I am a king of Babylon, long gone.
Athos, Aramis, Porthos—I’m D’Artagnan.
Caspar, Balthazar, Melchior—I’m some lamb.
Gabriel, Michael, Raphael—I’ll be Uriel.
If they be the three Fates, who cuts the cord?
Three notes, ah, make a more harmonious chord.
If they be three Graces, can I be kind?
If they be sisters Brontë, I’ll be Branwell.


But if they be the sky, the sea, the earth,
then I should learn to capitalize their names,
yes, realize their alter-egos are
three elements as well, which make me Fire,



or Energy, that is—what cannot be
trod upon as generations have trod,
or swum in, or looked up to and breathed in,
but makes all atoms forever hold together
or fly apart, as situations rise.


*


Or are these simply three cherubic chairs
in humble want of more, as in a play
by Ionesco that will fill a hall
with laughter, maybe puzzlement, tonight?
or deaden with life the echoes of a brief
salon yet unattended, while we wait?


But in the wait, what Creativity,
emerging on a shell of fluid thought

nude as the goddess of a soft suggestion,
of colder circumstance—plus alter-egos
Caprice, Imagination: brooding girls
who goad and prompt yon plaintive troubadours
to wish upon an unrequiting star
with trios of stars sounding like three notes,
compose a wild eternity of here
and there, infinity of then and now,
wellspring of wine and song and gratitude,
the reason, source, and interlocutor
of all the bears, ducks, Magi, Musketeers,
Stooges, and seraphim who, on a Shoe
of Would, embark to sail on streams of light
even on land, inspiriting this night
sky, sparkling in silver and gold and me and you.




Betsy DeVos


Since Queen Marie believed there really were
bakers enough and flour enough to bake
something for everyone (some Chancellor
most likely told her of a lack of yeast),
one couldn't really blame her in the least
for what (it's said) she said: Let them eat cake.
And yet the people sent their well-coiffed queen
to answer for it at the guillotine.


Now, if the swelling horde should blame us for
our ignorance, who keeps us in the dark,
as Lord High Education Minister?
No single blade could possibly do in
a multi-million-headed sovereign.
But should she, should we, fear the single spark?




The Power of Narrative


When James Bond or the Saint
effects a rescue or an escape
he's shot 400 hundred times but missed
an inordinate percentage of times
while his shots hit their mark invariably
even while running two-fisted which even
Annie Oakley, the greatest sharpshooter ever,
never
achieved.


The power of narrative reaches
with the interfering arm
of an Attic God over Troy, in
the cosmos ordained by human Hollywood,
much kinder to Her favorite begotten Sons

and Daughters than that other God
who might just as well Be Nameless
for the Time
Being

while I pray for a kinder Storyteller
for not only the narratives' title roles
reduced to triple-digit code and haloed stick figures
but also for the occasional supporting agents
who, even in paradise, suffer the lethal mix
of goodness braced by valor
and die
overwhelmingly
unmourned.

Dive Bar Queens
​
(and Plastic Navel Rings)

Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin


Dwarf Tossing Queens
For Erika


The death of Billy Barty, midget actor,
noted in passing on bar TV national
news report reminds our waitress of
a little person experience of her own in
a neighborhood gin mill back home.
“I was really young then.
Had no clue about much of anything
and I sure as hell didn’t know what respect
was. Still, everyone was doing it.
I mean, I was really drunk, now that I
think about it. And he was beyond caring
himself, anyone could see that, even a blind
person such as myself. But I could hardly
lift him. I tried to explain that bowling
wasn’t exactly my sport. The only people
I knew who actually bowled had food
stuck in their braces and never showered unless
they got stuck in the rain. So, I asked this
guy standing at the bar to like help me
take my turn and I think we took second place.
Awesome! No, he wasn’t hurt. There were
pillows and like mattresses to land on.
Yes, in a bar. It was midget tossing night
and it was like a regular event. What did you
think? That they weren’t prepared?
I can’t remember what our prize was but
I do remember after it was over
that the dwarf guy was like sitting on
my lap and licking my face and neck and stuff.
It was totally gross but he looked so cute
and harmless like an old kid. Besides, what
could he do, so small and drunk like that?
What do you mean that not All of him was
under-developed? Are you kidding me?
like for real? I think I’m going to be sick.
I’ll never be able to show my face in that
bar again. You know, that really sucks.
Now, I’ll have to find someplace else to
celebrate my 21st birthday next year when
I’m finally legal.”




Forward March
after Mary Ellen Mark


The things those girls must have seen
on the street, around the house:
big sisters, Red Hot Mamas at 14,
pregnant at 15, bellies hanging over
stretched pants, dreaming of a spandex
fits, pushup bras, low cuts and too tights,
made up at 10 like queens-for-a-day
with glossy pink lipsticks, eye shadow
and love beads, fake diamond studs
and plastic navel rings, leaning, backs
against bodega store window, tough stuff
looking for trouble, skinny hips thrust forward;
"Gimme, Gimme, Gimme some lovin'"
Sunday afternoon in the South Bronx.

​



Sympathy for the Devil


After an extended childhood spent
watching MTV stoned on whatever
he could score, he had the alt-rock
look down: Doom Cult t-shirt,
sleeveless and soiled washed from
black to almost gray, beyond tight
dragged out jeans, pointed shit kicker
boots, all the facial hair he could grow
beneath requisite medusa knot locks.
Told all the slumming, punked out,
dive bar queens, pretenders to thrones
of tough and hard, he was the lead
singer in some heavy metal bar band
that was about to make a quantum leap
into the big time, were tuning up for
mega gigs once the studio album was
cut and released. In real life he was a
wannabe roadie known for his skill
at rolling perfect doobies and not
much else. Even terminal losers have
a skill. Kept him vaguely employed,
made him known in all the fringe places
make believe rock stars hung out waiting
to overdoes, a moral’s charge, or a major
drug bust. Getting lucky, for him, was
a hit of not bad acid, some clean Poontang,
and someone else’s demo tape he could
pass off as his own. Had visions of dying,
hitting perfect chords on a wired guitar,
short circuiting waves of electricity instead
of veins, his hair on fire.






The Day the Earth Stood Still


“The girl wearing her grandmother’s shawl,
the girl who sees me with nowhere in my eyes,
says, “I saw you dead last night.” I laugh and
her darkness opens into smiles.” John Allman


Lost highways end in incognito lounges,
shoot ‘em up bang bang bars where beer
flows from foam lipped taps, tepid as
bad water in a glass.
All the Skidrow junkies, former uptown
beauty queens, no name super stars with
their empty-of-life faces, neon lit, all aglow
and perfectly made up for a viewing, lightning
bugs where their eyes used to be.
Outside the picture window, rain falls
like mercury on glass. The classic jukebox
armature is paused above spinning disc
but no music plays. Even car lamps in
the parking lot, switched on, illuminate nothing,
not even the auto-asphyxiation couple before
the deed, striated scarves around their throats
like slowly tightening Mexican neckties,
hands in each other’s pants.
A full metal jacket leaving the muzzle is
stalled inches away from impact. Blood
spatters on graffiti Art walls anticipate
shadows cast on cracked pavement where
the chalk outlines should go.
Yellow incident tape and blue light special
lights advertise one night only.
It has always been like this. Always will be.

Battle of Ascalon

By Kenneth Vincent Walker 


The Battle of Ascalon
Considered the last days
Of the First Crusade.


A fortress besieged as
Fires blazed brightly while
Blood flowed to the grave.


The Order of Poor Knights
Of the Temple of Solomon;
Founded in Jerusalem by


The warrior monks brigade
Exemplary in commitment
And bravery unwavering;


As a red cross on a sea of
White wave in the winds
Of time; defenders of the


Faith and of the power
And the glory; ye Templar
Knights of the Divine in


One of history’s anomalies.

​The days of chivalry will never end
As long as the heart of lovers blend,
A kiss, a hug, a respectful bow
Throughout the universe in the eternal now.

Novels Await

By K.A. Williams


​
Stop hesitating.
Library books are waiting.




Try to solve the case before Holmes explains it to Watson.


Root for Count Dracula or Professor Van Helsing.


Join Dorothy and her friends on the yellow brick road.


Watch Robin Hood outwit the Sheriff of Nottingham.


Travel in a time machine and meet the Eloi and Morlocks.




Whatever you choose will be an adventure for you.
You'll experience life from a new point of view.

The Ghosts Between Pages
​
By Camille Lurree Scott


All agèd books second stories tell,
In penciled thoughts and dog-ears, specters dwell,
Weathered time-worn pages, in these betwixt, 
The essence of departed souls affixed.


A date inscribed is history unspoken,
A name alone is mystery unbroken,
A date divides us centuries between,
And faceless names that none alive have seen.


What speaks to me is what spoke most to you; 
The words above the underlines you drew,
Hinting at a human mind asleep,
Who left the thoughts that now the living keep.


The touch of hands now pulseless, still, and cold
Yield fragrant marks of constellated mold,
In my hands a tie to history,
Of years and souls that have led up to me.

This Dusty Book

By Kenneth Vincent Walker



I picked up this dusty
Book because I was
So inclined; carefully
Thumbing through its


Worn, torn pages, its
Broken binding/ spine.
Its story was familiar
As it parodied my life.


In reading between the
Lines was a glimmer of
Hope; finding reason
Within the rhyme, as if


Its sole purpose was to
Connect to me by way
Of vibrations undefined;
Remarkably in harmony


And invariably all mine.

Visiting the Library

Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin



First Book

Overheard at a Public Library Book Sale


"What about this book of poems
by Robert Lowell? It's an English
first edition."


"Not worth anything."


"He was a good poet---"


"Doesn't matter. Poetry isn't worth anything.
nobody reads it."




Second Book
​​

The Burning Song Book: A Requiem for Mixed Chorus,
Solo Voices and Orchestra
for Bruce B.


They rise as one as if summoned
from the land of the living
by an accidental sound:
thunder above the outdoor
amphitheater, a rage of sirens
merging with wrecked headlights,
jaws of life, sonic booming
above the collapsing barriers
of light, an imposition of order
from the conductor's baton;
their singing is other worldly,
vaguely Germanic, especially
the deep voices before the first
violins, the basso profundos,
hounds of hell for a black tie affair,
solo female voices from another
quadrant of stage, a shrill echoing
of a soloists keening somewhere off
stage, one voice becoming many;
years before, as a chorus member
at the last staged performance
at Saratoga of the 9th, you said
the view was from behind the timpani
was a limited one but glorious
nonetheless, that there was something
spiritual, that moment when your
voice was added as one to the whole,
an essential ingredient to a thing
so much larger than yourself,
still, that Ode to Joy ends for you
in senseless self-immolation,
the burning song books of a complete
choral repertoire: Alexander Nevsky,
Carmina Burana, the Brahms Requiem---
all the handwritten notes, scrolled
bars and untempered verse dissolving
in gasoline fed fire, tarred flesh, smoke.






Third Book



Remnants


The random scattering of
her life was reduced to mere
paraphernalia, to jottings on
airplane paper, to lists headed:
Wants, Needs, Realistic Expectations,
Unrealistic Goals. Were scraps
of paper left in books found on
flea market tables, estate sale
remnants, along with parts of
letters to friends, lovers,
real and imagined. All of them
never sent, forgotten, maybe meant
to be posted, but probably not,
deferred to books because of
death, disaster or disease,
her ending near and unclear
or just stuff left behind on
the way to somewhere else.




Fourth Book: The Good Book


was the title of his
novel, seventeen years
in the making. and a kind of
cross between Wm Gaddis’s,
The Recognitions and David
Foster Wallace’s, Infinite Jest
and almost as long and as fat
as the two of them pasted
together. Was the most
nominated, the most talked
about book of the season
no one had actually read.
Was voted book of the year
as a hedge against it, somewhere
down the line, becoming a
classic of the age, even though
editors who had actually
delved in, thought it was
a waste of perfectly good trees
but all of them afraid to go on
the record as saying so.



Fifth Book



“She gives the impression of perfectly dressed unhappiness”
Stuart Archer Cohen, 17 Stone Angels


In her youth she was a frail
beauty without substance,
a sonnet without a subject or
a soul. Slept her way to the top
of an ivory tower where what she
wrote was ornamental like books
bought in bulk for their covers
by people who never read.
Rewired her short-circuited brain
with designer drugs until all
that remained inside was a few
frayed wires and scorch marks
after a fire that left so much damage
behind no one would bother to
repair it. Imagined herself as a cast
off clown from a road show always
on the verge of leaving town for
a worse gig somewhere else.
Traveled with a man who’s famous
bullet catching trick failed once
leaving her alone and wondering where
do I go from here? Wore one of those,
“I’m with Stupid” t-shirts that hadn’t
been washed in years, the arrow on her
chest pointing to where the matching shirt
and the man who should have been wearing
it should be, but there was no one to see,
nothing there at all.




Sixth Book



“Always, always...we had nothing
But words.” C. Simic


It’s enough to make you sick
to your stomach- all those wasted
words.
Sartre wrote an autobiographical book
that he called, The Words.
As I recall, he left out all the good
parts, the juicy stuff: all the young
groupies who wanted more than his
mind, nights with Simone after all
the drinking, the smoking, the talking
was done.
Sartre never took a candid photo
of a naked Simone the way one of her
other lovers did.
Instead, he wrote, Being and Nothingness,
and filled up all that space with hundreds
of thousands of words.

​
Five Poems by Chelsea Lynn LaBate


​

M A G I C 


Magic is being restored to the Earth. 
Prepare your heart to lift. 
Keep your body clean. 
Lay your thoughts out in the light daily. 
Stick close to your teachers. 


This won’t hurt a bit,
this homecoming,
this short journey to the center. 


Let the universe speak to you in tongues. 
You’ll understand through invisible ears. 


You’ll begin to hear feelings, see sound, taste color. 
Your soul will talk to souls without mouths, 
without devices. 
You’ll become a servant of the sun. 


Expect everyday miracles in your car, 
at the market, on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. 
Realize that nothing is ever broken, 
though some lines need rest. 


Move into your freedom. 
Anticipate the unbelievable. 
Honor it as the norm. 
Open all your windows to feel the flush of wings. 


Make offerings to The One 
and all of its cosmic intelligence and wonder. 
Stabilize yourself with holy practices - 
a garden, a piano, long walks leading nowhere. 


Tack yourself to scripture - to its luminous backbone. 
Understand its lineage comes to you from 
a crease in the future, present and past. 


And above all else, 
remember we are not going back to the dark days. 
Gather your belongings. 
Peel off the old times like a faded, tattered suit. 
Leave it on the floor and move forward into the Age of Light, 
where nothing is predictable and everyone is free. 





E C S T A S Y


I should have known 
when my dog was speaking
in complete sentences
that it was time to get committed.


Sky in the sky.
Water in water.
Light in the light.


All Worlds became One.


I made it to the top of The Tower
The tower with no roof,
no windows,
no doors,
no locks.


The Tower sweet like ambrosia.
The Tower that welcomes 
all who seek it.
The Tower from the sun.


Now I spend my days 
accepting I will never speak dog,
their needs are simple,
their messages short.


And there are some rooms 
I should simple stay out of,
especially if I am the only Witness.


Good food in my belly, 
warm shelter,
a full night’s sleep,
some time with the sea. . .


No need to cross over to 
the sides with no sides.
Life is here.
The clouds hold their form.





T H E  O N L Y  W A Y  O U T


Who can fall in love in all this madness?


I don’t ask the universe to explain anything anymore - 
the white wings of light, the last breath of death. 
I don’t wonder why some fall victim to atrocities 
while others squiggle belly up in the grass. 


I don’t spend my time trying to meet God in the middle. 
I don’t cut corners in hope of celestial intimacy. 
I don’t try to prove my worth to any galactic confederations. 
I still laugh in my sleep.


Any ascension is better with friends. 


Who will meet me? 
On those every once in a while days of enlightenment 
when the light shines so bright all three eyes fly open 
and any negative thought can not pass through the gates of heaven? 
When all false stories don’t dare to be made? 
When the full moon bows to its master, the sun? 



We are all brave warriors. 
Flipping shadow to light. 
In our weakness finding might. 
Shooting arrows in defense. 
Tearing down fence lines. 


We are witness to injustice and joy. 
Inequality and bliss. 
The spectrum stretches sky wide.
Color joins in then fades. 


We stand up in the bones of our bones, 
in the teeth of our teeth,
in the blood of our blood. 


The only way out is love. 




L I Q U I D  G A R D E N


Some schizophrenics find their way back to center. 
It is there that The Mother blesses us 
and we may receive the badge of holy messenger.  


The crown that we thought was shattered 
was just letting in more light. 
Insanity was only a map to navigating hidden realities. 


There’s no static in notes that float like water. 
The messages come in clear and bright. 
All emissaries understand the need to break through 
false renderings of life. All couriers know the way home. 


Land matters hurt us. 
They burn our antennas. 
They chop the day into boxes. 
They hang a fake sun. 


It’s hard to believe we signed up for this. 
The fracturing to become complete. 
The mania to become sane. 
The life threatening disorientation to become super centered. 


The unseeable becomes real. The balance tips. 
It is here that we align with frequencies of 
elemental intelligence and harvest information from the unseen. 


I moved through this life a long time feeling through the dark. 
Now my vision has expanded. I can see for others. 


Here is to union with your true reality. 
Here is to authentic breakthrough. 
Here is to the hells that introduce us to heavens. 
Here is to the new fleet of untrained seers 
who are locked up and earning their wings. 
May the fruits of their madness bless you. 
May you be soothed by their grace. 





T H E   N U M I N O U S


I’m on a wave. 
Foam crinkles at my back. 
Salt water drips from my face. 
I dig my hand into the jade green wall 
and ride North into the direction of hard truths. 


I now feel worthy of knowing 
the power of my own light. 
No more hiring crooked archers
to take me out. 


A band of pelicans moves in,
in perfect formation - 
their wings almost kiss the sea. 


I am supported by the seen and the unseen. 
The entire galaxy has my back. 
When I move my body I am in prayer
for those suffering and lost in transition. 
When I gain speed the Light of the One 
builds inside of me and I send it out 
over the Earth - 
this Earth - whole in its vision,
this Earth - ripe with ancient secrets,
this Earth - strong in its determination to 
shake off this infection of fear, 
greed and delusion and return to the Original Balance. 


I get out. My feet make prints in the sand. 
The sky above me stretches up forever. 
Crabs choose their direction. 


How will you come to know the totality 
of your being when you are in fact, limitless? 
How will you understand everything you 
hope to become, you already are?
I’ve shed my titles. 
I’ve dimmed my ego. 
I make my home in the numinous. 

His Own Epiphany

By David Thorpe



Storm winds rampaged the night,

Amir shivered,

his goats and sheep safe in stalls

from prowling wolves

in search of quarry.



His parents to bed long retired,

exhausted from their toils,

the door bolted, the candles lit,

his supper awaiting him,

to satisfy his thirst and  hunger.



Knocks on the door disturbed silence,

apprehensive Amir opened it ajar,

faces of three strangers greeted

of rank their apparel,

of goodness their countenance.



For the night shelter they begged,

Amir bid them enter,

his sparse supper he shared,

blankets spread for slumber,

for his guests from the Orient.



They awoke with the rising sun,

to travel to Bethlehem, royal city of David,

Amir went with them in reverence to kneel

fore a new born baby boy,

with eyes of wonder

the child of Mary to behold,

his own epiphany.
​

​David Thorpe ©® 
​

Secret Santa

A Confedential Christmas Collection by Alan Catlin


Secret Santa


Every year, the same thing, a secret Santa,
suspicious as a serial killer, a person of interest
in every crime from paper clip thefts
to unauthorized use of office stationery,
of abusing the copying machine, made telephone
calls to places like Fiji, Djibouti, Burkina Faso.
The Santa could be anyone: the always-late guy
in the soiled black overcoat, slinking in, quiet
as a stealth bomber flying under the radar.
Even wet to the skin, caught in some hellacious
cloud burst, clutching his coat closed as if concealing
something close to his body. He must be guilty
of something. Or the guy in accounting who never
speaks, who seems almost blind and lifeless behind
thick glasses, his always rumpled suit, the coffee
stained shirts and ties. He wears a wedding ring but
who would marry him? Or the woman from sales,
who over dresses, who never stops talking:
on the phone, in the john, at the water cooler.
Someone should muzzle her before she spreads
a communicable disease. Even the office manager
looks shaky: his false smiles, his hale-fellow-well-met-
greetings, his just a bit too hard handshake,
has never taking off his jacket no matter how hot
the office gets. Is he carrying a weapon underneath?
Is he a psycho in search of a crime scene?
Maybe he is the one at the inevitable office party,
who spikes the punch, one year with 151 Rum and
Wild Turkey 101, another year, lacing the drinks
with acid. What a mess that was! All those uptight
old ladies tripping their tits off, thanking their lucky
stars for all the bounteous gifts Santa has brought.
And maybe for the inevitable casualties after the festivities.
Who will it be this year? Is someone keeping score?
Making a list and checking it twice?
The no name Santa. The Santa like a surrey with a fringe
on top. The beardless Santa. Never trust a Santa
with no beard. He harbors the worst secrets of all.




Repacking the Ornaments


A lifetime of collecting:
miniature bulbs,
trees to place them on,
hot air balloons,
one Santa Claus for each
of the forty-nine years
of their marriage.


Except the last one.


She in a nursing home,
“getting stronger,”
my father said, but
after he died a few days
into a new year,
we saw he actually
meant, “Dying of cancer.”


Some of the smaller
stuff we brought
for grandkids to admire.


A fifty-year-old,
one-foot-high display
is crushed inside of a minute.


A parent they never
knew, nor could conceive of,
cherished relic, garbage now.


They were four and two.
What did they know?




Holiday Spirits


The after Christmas parties
are the sordid ones, no Mr. and Mrs.
Claus, just all that desperation
and fear, trying to hook up with
last remaining unconnected female/male
standing before time is called, the occasion
turning chronological adults into
morons, acting out their inner
child with party favors, dance steps,
noise makers, silly hats they wouldn’t
be seen in the same room with eleven
months of the year, soul kissing complete
strangers, all reticence abandoned,
drowned by designer cocktails, cheap
champagne, participating in crowd
noise making activities that ordinarily
would be associated with a riot in progress
but is regarded as normal at this moment,
as the party goes on. Heedless to the outcome,
willing, even eager to drive after, to participate
in the human bumper car/pinball game,
contest of life at high speeds on four lane
freeways, tote board scores tallied by spinning
lights: the red, the blue and the white, dead lucky
to wake up at all on the floor, half-naked under
the overturned artificial tree, the dog barking at
the door, frantic to get out.




Friends and Neighbors


After the birth of their
second child, a son, they
decided it was time to
move to the country.


“The city is no place
to bring up a child.
You can’t even play
in the street.”


They didn’t have to say why:
the ignoring-all-speed-limits
hot cars up and down the
hill, all hours of the day,
and night.


The drug deals gone bad:
drive-bys, and Okay Corral
shoot outs, the caravans
of blacked out windows Escalades,
the warning shots fired,
the Fast and Furious road rally
chase scenes in real life.


When they moved, we
swore we’d all keep in touch.
No more Secret Santas.
Phone calls dwindled to
occasional e-mails, cards
at Christmas. Where they
were living was only on
the other side of the river but
it might as well have been on Mars.


When the Fox Action News,
so-tight-to-the-face close-ups,
you wouldn’t recognize the person
but you knew every acne scar,
chicken pock scratched, bike
accident blemish, the news
item seemed incidental.


(stanza break)
​

Incidental until you heard
the news reader’s final word:
their son’s name, killed by a
hit and run drunk driver,
who would never be caught,
on a country road, just the other
side of the river. All you could
do was wish they’d never left,
as you never had before.

Turkey Roasting

By Mike Mesterton-Gibbons



The Yuletide feast makes turkey children mourn:
Until a week before, their mom and pop
Rejoiced with them on mountains of fresh corn
Kids then see parents sentenced to the chop!
Expressions of condolence don't abound:
You can't expect a butcher to feel sad,
Regaled at Christmas dinner with a mound
Of stuffing, sauce and roasted mom and dad.
A veggie is the only one who'll care:
Simpatico with turkeys, pigs and steers,
The veggie murders only meatless fare,
Intent on causing turkey babes no tears ...
Noel's the time when only veggies bear
Glad tidings to young turkeys everywhere!

​

Above: Patrick Duffy and Victoria Principal in "Dallas"


Victoria's Secret

Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin

Victoria's Secret


All the details had been
worked out in advance:
the makeup kit her girl
friend had waiting for her
on the bus, a silk negligee
in a beige plastic super
market bag, the night case
with all the stuff for a
night with the girl’s pillow
fighting, pizza scarfing &
horror movies, stuff both
girls outgrew years ago but
their parents weren't paying
attention to how their daughters
were now full-fledged women,
all of 15 and sleepovers meant
an official cover story for what
they were really doing in case
Mom called while the dolled
up daughter was in some All
Sports Varsity Letterman's
bedroom, learning the arts of
all over body massaging & 101
uses for Kama Sutra oil, half of
which her mom couldn't imagine,
in mood light cast by lava lamps,
an ethereal glow that matched
the reefer madness they shared,
making one night seem to last
as long as a thousand.






The Cosmopolitan Variations


The latest composition he was
working on this, probably of age,
petite blonde becoming more
amenable to sexual innuendo,
salacious commentary, bold
suggestions, with each, variation
on a theme, Cosmo, he was
concocting as he spoke, loading
every cocktail with industrial
strength, defense mechanism
removing, lime tinted Vodka,
more certain of his powers
of persuasion with each sip taken,
an effect more salubrious than
date rape drugging with fewer
lasting side effects, unless, of
course, she was driving home
after and there was someone,
wherever home was, waiting up
with a loaded pump action, he
wasn't afraid to use.




Backwoods Cowboy


He had everything but male chauvinist
pig painted on the side of the truck
he cared for more than the woman he abused
the same way he did everything in his life
as if they were no deposit, no return
disposable objects of no relevance beyond
the immediacy of his highly localized needs.


Worshipped before an altar made of NASCAR
decals and bottle cap statues made from the long
neck Buds he drank before the fifty-inch plasma,
watching the tour and swearing the only real men
left were the ones behind the wheel even when
they weren’t men or talked like castrato after
all those years of hitting the pavement so hard
their testicles ascended, not that there wasn’t
always a showcase blonde waiting at the checkered
flags to kiss his ass when he drove the pedal to
the metal home.


He had some kind of regular job when the weather
was good and the market were right in and
he was between tours of the state prison system where
his choice in thematically violent tattoos and the odd white
power phrase was helpful in getting him through
all those long days and nights on the yard, where his
shaved head made him just like one of the boys,
though as soon as was released he let his hair grow long
so that the more obvious skull tattoos no longer advertised
those allegiances he’d sworn on his life to uphold.


Out on parole in barely legal honky tonks he pontificates,
“A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”
to his whole sick crew, a bottle of Rolling Rock
in one hand and a shot of Wild Turkey 101 in the other
while he speaks, oblivious to certain facts: he has no license
to drive, wasn’t allowed in bars while on parole and his
vehicle was well-known by every law enforcement officer
in a six-county radius, all of whom he’d been pissing
off his entire adult existence, all of whom were just sitting
about waiting for closing time, eagerly anticipating
a fully involved ride of a lifetime to hell and back
and who knew where after that.



Pharmacopeia


If she had been a singer
she’d have been a natural
for the role of Sally Bowles,
every day of her life a Cabaret,
working the night shift as
a student nurse, swearing love
and total allegiance to the man
she lived with while screwing
interns, doctors, pharmacy
students at work in empty rooms,
locked closets, rest rooms,
doors jammed shut or not,
all for whatever pills they could
provide her: reds, blues, yellows,
whatever would take her up,
down or sideways,
though it was mostly the down
she was desperate to feed
layering it with alcohol and joyless
sex and she was just good enough
looking and proficient to get by,
to secure a permanent position,
though even the best blow job in town
couldn’t change the inventory of all
those restricted substances she somehow
accessed from locked cabinets or
by switching meds with the terminal
or those too inarticulate to complain
until the shortages could no longer be
covered and the accusing fingers all
directly pointed to her. Years later,
license revoked, all of forty-one years
old, threatened with renal failure
she treats her malady with Finlandia
and Skol, watching the soaps and
remembering those nights on the ward
whistling show tunes and songs by Heart,
two reds into her shift and six to go.




Murder, My Sweet


They called themselves freelancers,
stringers for some murder tourist rag
that imagined human suffering and
atrocity exhibitions were the last pure
sensations left to man. Preferably
copiously illustrated in lurid colors,
the more graphic the better.
Have passports stamped at every hot spot
on the planet as if they were hop scotching
to every danger zone in a race against time
to see who could rack up the most frequent
flyer miles, to the most inhospitable places.
A few weeks in a remote outback, or
a jungle wattle and daub hut, and they
would be willing to sell their souls for
an eight pack of pre-made Slippery Nipple
shooters. Consorted with all the local gangsters,
professional killer, and pallbearers, free
basing coke and, whatever else was on the
menu, in an attempt to blend in. Reported on
places so bleak, in a style so whacked out
it was almost impossible to read, but on they
went and their assignments tripled. Ended up
somewhere the whores all had black roots
growing out as all the peroxide had gone to
treating the wounded, and there were always
more wounded than any makeshift clinic
could handle.
Said sex under fire was the hottest ever.
Nothing was a bigger turn on than imminent
death, assuming they would cruise through
unscathed, just as they had everywhere else.
Amazing how wrong a person could be about
a simple thing like that.



Play It as It Lays


After she’d slept with all
the summer clubmen and
their able-bodied hangers-on,
there was nothing to do and
endless weeks ahead to do it in.


The only one of the so-called
men who had excited her was
a shy, barely verbal, busboy
she’d mercy fucked out of the
goodness of her heart.


Afterwards he’d been unable
to look at her directly, dropped
dishes whenever she was around.
Had become so useless there
was talk of dismissal which
devolved to the level of idle talk
now that ICE had made casual
labor almost impossible to secure.


Even a few hours of restorative
nude sunbathing failed to revive
her as it always had in the past.


Dreamt of speedballs and discos,
eighteen hours of non-stop dancing
totally enthralled by the heat of
the crowd, the sound of the techno.
Lost herself at the rave to end all raves.
The one where the light show at the end
of the mind bent her in ways that could
never be straightened out.




The Secret Life of Words


After the dream of a thousand cuts
that will not end and the wounds
that refuse to heal.


After the nursing someone worse
that near-dead, back to life, while
your own pain, both inside and out,
is so intense, it is impossible to share.


After the passion of a Hiroshima
Mon Amour love has died, the shaved
head of desire.


After the inscribing of a tattoo of
a phoenix rising on her pubic bone,
birds of paradise on her hips, her breasts-
after that, the longing that suggests a
deep water blowout resides inside,
then the spreading oil stain of her face.


After all the stitches, the clamps,
the stapled, the butterfly kiss of nylon
thread through skin: The Secret Life of
Words, Breaking the Waves, The Piano
Teacher, The Piano, all the irreparable,
damaged women mutilated by love.

Clapton’s Layla

By Kenneth Vincent Walker



As desire at times
Misfires the timing
Never quite right as
Clapton’s Layla looks
So wonderful tonight.


Pattie Boyd (Harrison)
The forbidden fruit of
The vine; the heroine
Unrequited as heroin
Sadly fills in the void.


Crawling across the
Floor in desperation
For a love so divine;
May not be enough,
Yet to endure is the


Cruelest of crimes.

A Shakespearean Sonnet

Edward and Elizabeth
(Edward IV and Elizabeth Woodville)

By David Thorpe


From his betrothed, her beauty turned his head
His lords opposed, she of Lancastrian blood

Unheeding, Edward in secret did she wed

Crowned Queen Elizabeth her ground she stood

The price paid would be high in later years

First be joy on birth of a Prince of Wales

For after the laughter came floods of tears

Power for the Queen´s kindred at court prevails

Jealousy, intrigue in abundance foretold

On Edward´s death a turn detrimental

His brother Richard fate of England controlled

The Queen and the Princes in dire peril

Two in the Tower never seen again

Richard, without his horse, at Bosworth slain

David Thorpe ©®

(King Edward IV of England was succeeded

By his son Edward V, probably murdered

together with his brother Richard in the Tower of London,

on orders of their uncle Richard, who proclaimed himself King Richard III.

On King Richard´s death at the Battle of Bosworth,

the Lancastrian Henry Tudor was later

crowned Henry VII of England and married

Elizabeth of York, thus the beginning of the Tudor dynasty.

Henry VII, Henry VIII, Edward VI, Mary I, and Elizabeth I)

An Acrostic Sonnet 

By Mike Mesterton-Gibbons


Owl and Pussy Cat


Owl courted Pussy in a pea-green boat
With lots of banknotes and a small guitar.
Love blossomed as he cleared his owlish throat
And twanged and sang, "How beautiful you are!"
Notes from his mouth were far off key, but she
Desired the other notes he'd wisely shown.
Puss lied: "How charmingly you sing for me,
Upon guitar, the sweetest voice I've known!" 
She said: "Let us be wed. We need a ring."
So off they sailed to Bong-Tree Land. A whole
Year later there, a Piggy-wig's nose bling
Cost just a shilling, and fulfilled their goal.
A turkey wed them. Now they have three sirs:
Two flying cats, one owl who mews and purrs!

Autumnal Sonnet 

By Pawel Markiewicz


The mist heralds a dreamy, tender Apollonian dawn.
I philosophize about wings of hawk or king – sparrow.
In amazing grove at the Blue Hours – was born here a fawn.
You should adore as well as praise charm such a moony morn.


The beauty of world is indeed so pulchritudinous.
The autumnal meek leaves, having danced, at fallish stone, lie.
The picturesque mist is shrouded in mood of a sorcery.
I muse about my bosom full of druidic light dream.


The nightingale is under a starlet bewildering.
Flights of birdies are the moon-like thankful melancholy.
The autumnal mood is never ending, sometimes dazzling.
I have fallen in love with wizardly-like fantasy.


The fall belongs to bright Morning star with the enchantment.
I love forever - the Moon in the dearest bewitchment.

Frida y Diego

By Kenneth Vincent Walker



Never has there
Been a woman
Prior who could
Exude such an
Oozing pain by
Way of paint.


An artist of bold
Dynamic colors,
Old enough to be
Her father, drawn
Together forever;
Perhaps by fate.


Frida epitomizes
Freedom of self-
Expression and
Determination as
Diego champions
The Marxist state.


Their open love
Affair/ marriage
Legendary yet
Confrontational,
But spiritually
Were undeniably


Creativity incarnate.

Birds of Paradise

A Poetry Collection Searching for the Light 

By Alan Catlin  


1.

Dawn without sun.


Birds of paradise flush with light.
Their tail feathers rise and fall as they fly,
leaving rainbows behind that
emerge from the earth as flower
blooms.


Later when
everything is still-
a rain of feathers






2.

The Journey
(for Leonard Cirino, r.i.p.)


Long winding path through the Pygmy Forest
at rainbow’s end.
A scatter of leaves along the way.
Up ahead a dog barks for the man to follow.
Soon the darkness swallows them both.





3.

Fantastic Landscape with Moonglow


Everything seems clearer than it is:
Evergreen hedges spotted with spectral light,
rose thorns tapered with flaming sticks,
maple leaves and wild grape vines electric
with unseen currents.
Even the night sky has rainbow




4.


Emily Dickinson’s #9 Dream


Piano music from darkened,
conservancy/death room.
Her brother Austin’s house
and her best friend Sue’s.
Their spirit shapes in upstairs
bedroom windows. Illicit lovers
escaping into Homestead woods
through open, Dutch door
A double rainbow graces the sky.





5.


St Croix Nights


Terrified of tropical storms
in Summer. Of the torrential rain,
straight down lightning. Thunder.
Sixty years later, upstate New York,
the same kind of rain. The same fear returning.
No rainbow after





6.


Above the gravel pit.


Where excavators cut seams into
the hillside leaving sinkholes rain fills.
Pond scum and rainbow patterns
gasoline leaves on water.
Rotting stumps, ruts where the trees were.
Where the funeral boxes were.
Bones and dried skin among the wasp nests.
Remains scattered as dust is.


Night sky-no clouds, no moon, nothin.

It Came From Outer Space

Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin



Fata Morgana


“In Paradise you call ‘Hello’ without seeing anybody.
Where you quarrel with strangers to avoid having friends.
In Paradise man is born dead.” voice over, Fata Morgana


Which is the chimera, the desert runway
the airplanes land on or the planes themselves?
The Mayan creation text or the ruined plains
the humans live on? All that natural landscaping,
beauty defiled by oil well burn offs.
Endless seeming tracking shots of the crap needed
to drill for oil: the pipes, the flat beds, the wire
enclosed camps, the concrete box storage bins,
acres of barrels, the empty and the filled.
All the glorious mounds of sand, shaped by winds,
undulate towers breaking like waves whose grading
has holes that seem more like bomb craters than
nature’s carving, as more of the despoiling of
the landscape is revealed. Downed airplanes,
on their roof cars, trucks without wheels made into homes,
buttressed with metal coca cola signs, vehicle doors,
parts from machines left to bake in unrelenting sun
along with the starved no longer wild, life. The hoofed
and the winged picked clean by insects and by flesh feeders,
nothing left but exposed bones and dried skin.
This is what paradise becomes: a blind man in a cave
led by woman with a radio on her shoulder,
boys in soiled sheeting holding large eared puppy dogs
in strangle holds or dragging them through sand
sand on a leash, black kids taught German phrases
they mouth and know not the meaning of, assuming
fighting poses as Leonard Cohen tracks songs of Love
and Hate; “Suzanne” and “Goodbye Marianne” in hell,
where a two-piece band plays for Dante: a blind drummer
singing in a language impossible to understand,
a voice more like white noise than music and a woman
playing a piano not consulting her sheet music,
con brio in a key that bears no relation to the drums.
No one listening as they play here near the End Times
scenes in the desert where heads bob up from craters,
unspoken phrases pinned to their lips, unable to escape
their sand traps, consigned to a task of rising and falling
making no more sense than this place that looks like
an aerial view of amoebae in water from space, on a planet
like Mars, where even the illusions are real.
They were like


unstrung cosmic puppets
walking around in some
kind of comprehensive,
self-induced, comas.
The leader of the group
spoke in a dialect of slur,
projected through cracked,
pale lips by an off-stage
ventriloquist, with an evil sense
of humor, making requests
for unattainable, alcoholic
concoctions that could only
be made in an off-world bar in
a cafe like the one Han Solo
did time in between
flights, waiting for the next
Star Wars episode,
or, at least, that was the way
I tried to explain his lack of
communication skills
in terms he might understand.
"We're not getting through
to you," he said, and I replied,
"At least, we agree on something."
and found something else more
important to attend to while
he awaited new messages from
home base.








The Man Who Fell to Earth


Half-sleeping in the heat,
some kind of alien invasion
movie on the TV, maybe,
“It Came from Outer Space,”
or, maybe, “The Man Who Fell
to Earth”, frozen wastes
replaced by desert planet
well beyond a dark side of
the moon, Holst music,
“The Planets Suite” becoming
“Mars Bringer of War” morphing
into Bowie singing,
“….. .. I’m putting out the fire
with gasoline, I’m putting out
the fire………” lucid dreaming now,
so thirsty in the night, so thirsty
and all the water gone, only
Beefeaters and ice, all my pretty
ones dying in the sun burst, arid,
never changing night no rain ever
falls in, heat lightning and random
light, pale white men with cat’s
eyes, reflected visions in a bathroom
cabinet mirror, dissecting the dreamer
awake in another man’s dream of
somewhere else, gunfire in the street,
the first awakening into a long hell
to come.


Zombie Strippers


There must be a moral and a story
buried somewhere beneath all that
hideous makeup. An unfortunate,
small, random sampling of
movie scenes, suggest there were
not enough letters in the alphabet
to downgrade it, sort of like a grade Z
minus sigma nu rating on Rotten Tomatoes.
Why anyone, even a pudgy dweeb,
an over the hill studly, and well-dressed black
man, all of whom should have known better,
could find these scantily clad, barely able
to ambulate, ghoul faced hags, hot, was
beyond comprehension. As was all three
of them accepting back stage invitations
to be objects of some kind of gory lap dance,
movable feast. But this was not the kind of
of movie that allowed for questions about
faulty logic, plot consistency or deep
emotional commitments. Consulting
summary of movie during ads revealed
little other than the star was a porn actress
of some repute, once upon a time, known
for her talents on screen not generally
confused with Art. Maybe this was
the kind of feature where past-it sex
stars went to revive their flagging careers
forever, recruiting new flesh as they worked
in a never-say-die-kind-of way.
The unanswered question of substance must be,
do breast implants matter in Zombieland?












Mind Parasites


They are as malleable as plastic figurines,
space vampires and mind parasites,
come in all sizes and shapes, determined
by phases of a solar system of planetary
moons and radical changes in climates
these phases may produce. Life-sized
replicas are available for purchase online
for true believers at an introductory, one time
only, rate of 488 dollars plus shipping and
handling.


These alien creatures often masquerade as
angels, hiding inside burning bushes or on
the edge of wild fires of indeterminate cause.
Are known to speak in tongues extinct since
the last days of the Tower of Babel and can only
be interpreted by psychics trained in the art
of ciphering unknown tongues.


Infra-red cameras capture their images as blurry
smears impossible to determine as true shapes or
finger smudges. They appear as shining dots
on star charts often confused with super nova
stars or cosmic event residues, but at such great
distances, who could determine accurately which
they are?


Sun worshippers built temples that are still being
unearthed by scientists who cannot explain
how their civilizations worked, if in fact,
they appeared at all.


Their acolytes are legion to this day, said to be
recruited through brain wave effusions, interceptions,
where extracted thoughts are modified and thoughts
stifled to create the illusion of free will.


Like the gods of yore, they rule without mercy,
exacting vengeance for violations of strict codes
contained by unwritten laws. Their history has
been written with invisible inks. Hold the handmade
paper it was inscribed on up to the light and
the documents dissolve.



It Came from Outer Space


A screaming comes across the sky,
not a Von Braun rocket, part of gravity’s
decomposing rainbow, not a meteor as
authorities inevitably proclaim but a cheesy,
glow –in-the-dark, crash landing, space craft
marooned in Arizona desert watched by
stargazing couple on clear night, no one believes.
They who go there some kind of protoplasmic,
one-eyed, see-through creature, able to body snatch
humans they replicate in form, but not in manner,
hoping for low profile helpers while repairing
damaged ship. Xenophobic citizens, being human,
seek a permanent solution, violence against the unknown,
without information gathering: they mean no harm,
but, we, for the greater good, have no interest in
explanations or arguments over intent versus accident.
One man, against all others, aids their escape,
not without fatal consequences, and life, more or less,
goes on. The world was black and white in those
days, now we are blinded by color.

Quantum Poetry by Kenneth Vincent Walker


Bending Time


Bending Time; may not
Be on your mind, but it
Is on mine from the day,
The moment we parted
I started peering behind.


Bending time; may be a
Farce or may be a way
To redirect our course
To a place and time to
Change and move the


Lines in such a way as
To realign the universe;
And redesign all we may
Reimagine or redefine
Merely by bending time.



Seven Sisters


‘Seven Sisters’ of
Universal fame
Sparkle, bedazzle


Beyond our widest
Imaginary dreams.


Lightyears away in
An illustrious cluster
On display lighting


Up the docile sky to
Enlightened minds.


‘Seven Sisters’ of
Interstellar acclaim
Together forever


They’ll remain as
Their adopted name


Succinctly implies;
‘Ladies of Pleiades’
In celebratory light.



Oceans of Europa


Within the iced
Over oceans of
Europa, one of
Jupiter’s orbital
Galilean moons.


At bare minimum
Swim microbes
In abundance and
At maximum are
Creatures beyond


Imagination’s realm.
For where there is
Water, there is life,
There is substance;
You didn’t think we


Were alone amongst
The infinite stars?
Nourishment strives,
Thrives on supplying
Sustenance; whether


It be here, near or afar.

Phedolia

By David Thorpe
 
The cosmic wars had long been over,
the mutants proving to have been superior,
an enslaved Earth now a satellite
of the mutant planet, Kostropolis
 *
Although some Earthlings still classed as slaves,
laboured as servants in menial occupations,
others had achieved a hierarchy with civil rights,
allowing males to contract marriage with mutants
 *
Artheminus a noble Earthling had fallen in love
with Phedolia, a lady of rank on Kostropolis,
whose feelings for the Earthling were reciprocal,
she knowing, however, the price their marriage would demand
 *
Were nuptials to take place, Phedolia would be transformed
into an Earthling of the hierarchy of her husband,
losing, however, all her birth-right privileges,
never again to regain her mutant essence
 *

Artheminus feared Phedolia´s decision would be to his disfavour,
but her heart had known where happiness waited,
her call to arms, the arms of her husband to be,
confirming that sacrifice be the greatest proof of love.


David Thorpe ©®

God and Angels

By Lakella L. Davenport


Just a thing that I go through
Just a thing got me all confused
To contemplate
Hard to discern
In effect relate
Nothing can help this
Can’t help this
Don’t know what to do with it
Inebriated
Full of what
What has no beginning
Caught somewhere far
Not even in between
The lies but must
Must be beyond that
God and Angels
God and Angels
Spiritual paradise
Feeding my soul
Hungry for that
Cleansing from within
Outward man
Outward appearance
A trance of that
Somewhat hard
To decipher what meaning
Lies somewhere far
Not even in between
God and Angels
God and Angels
Mysterious songs
Gleeful praise
Melodies, melodies
What meaning
Lies somewhere far
Not even in between
God and Angels


He’s been All Over the World

By Lakella L. Davenport


He’s been all over the world
A connoisseur of wine
He’s been to Paris, to Italy, to Sweden, To Spain, even to the Netherlands
He’s been all over the world
Tasting fine wines and aged cheeses
Indulging in delicate masterpiece dishes
Eating the most delicious sweets
Sending boxes and pounds of samples of each
He’s been all over the world
Fighting and loving
Loving and hating
Hating and mating
Kicking and punching
Wearing his ragged belt
Sending cards that make your spirit melt
A champion of the ring
A large silver thing to the case he brings
He’s been all over the world
Oooh We, We, We.


The River of Joy


By Lakella L. Davenport


The River of Joy
Where can it be found?
Is it hidden underneath the aqueous ground?
Is it soaked in the chicken fat on top of Mama Bertha’s stove?
Is it a hidden treasure within an old man’s soul?
The River of Joy
Where can it be found?
In between the lace of sister May’s gown
Or the lines of a daddy’s frown
Or the greenbacks stored in greed’s town
The River of Joy resounds
Inside the heart of a man who has found
God’s love without bounds.

Oh! I am

By Pulkita Anand



Oh! I am so happy
I am pregnant with a poem
You didn’t remember the night though
Will it be like you or me
Will, you take care of it,


Oh! I am so sad
You don’t remember anything
Will I be able to give birth to it?
Will I be able to take care of it


Oh! I am hurt
You slapped me with your language
Will you mind and mend your words


Oh! I am lost
You have strewn your anger everywhere
Will you care to help me


Oh! I am old
You fell into the pool of thoughts
Will you be drowned
Will you see my poem laying there

Orinoco

By David Thorpe

​
Slowly melts the horizon into the arising flame,

spreading its warmth over the awakening green lung,

through which the wooden chalana,

flat bottomed not to hurt the lurking,

chugs downstream the main artery.

*

A mid-day breath of air disperses

the stickiness clinging to our skin,

children half naked wave a forever farewell,

then take their running dives into the murky water.
*
Securely fastened to the bamboo landing,
we step ashore in Indian file,

trying not to awake the mission`s guard,

a dozing nutria killing time till tomorrow.
​
*

A  young Panare boy, Bartolomé,

his big smile from ear to ear,

shows his gift we gave him,

from our local bank, a pen writing blue,

to an Irish nun he called Sister Siobhán.

*

He promised to pray for us;

should we have better prayed for him?

A secluded back-water where river dolphins

play their carefree game

of emerge and submerge

before a photograph could be taken.

*

The evening spreads its shadows,

the towering white Spanish fortress

awaiting a forgotten foe,

turns a blushing pink,

its impotent canons long silenced.

*

The curtain of the night falls,

the heat abates its intensity,

silhouettes of herons stain a sky of crimson,

their tormented cries violate the stillness,

for a while, the silence,

till jungle noises render their lullaby

and in our swaying hammocks

we close our eyes to dream.

David Thorpe ©®

Dreaming of Summer 

A Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin


Dreaming of Summer


Plastic flamingoes in
the snow.
Icicles where their beaks
should be.




Sudden Downpour


No umbrella to unfold.
Too late now, anyway!




Return


Wilted flowers in blown
glass vase;
too long away from home.






Legacy


Weeding the vegetable garden
of crabgrass and milkweed,
I remember my grandmother.






Gettysburg, PA, Summer One Hundred Years After the Fact


Two thousand men lay dead in the mind,
on the lawn, looking down wind toward the
Confederate battery costs a quarter for timed
viewing: the first lines of them are coming at
a run, waving their flags and their arms,
charging uphill into an entrenched company
of blue clad men, firing at will, unaware of
how it will look, one hundred years later
to the tourists who collect post cards and
cheap souvenirs of their wasted lives,
unintentionally carving the stone eyes they
use to look inside, into the future, where
the war memorial statues must take up their arms
at night and shoot out stars.



Summer camp


off season, light
evening rain
turns to fog


over pond by
dawn; emergent
forms call out


each to each
as loons are
wont to do




These Barren Fields in Late Summer
after Vincent


Hay stacked besides
still water. Heat shivers


above dried fields.
Crows plunder all those


barren, exposed roots.
The sky stretched thin


as taut wire, vibrating
where wings assault


the air

Three Poems by Kenneth Vincent Walker 


The Radiance of the Sun


Kiawah Island and her
Laughing gulls in the
Radiant sun; tanning


Lotion in the corners of
My eyes, but I care not
‘Cause I’m still young.


Well, maybe not really
That young but truly so
At heart where it counts.


So mock away all you
Giddy gulls jabbering in
The noonday sun. Tho


Time is fleeting as I’ve
Been cheating death
Seemingly from day one.


My epic travels will run
Out of steam I’m afraid,
But we’ll not concern


Ourselves in such serious-
Ness nor absurdities in an
Inevitable descending run;


While basking below the
Scintillating totality of
This solar spectacular in


The radiance of the sun.




Sunburn Sacrifice


Wrapped in a towel
Shielded from neck
To toe from the sun;
Straw fedora atop
And sunglasses on.


Radiant rays much
More intensified here
Increasing my melanin
I fear. So stand clear.
Enjoy the atmosphere.


Prepare my dear to
Be subtly pan-seared.





The Shoreline
(of Our Soul)


Our last day at the
Shore was a breezy
One of course as if
The wind gusts were
Bidding us fond adieu;


And reluctant we were
To go, to leave this
Tranquil place we’ve
Come to know so well;
As waves swell upon


The shoreline of our soul.


So we flew back to where
We were once longing to
Leave anxiously eager to
Go to a tranquil place in
The sun stranded upon


The shoreline of our soul.

Two Acrostic Sonnets by Mike Mesterton-Gibbons



Itinerant Thumb?

I hoped to travel, so I raised my thumb
To hitch a ride. As cars rolled by at speed,
I tried to look not too much like a bum,
Nor like a wanted fugitive in need ...
Experienced hitch-hikers thumbed a ride
Repeatedly. I tried to ape their stance
And moved my spot to where they weren't denied,
Not realizing that I stood no chance
Till from the spot where I first stood, some guy
Took off at once. What did he know to do?
How hard is making just one car stop by?---
Unless the problem isn't what, but who!
Must I admit I'd never make the grade? ...
Back home I trudged. It's where I should have stayed!


Caroline E. Henry

Caught speeding five times in 12 weeks last year,
As I rushed round to Make Notts Safe, must I
Resign, or if I manage to steer clear
Of speed cops, can I now post-justify? ...
Lib Dems edged me last May to PCC.
I promised cops' response to any wheels
Not clocked below the posted speed would be
Effective and efficient. Now it feels
Embarrassing: when I resolved to test
How well my scheme would work, I overlooked
Explaining to my cops not to arrest
Nice, civic-minded me, and I got booked.
Resign? No way! Response was unsurpassed ...
Yet not ideal——six times drove I too fast!

Poetic Microstories

by K.A. Williams


Nap Time


She put her son to bed,
careful of his head,
“It’s nap time again,”
she said with a grin.
At exactly 12:10,
she let the man in.
He said, “What a handsome lad.
Does he look like his dad?”
“Yes, but not as tall.”
She giggled in the hall.
Later he said, “It’s been fun,
but I have to run.”
She walked him to the door
and they kissed some more.
She said, “Dinner’s at eight,
so don’t come home late.”









Bob The Burglar


Bob the burglar planned the perfect crime
He broke in a bank and stole every dime
But Bob didn’t win
Cause his mom turned him in
So now Bob’s in the pen doing time


First published in Nuthouse Magazine in 2011.








Yard Sale Blues


My spouse said, "Let's
have a yard sale one day
to get rid of some junk
we can't sell on eBay.


Like that ugly painting
your aunt gave you -
the one with the pink sea
and a seaside view."


We all spent some time
pricing various things
such as clothes, toys, 
books, and napkin rings.


The day of the yard sale
came at long last,
and my family
got out of there fast.


"Sorry, but I promised to
play tennis with my boss."
"I can't miss soccer practice
after Saturday's loss."


"If I don't' go to the mall 
with my friends, I'll just die."
So I was left on my own
when the people dropped by.


I sold lots of stuff and
thought I did really well,
till I saw the late news - "Rare
painting bought at yard sale …"




First published in Nuthouse Magazine in 2017.

DUET: ANOTHER TALE OF TWO CITIES

By Catherine Lee


This tale happened long ago, 
before ballot-count-day insurrection,
way before Patriot Act repression. 
Back when recordings only had sides.
Before you all made the gleam in your mama’s eyes.


***


"Yes I know Ms. So-and-So," I say to trumpeter from Kansas City
older brother of the famous guitarist when we're introduced.
"I've been to every Women's Jazz Festival that ever happened there."


Turns out he used to co-host radio with So-and-So 
until he moved to Boston; now he teaches privately 
and plays on Thursdays at this club we're chatting in.


We're having a really cool conversation
about this really unique thing we have in common.
We're comparing notes about the scene there
versus the scene here. He says
there IS NO scene there when there's no Women's
Jazz Festival — a couple of clubs, but some 
really fine musicians have no place to play.
Here, he says, it's supposed to be bad news, 
but there’s ten venues.


I talk about how it seems to me 
the clubs that opened there, like Yaadboids 
(that he played in during Christmas break), and Signboard,
catered to folks who showed up by the thousands 
to hear the women playing jazz.
And, I add, I almost moved there myself 
that second year 'cuz THAT 
will never happen here in Boston.


He admits those KC women worked their tails off,
and it has made a difference.


So we get to the part where I tell him
about the concert I'm producing
at Harvard's Sanders Theater end of the month.
"I'd sure like to play there," he says.
"Well, what women do you play with?" I cackle.


(I'm sorry, I don't mean to be perverse 
but I really can't help it, knowing
— and not saying — he has another choice:
he could incorporate as a nonprofit 
tax-exempt corporation
and get a grant for the
several thousand bucks it takes 
to put yourself on in concert. 
It might take 3 or 4 years.
It would be a hell of a lot easier
just to play with some women for a change,
I'm thinking when I cackle, witch-like,
smiling not at all seductively, and actually
dancing a little jig.)


He slides into explaining that the guys 
in his band have been together so long 
that it doesn't even occur to them 
to look for any new players.
Uh, huh. (This particular part of jazzman
conversations is routine and so predictable.)
"There are some really great women players, though,"
he says. “Look at Jane Ira Bloom. She seemed 
to come out of NOWHERE to jam soprano sax
at that first Festival.”
I can't help but counter that she 
came out of Boston, after she got passed over 
by the local night producer of the Globe Jazz Festival 
that year, and she was sore about it. 


He was just getting to the interesting part 
about being on the radio with So-and-So --
her assistant, really — and she tells him he's got 
to interview pianist Mary Lou Williams. 
"Yeah, I met her once, too. What did you think of her?
Did you notice how AWARE she was?"
He was just starting to explain that she pretty much stuck 
to her standard radio interview
when this cat walks up to us 
and, without the slightest hesitation, 
interrupts to ask the trumpet player 
about the recording session 
he's been doing with his brother the guitarist.


That's Boston for you.


In a different city, in Kansas City, 
the cat at least would show the courtesy
to say excuse me, and hello to the lady
before proceeding with his music buddy 
business conversation.


And in a different world, NOT a man's world,
I wouldn't have heard 'til much later 
— if at all — his answer:
that the guys have five more minutes left 
on side one, and they're planning 
a duet.


Current Bio:Catherine Lee explores poetry’s percussive jazz voice and social change activism by performing solo or with improvising musicians “on poem.” Since 1976, Lee’s multifaceted writing has appeared in print, online, and as collaborative multimedia. Her impact on Boston’s jazz scene is detailed here:
Studio Red Top: Credit Where It’s Due
Lee is currently working on a City of San Antonio Dept. of Arts & Culture-funded poetic drama called “Mentor Wonders.” Developed with Seniors In Play, a readers’ theater group where Lee has participated since 2014, her play incorporates as dreamscapes poems she’s written about mentoring public school elementary students. A final Zoom-based video performance is anticipated to be released in November 2022. Lee is soliciting critical feedback to a Work-in-Progress Screening Video version of the play until June 2022. Find Lee’s artistic profile at GetCreativeSanAntonio.

My, My, My

Poetry Collection by Kenneth Vincent Walker



My Buffalo Heart


My Buffalo heart is
Free to roam the Great
Plains of my Lake Erie


Industrial home. It has
Been so long that I’ve
Forgotten her evolving


Face, but clearly in my
Memories recall and
Embrace this wintery


Yet heartwarming place.
If you taught me anything
At all, you taught me to be


Tough, but tender enough
For empathy and to trust,
To be resilient, resourceful,


And brilliant as the stars up
Above, but most importantly
You taught me to love and


To love where I’m from.







My Father


Had I only known
That you had only
Two short years to
Live, well, I never
Would have left.


But doing so had
Changed my life’s
Trajectory in light
Of these tragedies
I have amassed.


Your influence was
Immeasurable, your
Wisdom was far
Beyond the glimmer
Of ancient stars.


You, my father
Whose well hidden
Brilliance continually
Flows through the
Veins of another…


Your only begotten son.







My Very Last Poem


That fateful day
I’ve envisioned
Most assuredly
Shall come when


I gasp my last
Decommissioned
Breath and write
My very last poem.


I’ve reached toward
The constellation of
Stars, and into the
Depths of my despair,


As my spirit is now
In transition mode
Becoming airborne
While my words burn


As flaming sapphires.

An Original Witch

By Hicham El Qendouci


1) An Original Witch

A moonlit night
A witch arrives in the name of Prune
Flying over the hazy sky
On her broom made of feathers.
An original witch...
First name of an ordinary fruit
She does not know how to do evil
For Prune nothing is normal.
She casts spells
Her wand is made of cork
Her cat is white as snow
She loves the dawn.
People are stubborn
Imagine her with a hooked nose?
Turlututu hat
Why would it be pointy?
An original witch...
The feathers of her broom
Tickle your little nose
The purrs of her puss in boots
Heal the wounds of your tormented
souls.
Without wart,  without artifice
She does not sacrifice
Abracadabra the flames crackle
Without spider in the pot.
Her house is not haunted
Light in her attic
Stars with spiders' thread
Here it is garlanded.
An original witch...
Plum flies in the sky
Her heart warmed by the sun
Accompanied by shallows, she has
wings
But who is she?
Here I found
It is a fairy Word of a sorcerer!


2) The Mythologist

On the ocean in my canoe
From our land I move away
My thoughts float happily,
I'm no longer afraid of someone joining
me.
From our land I move away
All my worries are gone
I'm no longer afraid of being joined
A mermaid has appeared.
All my worries are gone
It's in my dream
A mermaid has appeared
I made love, life is short.
It's happening in my dream
It's a gift for a mythologist
I made love, life is short
On the ocean in my canoe.


3) Undine Whispers

On the silted plinth
Of an immature moon
A desilted dream
Seeks its Delta
Open to the sea
Without mea culpa.
The sea horses blow
Unwelcome waves
Pulling on his chariot-banner
Neptune.
Feluccas draw undulating dolphins
Whistling as they sing
Marine cemeteries
By small lapping
By mermaid mumurs
Mermaids
Flow-reflux of sirens
​In their bath water.

At the twilight of the day
At the dawn of the morning.

Goran Petrovic

presents








Progress of

History















The ape invented the mace
And with it smashed the face
Of his brother, and it was then
That ape became the first man.


Man made the atomic bomb
And with it destroyed his home,
His planet, and it was then
That man became the last man.


History – that’s when the ape
Learns to kill like a pro,
It’s when a mindless brute
Learns how to be his own foe.




A Duel of Dragons


It was not about justice,
It wasn’t about who was right,
It was about pride and power,
And who had a stronger bite.


The contenders were Mister Sam
And his archrival called Lin Krem,
The world’s dragons most ferocious
Prepared to do deeds atrocious.


While Sam held a colorful banner
With stripes and many stars,
Lin Krem had a sickle and hammer
On a background as red as Mars.


They bit and clawed one another,
Mister Sam and Mister Krem Lin,
Spat fireballs supersonic
To decide who would lose and who’d win.


And when neither was about to win,
Their fireballs mightily clashed,
Unleashing all Ragnarok’s power,
And the world into pieces was smashed!


The dead world’s disappointment
At the outcome was complete,
For it wanted to see one winner,
Not both of them suffer defeat.
(And it especially didn’t desire
To see itself die in a fire.)


But if it’s for consolation,
This wasn’t about who was right,
It was about pride and power,
And who would show greater might.

---

Three Magic Poems by Kenneth Vincent Walker


Phantom Islands


A lost phantom island that
Disappears then reappears
Amid a gathering sea mist.
O where, O where have you


Been hiding all those frozen,
Frantic, electrostatic years?
From our matriarch Atlantis
To Hy-Brazil, to the tiny size


Of Manhattan Sandy Island,
We’re enthralled with a thrill.
Tho you’ve been dismissed
By the rest as mere folklore,


As if ancient cartographers
Were mistaken, inaccurate
And askew. Too far-fetched
To be labeled plausible. Too


Coincidental not to be true.




Axis Mundi


Axis mundi in Latin, or
El ombligo del mundo,
Which is Spanish for
Navel of the world.
Some may refer to it as


Jacob’s Ladder, a portal,
Or worm hole, a fifth
Dimension, connection
‘Tween Heaven and Earth,
Terra firma and that of


The infinite beyond. So
However you respond,
There’s more than meets
The eye to bedazzle the
Senses, to stimulate the


Mind to consciousness.





Pyramids of Elysium


In the outer reaches of
Elysium Planitia, Mars;
A rust colored, dust
Covered skyline hosts
Pyramids from afar.


The atmosphere thin,
Inhospitable to life as
We know it. However,
Once there was water
That microbes forgot.


Pyramids of Elysium;
Just coincidental rock?
Triangular angles do
Not lie and uncommon
In nature apart from


Reasoning unlocked.

Hats Are Not Magical

By K.A. Williams


Birthday party gigs
Pulling rabbits from a hat
Thrills the little kids

But that's not magic
It's just good entertainment
Tricks with sleight of hand

Magic is instinct
And ability to learn
From forbidden books

It must stay hidden
Cause ordinary folk fear
The paranormal

It's Our Eyes That Glow

​Poetry Collection by Saloni Choudhary



That's where I wanna be

Midnight scenes
We are burning wax
But its our eyes that glow
Black potion and roasted beans
This cave smells like, Biblichor
Such heavenly felicity
It's almost biblical
That's where I wanna be

I hate these headlights
Not knowing which indicator to beep
And traffic jams gives that flooded feeling. 
Don't these red green flashes feel sickening? 

Under a Japanese cherry tree
Sun spots on skin, Komorebi
And the moon sings us to sleep
When there is no one around to hear it
There is space for you I'll save it
That's where I wanna be

Only the sculptures are perfectly proportional
Ballerinas tutu's are made for them , not the other way
No animalistic souls are caged in that carnival
It's where the sonnets come from they say
Where rivers of creativity flows
With no archaic dams to tame it
We can be dreamers 
No need to hide it
That's where I wanna be



 We

We do not exist in hope to live in the upcoming days
Like Icarus we'll go out in blaze
We write latin love letters 
Leave them on dead poets graves
We breathe our creative endeavours 
Sing sonnets paint portraits perform in plays
We believe death by suffocation never stays
We learn to live again in immoral ways
We glue our clipped feathers
Sitting inside moonlit caves
We are not born to hide in shelters
To make our bodies silent slaves 
We do not ask how to live our days
We live forever in art displays
We are the cult of robots with errors
Broken toys and useless voice boxes
Welcome to the cult of factory rejects
We refuse to sell our souls 
For the fortunate skill of ignorance 
For the faint heartbeat of corpses
To live in a routine of perfects
We refuse to let art wait for acceptance 
We do not exist in hope to live in the upcoming days

After a Morning of Radio News


By Robert Cooperman



After a morning of Covid deaths,
millions out of work, the globe
a not so slowly boiling pot, Beth begs,


“Please, put on some Grateful Dead!”
Something with a beat and lyrics
that won’t taunt us to slit our wrists
or search for bottles of sleeping pills.


So we tap our feet to Uncle John
playing by the riverside, to poor Jed,
who’d better get back to Tennessee,
to “Ripple” and its wish, to take
all of us lost souls home.


It’s not just the stories, some tragic
as the blues and folktales: but the drums
propulsive as coal fired locomotives,
keyboards raucous as Old West saloons,
the mustang-thumping electric bass,
and above all, Garcia’s lead guitar
soaring for just the joy of flight:


antidotes to the moron anti-vaxxers,
to the debacle of Afghanistan,
the horrors in Ukraine inflicted
by a power-crazed madman,
and of course, the world spontaneously
combusting when our children
inherit the earth we’ve made
such a mess of--


the tunes are good prayers:
that the world won’t end,
at least not today.

The Magical Mystery Tour 

A Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin


​
“rock and rollers with one foot in the grave”
 
long haired hippies in bell bottoms
playing the wrong redneck roadhouse,
booked into perdition out of cynicism
or ignorance, their repertoire acid rock
and protest folk: Buffalo Springfield
rounded off with The Animals,
“We gotta get out of this place,
if it’s is the last thing we ever do…”
not referring to Vietnam where it was
the unofficial anthem of the on-the-ground
grunt but to the here and now gig when
the plug was pulled on their amps, light
show disconnected, electric guitars useless
for music but of some practical value
as weapons once stuff started getting broken,
pool balls turned into missiles; cues made into
cudgels and spears, long necks deadly weapons
for hand-to-hand combat, bar sappers dressed
in torn denim, vests and motorcycle boots,
faces flushed from a lifetime of serious drinking
in holes in the wall more dangerous and darker
than this one, where even John Law would be
reluctant to go once shit turned ugly, bartenders
down for the count with head wounds or worse,
waitresses way beyond screaming, not that
anyone could hear a thing above the firefight
on the floor, the shuffling madness, a crowd
totally out of control.
 
 
 
                       
A Sixties Romance:
with words from Charles Bukowski
 
             The weekends that began earlier each week
 and ended later;
 the new and the old, turning on,
dropping out, going more than a
 little crazy;
             the war that never seemed to end and our
                   friends who went to fight and
never came back;
             their letters in a shoebox with the rolling
                   papers and the love beads, black arm
                   bands with peace signs, draft notices
 to appear;
 risk taking on the highways, everyone behind
 the wheel A Rebel Without a Cause,
 a Wild One with no sense of direction,
     a MASH unit in a snow bank, dead
 of winter, blood rock and frostbite;
             shooting pool in some redneck bar on the edge
 of Deliverance not afraid to die;
             stoned crazy to acid rock, 8 miles high and falling
 fast, writing it all down and forgetting
 how to read;
             The White Album and the Number 9;
 Our Lady of Gone Tomorrows, a barefoot nun
 with a tambourine and a jug of California
 white, collecting quarters to buy a map back
of nowhere;
             Helter Skelter and the zombie chicks from Hell;
             A bad trip, a bummer, run, run the Homecoming
 Queen's got a gun;
             Pistol Pete and the tail gunner geek killing machine
living next door, out of uniform but not out
                   of the jungle and he doesn't know what to do;
             it was a romantic grand game, a magical mystery
 tour full of the full of discovery Bukowski
 would say.
 
 

 
It was 40 years ago today
 
You know what that means
to me?  Means I’m getting
old.  I was a rookie cop then,
hot to trot, hey, what did I
know about a British Invasion?
When the Beatles first came over
here they played Forest Hills.
I was one of the extra security detail
they had deployed to protect
“The Boys.” “Expect crazy fans.”
they told us.  “Expect a lot of
yelling and screaming and girls
going crazy trying to get at the band
when they weren’t passing out.
Your job is to make sure nothing
happens to the band.  And watch out
for long hairs!” They kind of left
that part hanging or else, we weren’t
listening by then.  Of course, we
had no idea what a long hair was,
we’d never actually seen one. It
was like 1964, what did we know
about long-haired men? The only
one of those any of us had ever
seen went by the name of Gorgeous
George and he worked in a wrestling
rink at the Garden, that’s the old
Madison Square Garden up on 50th Street.
So when this crazy concert business
is over and we’re linking arms to
form a human wall to protect these
guys from the screaming banshees,
I see this guy with a mop head haircut
and I’m getting ready to clock him
with my night stick when the guy next
to me says, “Not him, asshole, he’s one
of the band.”  I came this close to
becoming famous as the rookie city cop
who rearranged George Harrison’s face.
 
 

 
Work Anxiety Dream: St Patrick’s Day Ten Years After
 
First the manager removes all the cash
from the drawer, opens the door to
the bar to let the blinding light in says,
“You’ll be all right for awhile.
I’m just going to the bank.”
Then the bar is full but it isn’t a real,
working bar, but a combination lunch
counter with plywood-on-sawhorses
makeshift space in a rough horseshoe
shape, glass ashtrays already half-full
on top and most of the patrons have brought
their own but everyone wants more,
all at once, and there’s no place to begin;
who to start with? Which part of this ugly
crowd to serve? And they all seem to be
the barred-for-life guys, not a woman
among them, and they all want change
for services, real and imagined, then there
is this horrible noise, electronic feedback
through enormous speakers, microphones
short circuiting, giving off a strange smell
like singed hair, melting wires and burnt
rubber, a noise that segues into a black
sound like the Number Nine track from
the White Album, the dead Beatles are mixing
the sound right there in the room amid
the choking smoke and hostile vibes and
the manager says, “See, I said you would
be all right.” And she laughs, though no one
is getting the drinks they ordered, there is
no draft beer, no bottles, no money changing
hands just a poisonous haze, the feedback,
a number nine dream, then just the number nine,
laughter, faces filled with pain.
 
 
 

 
     Self-Portrait with Mysterians
 
     They said, as family members, they always
     remembered me as the song, "96 Tears"
     a sixties tunes by the Mysterians.
 
     The Mysterians was also a Grade B Japanese
     feature film based on the principle, "If you
     give an alien an inch, he will take a mile."
 
     And eventually he will challenge the world.
     Was all part of magical mystery tur time resolved.
 
     Thank God, uncharacteristically, the UN
     got its act together and saved the earth.
 
     Strange how world history and the B
     movie have blended together and the whole
     process, while obscene by many standards,
     is not rated, being the stuff news is made of.
 
     Half my family that related to that song is
     now dead.  It's not history and it certainly
     isn't news but it's how I feel; I'd like those
     96 tears back.  I want to find out where it all
     went wrong.
 
 
 
 
 

Goran Petrovic & His Lesson in History



An Aged Norseman’s Song


Now the days are gone, those good days of yore
When I cleaved my foemen and speared the boar,
Gone is the time of my strength and glory,
Not much remains to be told of my story;
For just as a wolf, when his teeth become blunt,
When he can no longer kill or hunt,
Yearns to be spared from decrepit years
And thus charges the bear, whom otherwise he fears,
So do I wish to be slain in battle,
Where axes clash and hauberks rattle,
Rather than die depressed and alone,
Far from the fields where weapons are drawn.
Hence, once again, though gray-haired and weak,
I’ll march into battle, brave death I shall seek,
As always in battle, much blood will be shed,
Only this time I, too, will count among the dead,
And when at last I fall, when the foe stabs my chest,
To Valhalla I’ll go, where all the brave rest.
There I shall sit at Father Odin’s side
And, bracing for battle, my time I will bide
Until the beginning of the world’s winter,
When swords will cut and shields will splinter,
And all men and gods, whether good or bad,
Will, in a cosmic war, perish, fall dead;
And by the time all the nine realms are destroyed,
With nothing remaining but a dead void,
I will have played my einherjar’s part
And died one last time with a happy heart,
For such is the path of us, who live by the sword,
We must twice die in battle, to please Odin, our lord.




Spartacus’ Wish


Bold Spartacus charged the field,
He first won and later fell,
But his wish has been unfulfilled
To this day, as we can tell.


Today, as in days of old,
Many still ardently crave
For freedom, while the rich hold
All power and exploit the slave.


No man has managed to save
The poor, no matter how fervent
In his struggle to free the slave –
The servant is still a servant.




What is the Purpose of History?


What is the purpose of history?
To me this is a big mystery.
Did we evolve from the apes for no other cause
But to fight each other like brutes with bombs instead of claws?
It seems we’ve seized the Earth only to pollute
Her natural beauties, to ravage her and loot…
And why is this so, when man’s power is great,
When we could, instead, beautify her wild state?


Is the age of the human race’s rule
Nature’s telos or the age of the fool
In which wildlife will perish and, also, we
Will, through our fault, cease to be?
Are we guiding this Earth toward a utopian goal
Or are we on the path to killing her as a whole?
I wish to know if man’s story will be a success
Or the world as we know it will end in a fiery mess.

Alan Catlin's History Lesson



Spalding's White Stockings Begin Hurling Baseballs
at the Great Pyramid, Much to the Annoyance of
Their Egyptian Guides, Feb 9, 1889




What could they be thinking?
Those Egyptian guides, hands
raised in anger or is it disbelief?
as the young men dressed in suits
wearing white starched shirts and black
ties despite the desert heat,
disport, throwing small white balls
made from the sewn hides of animals
at the peak of the Great Pyramid,
trying to tease the tip as close as
possible without actually touching.
They are catching miscast,
rebounding balls in their cupped hands,
dark eyes shielded from the sun
by the lids of their sweat stained
felt hats. Despite the warnings,
the clamoring guides, the game continues,
pure sport for feckless youths,
heedless to the message of time,
of history, of the sacred nature
of the ground upon which they play.
Later, these same men are photographed
lounging on various carved ledges
of the Sphinx, leaning casually on
baseball bats or lounging, reclining
on their sides, reposing as the young
will, ignorant of the riddles of time
contained by the sculpture, by those
sightless, sand blasted eyes.




Jean Genet Our Lady of the Flowers
at the Chicago Democratic Convention 1968


Was he in town to see the American
political system in action or was it
simply to witness a new kind of street
dada, absurdist theater in action,
a play for all centuries and seasons:
The Democratic National Convention Live,
Chicago 1968? Certainly, he hadn't been
smuggled into the country from Canada
to hear Phil Ochs sing a particularly
poignant version of “A Close Circle of Friends”
among the charging lines of police
and National Guard or to hear Allen Ginsberg
chanting OOOm through the tear gas haze
of Collins Park at dawn or the see Ed Sanders
with or without The Fugs and their shadows,
the unwashed informants, two of the thousand
strong that came with the rabble rousers,
dirty tricksters and all the others carrying
signs and singing songs along the drawn
battle lines. Dressed in leather, he could
have been someone's fancy man, some thin gypsy
thief poised to evade the ending of a no
longer soft parade, an incursion provided
by Mayor Daley and his goon squads ordered
to turn a mid-summer's night dream into a
nightmare of split heads and confusion a whole
generation could never forget. How could it
have been that no one knew he was there?
among so many government spies and their
counterpart, the new radical Left? And, what
did he come away with besides a whiff
of street warfare and chemical controls?
his taste for old world decadence and fashionable
politics slaked? A sense that nothing is
gained or lost when the issue is already decided,
the government shackled by its own chains,
the world divided by a continental rift
much more easily and tastefully observed
from afar in some four-star hotel with Bill
Burroughs, sipping champagne and seeing it all broadcast live in living color at someone else's expense.




John Hersey's Hiroshima


There is no Romance possible, just two cultures
coming together in love as in “Hiroshima
mon Amour”, the layers of sand that cover
them a grainy second skin, atomic dust,
as abrasive and as final as a woman consigned
to dunes, forever trapped, a siren luring
men to share a terminal place, impossible
to escape, as final as the shape of a man
impressed at ground zero upon a free standing
wall, the survivors stumbling through
a smoking hell of ruins, many already dead
but unaware, still walking, radiation
sickness inside like the others who would
live, carrying a disease it would take years
to fully realize and impart; these are
the pictures in the museum, the ultimate
atrocity exhibit that are openly displayed
for all to see, for the love of the children,
for the love of all mankind.




Robert Capa's Steinbeck Man in the Middle 1947


Who are these men on either side
of the author? The younger, whose dark
hair and moustache is Chaplinesque
but clearly no funnyman, given the framed
portrait of Lenin on the wall behind them,
and the other, completely bald man,
immaculately dressed, clothes proud
and self-assured, almost stereotyped,
transparently disguised as one of Us,
when he is clearly, one of Them.
Certainly, the only one likely to survive
the pogroms is Steinbeck, wryly smiling
for the camera, leaning on a carved wooden
cane for support, slightly hung over,
and his survival depends upon him being
a well-known American of the intellectual
class. After the purges, the others would
be airbrushed out of the portrait,
along with the photo of Lenin, leaving only
the bald man, posed in this bare, unfriendly
room not unlike a place used for interrogation,
his off-hand holding the lapel of his tailored
suit, moments before the next round of executions.





Wernher von Braun Watches Early Rocket Launches
from the Cape Canaveral Lighthouse




What did he see from his vantage point
on the widow's walk, leaning on the metal
railing of the decommissioned Cape Canaveral
Lighthouse, that prototypical modern man,
a rocket scientist realizing dreams of parabolic
flight or were the arcs of light merely self-
propelled projectiles, spectacular examples
of the futility of human endeavor? Or something
akin to Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow,
a mathematician accurately charting the V1
and V2 rocket falls during the London Blitz
according to theories of random distribution,
saving the final, terrifying fact for last:
"a screaming comes across the sky", making
the Big Bang theory of mass destruction,
just another element of surprise that follows
the awe inspiring, fireworks display? Or was what
he saw something so simple as to be unthinkable,
something as human as pride in a job well done,
science in action, totally divorced from politics,
but what happens once the weapons are directed,
set in motion and released? No one knows for sure.










Frank Hurley, Photographer of the Imperial
Trans-Antarctica Expedition Shoots
Shackleton's Men


near The Endurance ensconced just before
the Final upheaval, the fatal resounding
crack of boat crush, of drowned sailors
released from frozen, open crypts; near
the vise-gripped ghost ship, masts white-
coated bone stripped of sails, riggings
bare sinew exposed, ligaments frostbitten,
immobile, unwavering as sculpted marble,
polished stone, amid ice rock; near the ending,
crew members skating on rudely fashioned blades,
make-shift poles for hockey sticks, cask bungs
for pucks, a rare moment of levity here,
marooned perhaps for all time, games to be
played to clear conclusions; this far from
civilization and no clear way home, why not?

Little White Lies

by Kenneth Vincent Walker



History is often made by
The unlikely, the unsightly,
And re-edited, re-imagined
In a more favorable light.


For “All the world’s a stage,”
And a compelling tale is all
The rage if told with a pinch
Of panache, a dash of spice.


So what is truth that isn’t
Quite so true, but then who
Are you in fact to dispute
Our little white lie musings?


For if an ol’ yarn is to stand
The test of time we must
Blindly believe what we’re
Told and not be so inclined


To question the directions

Hedy Lamarr

By David Thorpe


 Born into a Jewish family
in Austro-Hugarian Vienna,
the year 1914, outbreak of war,
Hedwig Eva María Kiesler

first saw light of day
*
A starlet of Austrian cinema
in a film of dubious renown,
a scene of naked skin an outrage,
a skandal of the time.
"Ektase" the name, 1933 the year
*
The treat of Nazi annexation of Austria
her Jewish blood a mortal danger,
she fled 1937 from the goose-step boots,
to Paris then to london, finally

to the Mecca of Movies, Hollywood
*
There they adored and acclaimed her
the most beautiful of all,
the Queen of Celluloid.
In Samson and Delilah, 1949,
marked her post-war coronation
*
Years before in World War Two
sweet revenge against Nazi aggression,
as an inventor did she claim fame,
the (RCS),  Radio Controlled System
for torpedoes, her war contribution

David Thorpe ©®


In 1997 Hedy Lamarr received
the Electronic Frontier Foundation Pioneer Award
In 2014 Hedy Lamarr was inaugurated posthumous
in the National Inventors Hall Of Fame


Chapeau! Hedwig Eva Maria Kesler

Ridley Scott’s Utopianism

By Goran Petrovic



Ridley Scott’s “Kingdom of Heaven”
Is a fine movie indeed,
It conveys a sagacious message
That the whole world must heed!


It tells us peace is salvation
Rather than hate and war –
Agnosticism unbiased
Instead of dogmatic lore.


We need to respect our neighbors,
Whether black, tawny or white,
And chase away all darkness
With tolerance, which is the light.


When we learn to esteem each other,
We’ll make a heavenly kingdom
On earth, we’ll be brother to brother
And fulfill the leper king’s wisdom…


New Jerusalem will then come,
Made not through a divine wonder,
But with reason, and all humans
Will be united, not split asunder…


The kingdom of conscience will reign,
A kingdom of the olive and dove,
Crusades and wars will give way
To tolerance, kindness, and love…


And in the Kingdom of Heaven
There will be a lasting peace,
The human race’s ripe apex
And a time of spiritual bliss.


Only mutual understanding
Can save our civilization,
Divisions by race and religion
Bring only doom and damnation.


It’s for this very reason
That Scott’s film should be applauded,
Its wisdom celebrated,
Its far sight loudly lauded!




The Last 500 Samurai

By Goran Petrovic



Five hundred samurai bravehearts
On a breezy, light-green field,
Five hundred lions determined
To die fighting, and not to yield…


They are the last of their kind,
Won’t go without a fight,
Against all odds they will charge,
Not fearing the enemy’s might…


And when they fall, we’ll know
That the cause for which they died
Was just, for they fought for honor
And to preserve their samurai pride.


It’s inspiring to see these men
In defiance of their foes,
See the courage of the samurai
As they do what they freely chose…


As they fight rifle-bearing hordes
With their very own souls – their swords.

Smoking Hot Hollywood Stars

Poems by Mike Mesterton-Gibbons


Noble Nonagenarians

Who was Christopher Plummer? A chap
Who excelled and won trophies——to cap
It an Oscar ... Yet I
Will remember this guy
As not bad playing Captain von Trapp!

All your life, Betty White, you have been
The great Hollywood comedy queen ...
And your living so long
Proves it cannot be wrong
To avoid eating anything green!

Sidney Poitier leapt a high bar.
Once a dishwasher, he rose so far
After being self-schooled
That in movies he ruled
As a path-breaking Hollywood star!


Columbo's Missus

Columbo has a missus he reveres.
Off screen she often solves his cases, though
LAPD's most fabled wife appears
Unseen on-screen: her face can never show!
More fashion-conscious than her husband, she
Belongs in Hollywood. Can no one share
One look at how she dresses? Always he
Shows up alone at each black-tie affair—--
Most autographs for her are ones he gets! ...
I think I know why she's not on TV:
Some miserly accountants, fearing debts,
Slimmed budgets. Though they cover clothes you see
Unkemptly worn by him, the lines she spoke—--
Superbly dressed——would make the series broke!

​Alan Catlin takes us to ... 


Hollywood


His last screen test must
not have gone well which
went a long way towards explaining
his confusion. 3 AM February
mornings in Albany calls for
a different kind of garb other
than his khaki Land's End
shorts, Banana Republic polo
shirt with sleeves cut off and
an artificial plunging neckline
to better show off his gold chains
and lame tanning hut bronzed skin.
Stood drinking his straight up
Absolut martinis with his pinky
finger extended. In some bars,
posturing like that would be
reasonable cause for initiating
sudden death syndrome but
in his case, it wouldn't be
necessary. By dawn he would just
be another frozen, roadside
monument to mans' incredible
capacity for stupidity and
monumental pride.








Hot Stuff


She was real hot stuff:
Hair by Sassoon
Face by Revlon
Wardrobe by Calvin Klein.
Profile by People.
Was the leading lady
everyone knew the name of.
Wanted something
that would Light
the Inner Fire,
if I knew what she meant.
I guessed that I did.
Made her a Bloody Mary
with enough Tabasco Sauce
and horseradish in it
to kill a full grown
German Shepherd in
the prime of life.
When I asked her if
her drink was all right
she was speechless,
had tears in her eyes,
was fanning the air
all the way down her
throat by Mt. St. Helens.








Donnie Darko: The Director’s Cut


I met Donnie way back when we
were kids, Little League to be exact.
He was kind of doofy even then,
always staring up into space,
chewing on the palm of his hands,
strings of his glove, stuff like that.
Some people are born to play right
field for life. know what I mean?
As he grew up, he kind of fit in,
but it’s not like we hung out:
I mean what a BOMC, QB of the
football team, escort to the prom queen,
all around cool guy have to do with
a weirdo like him? I mean, really,
a seven-foot talking rabbit. Who eats
people and stuff, give me a break.
And this time space continuum
worm hole thing, who even knew what that
stuff meant? And all that witchcrafty stuff,
here’s a guy who obviously stayed up way
too late watching bad movies and gaming
with the role-playing geeks. I’m surprised
the guy even got a girl to like him, even
a little bit. Can you imagine making out
with that. He might make rabbit food
out of you when the lights went out;
that would be his idea of a joke, now wonder
she ended up not remembering anything
about him. Leave it Darko to come up
with an anti-date rape drug where you not
only don’t get the girl, she forgets all about
you. Like completely. I heard something
about him being committed, you know
like to a Looney Bin; most kids just drop out
of school or get sent to a juvey detention
center but not Darko, he gets snatched by
guys with big nets and white suits. Or so I
heard. I’d believe anything when it comes
to that fruit loop. I don’t feel comfortable
even being in the same year book with him.
I can’t wait until he’s just an unpleasant
memory that has nothing to do with me.
What a loser.




Hollyweird


After the triple x rated punch bowl
incident at one of those So. Cal.
parties where some fried, left-over-
from-the-60’s, hippie chick, part
Manson girl, part Goldie Hawn,
thought it would be really cool to drop
this experimental mushroom based
homemade drug into the communal swill,
stuff that made blotter acid seem like
kid’s aspirin by comparison. After that,
everyday life had become something
that came directly out of underground LA,
Hollyweird Central, sort of like feeling
as is he had been starring in a movie
of his life he hadn’t seen yet with
an off-the-wall insane title life Wolfen 2,
with Klaus Kinski as the lead actor
in his place on the big screen, and
directed by Werner Herzog. Scene
after meticulously set scene, of Kinski
ripping the throats out of the standard
hot bodies bushwhacking in some woods,
or looking for a clearing for a mosquito
feeding frenzy shag or the horror movie
cliché of cliches, necking in a car parked
in the Brain Damaged Victims Only marked
space, totally oblivious to the impending menace,
as the eerie score by that Psycho dude,
Bernard Hermann, gets louder and more
ominous and you know, in your heart,
Bernard was one of those guys who definitely
would not flinch when a horse fly walked
across his face, even as the close up reveals
carnage among the gear shifts. Every full
moon like this, when the body hair grows
longer and the need to kill is a blood red
cloud blacking out the last remaining light.




This Sporting Life


All of six foot seven, brought up
since he was fourteen on the back
pages of The Daily News, NY Post,
grossly overweight after a summer
of beer league softball, occasional
shoot-arounds and pick up games on
forbidden playground turf, three time
All American, first team and runners
up, guaranteed, no cut, five year deal,
signed, sealed and delivered despite
injury shortened rookie year. Now,
a week away from training camp, in some
Upstate N.Y. bar ordering Kool Aid shots
for his hoop buddies, a couple of thousand
in twenties on the wood he leaves for his
woman to bar hop with the boys,
his future assured.






Dark Passage


“It’s a damn shame you have to be bothered
with breathing.” K. Patchen




In noir movie night, on silver
trolley car diner stool, slouched
over coffee spilled counter,
fried eggs and bacon sandwich
smells. Time has lost all meaning
on dim lighted, stale air edged
by neon, leaking definition, fading
into endless grease coated patterns
of shadow and light, of radio loop
tapes crackling static, storm front
from nowhere, tornado thick and
churning. Unmoving waitress,
dead eyed and a cigarette break
shy of frozen in place forever.
Distant sirens and barking dogs,
precarious, no hope tower of loose
change and spilled shaker salt,
torn into bits tickets and pay-as-you-go
chit, face down by soiled spoons says
Thank You Come Again but no one
expects you back or to believe what
it says. Fade to black.

Only In Hollywood

By Kenneth Vincent Walker

​

In the Hollywood
Version, typically
In disaster flicks,


The world all bands
Together against a
Common evil threat


Like a pandemic.


This flawed theory
Naively discounts
Man’s selfishness.


For Man is the only
Creature that will
Die for vanity and


Pride than to submit.

Seek the Light

By Jake Cosmos Aller



Seek the light
My friend,
Seek the light


The light of the universe
The light of peace and happiness.
The cosmic good of the universe.


The ancient battle
Between Good and evil
Light and darkness
Life and death
Love and hate.
War and peace.


Seek the light of love
Seeking love
It is all around you
It is all in you.


Open your soul
And let the light
Of the universe
Flood into your soul.


Seek the cosmic light
My son, if you think it is right
If you think the light
Is the same,
As the light of the Christian faith.
You would be right.


If you think it is Light
Of the Buddhist faith
You would be right.


If you think it is Allah’s light
You would be right.


If you think.
It is Shiva’s light
You would be right.


If you think
It is God’s light
You would be right.


It's the same light
Of the universe
Which shines on us all.


Regardless of our faith
Or lack of faith,
We can all receive the light.


The light of the universe
It's flawless
We all seek the light
And it is right
To seek the light.


The light of the universe
Is waiting for you
It is all for you.


And if you find
The light of the universe
You will find love
Peace and happiness
It is your birthright,


You will find that
After you die
The Light will fill you
And take you
To the next world.


Seek the light
It is waiting for you.


Wake up and
Embrace your fate
Seek the light on this date.

Two Acrostic Sonnets 

By Mike Mesterton-Gibbons


Another New Year


Another year soon ends. It brought great hope
New vaccines would send Covid on its way.
Our hopes have since been dashed: although we cope,
The virus has announced it's here to stay ...
High hopes COP26 would make all states
Emit less carbon and stop mining coal
Remain just hopes: the planet still awaits
Negotiated cures to make it whole ...
Each year begins with hope. Years often end
With disappointment: hopes go unfulfilled.
Years always end with holidays, which lend
Enchantment to our lives, as we rebuild
Again, and count our blessings. Festive cheer
Renews our hope for better things next year!




One For The Queen


On doctor's orders, gin with French vermouth
No longer is a cocktail for the Queen.
Elizabeth has faced a sober truth—--
Forgoing tipples with her day's routine!
Old age is not the time to swear off booze:
Red wine's a comfort when your hair is grey—--
Those doctors do seem cruel to refuse
Her majesty her snifter once a day! ...
Empathic Brits intuit that the Queen's
Quotidian Dubonnet must be supped
Up for her, if herself she lacks the means ...
Explaining why Dubonnet sales have upped
Enormously, as thoughtful Brits are seen
Now drinking one each day——one for the Queen!

Southern Family Traditions

By K.A. Williams


On New Year's Eve, the sparkling wine is flowing,
and the Christmas tree lights are glowing.
Take decorations down New Year's Day.
Be sure to store them safely away.
Cook black-eyed peas, greens, and pork to eat.
Dress your best, you have family to greet.

Auld Anxiety

by Kenneth Vincent Walker




Standing upon the precipice
Of a savage grave new year,
We are ravaged, riddled and
Rattled by a new primordial
Fear. What we hear of our
Impending future while our
Lives were comatose and lax,
Which shall surprise and arise
With a vengeance to leave us
Dead or dying in our tracks.


That auld anxiety, old habits
Die hard, as we slip between
The cracks with noise makers
A’blaring, and confetti knee
Deep before we get our forty
Whacks. All this negativity
Has me so bitter and so blue,
But there’s precious little I can
Do. I hate this feeling down in
The dumps, but I must grin
Somehow and take my lumps.


I must break free and turn it
Around, and place my feet
Upon some firmer ground.
There’s light in the darkness
Once a candle is lit. For the
Future’s unwritten, we can
Change all of it. Then again
Maybe just some of it. What
Pertains to us and our sur-
Roundings. Our presumed


Potential innocence with the
Baying sounds of the hounds
A’hounding. I do declare so
Resounding, but my heart
Just won’t stop pounding.
‘Tis the new year that we
Fear, and we always fear
What we cannot hear, and
Cannot see and is drawing
Near…drawing near…


Drawing near…drawing…

"Winter Sunset, Painting by David Thorpe


January

By David Thorpe

 
The month of Janus shrouded in darkness greets
on the threshold of a new born year,
a month, as written in days of yore,

to commemorate an epiphany

Arctic inclemency is January´s fate,
trapped hopes in icicles, released on milder days,

and window paintings of frosty crystals
add beauty to an  insistent drabness

Uninvited visitors infringe on January´s hospitality,
storm clouds, whose torrential pluvial tears,
as arrows from Crécy´s longbow archers,
ravage mercilessly over routed terrain

Yet, insurgent rays of a bragging sun,
an ephemeral regent in a celestial azure,

bless us with invigoration to venture forth
and fill our lungs with goodness

With each fall of snow discretion does this month bestow,
attiring with a wedding gown of virgin white

the nakedness of forest and parkland,

an annual affirmation of the benevolence

of my friend January.
​
 David Thorpe ©®

I’ve Found a Happy Medium

by

​Teresa Ann Frazee



I see a masterpiece
There’s no painting there
Gave birth to an image
Conceived from thin air


The stark white canvas
I recently primed
Requires hundreds of brushstrokes
Before my name is signed


Easels on the roof
Under a steel studded sky
Dabs of pigment vibrate
When the L train flies by


A swirling spectrum of colors
In a torrid affair
I stand back
To watch tempera’s flare


With delicate balance I walk
Between false and genuine worlds
Like a trapeze artist on a tightrope
Of simulated pearls


My self portrait
Doesn’t look like me
Looks more like
The person I want to be


Dali, Monet and I don’t belong
In the same breath
I draw from their well
For a drop of their depth


Their creative spirit
Is never laid to rest
Remembered always
As times honored guest




Downstairs a pair of old jeans
Go around in the dryer
Got them cheap at a store
That had a fire


Wore them during
Periods of blues and reds
Now purple stains
Run through their threads


Raw umber is caked
Under my nails
Compared to most
My personal hygiene pales


When I get near
The neighbor’s daughter
Her expressions of a lamb
Being led to slaughter


She tells me
I keep nocturnal hours
And of spellbound days
My art devours


That I eat my sandwich
With a spoon
Of course lunch
Is never at noon


I sing songs
Without the words
My acoustic style
Is simply for the birds


Walk up the street
While everyone jogs down
I’m as strange as a biography
Without a proper noun


I don’t serve
Sophisticated wine
And my scruffy old bandana
Hints of turpentine




Told her, her hair color
Was burnt sienna from the tube
It was meant to compliment
But she took it as rude


She’s looking for
A wedding ring buyer
All she’ll get from me
Is pseudo intellectual satire


Saving up for
A new palette knife
Not in the market
For a high maintenance wife


She says I am
Frightfully aware of being
That even in a thousand years
She’ll never see what I’m seeing


She wants to have lots of money
And pay with plastic
Anything more than posing for me
Would be way too drastic


Have a mixed breed
He keeps a decent watch
Now as my loyal model
I find he is top–notch


A yellow streak runs
Down his back
Makes up with beauty
For any courage he may lack


If he knew his portrait
Was an award winner
He would always expect
Steak served for dinner


He gnawed at mom’s fruit cake
Which makes a perfect paperweight
My irreverence caught on
Cause I’ve received no gifts of late




The clay like confection
Wound up as a door stop
That gets a laugh
Even from my pop


Could have followed pop
And worked with a wrench
The scenario has
My teeth in a clench


He’s retired now
With rough idle hands
That reveal a history
Of life’s many demands


I would have known
Those hands as being mine
With a hard luck story
For every line


Brother came by
He wears Armani
Hates his life
But loves the money


He lives in the hills
With his wife and kid
Auctioned off his soul
To the highest bid


A novelist he was
Never to become
So to the ravages of alcohol
He did succumb


He wakes up on
The lonely side of the bed
I’d consider him a loner
‘Cept for the mob inside his head


Sweet temptation
Lured him under
If he was a graphic writer
Is left to wonder




Now he’s a ghost of a writer
With destructive taste
The choice was his
To wade in waste


He loved a twisted plot
The mystery of a locked door
He put his words away
Now he’s not cool anymore


I dream I meet a gypsy
By the railroad gate
She met my brother once
But untied the knot of fate


She reads my palm
For a gold token
Speaks my lingo fluently
With English that’s broken


We walked the Painted Desert
Saw Georgia in a muslin gown
She said, “Come on in my adobe
And set your bones right down


You came for words of wisdom
I know only of this
Choose the world that best suits you
Then you’ll know total bliss”


I asked where Stieglitz was
On this imaginary day
She said he was in the darkroom
Printing with Man Ray


A bleeding heart
She wore on her sleeve
Gave the flower to my dream gypsy
Then we had to leave


My dream gypsy was called away
And prepared to go
To appear in another dream
For a poet she didn’t know




“It happens”, she said,
“From time to time
I’ll shake him off
And you’ll be exclusively mine”


I asked what she does
Between dreamer’s calls
She said she critiques graffiti
On the subway walls


Was concerned for my subterranean muse
“Don’t worry” she said, “I’m not frail
Was born in the Bronx
Near the third rail”


The violined darkness
Traced her bohemian silhouette
My eyes pried open by waking
Becomes a daily regret


Wish I could say my brother
Took his words to ink
Life for him is good
Cause he gave up the drink


That The Museum
Of Modern Art will call
Offering to sponsor
My solo show in the fall


But my neighbor sinced moved
And took his daughter
Heard she married a man
For the things he bought her


And I met someone
Wearing dark wrap around shades
Stood six feet tall
Cause she was in rollerblades


She rolled in my opening
With a glossy Mona Lisa smile
She’s my type alright
Tells time with a sundial


I invited her upstairs
For etchings to view
Now my address is
Where her mail is sent to


Better fold up the easel
Up on the roof
Dog’s howling at the wind
But there’s no scientific proof


Catch the downtown train
In an inspirational snooze
To Andy’s factory
With my smiling gypsy muse


Those used to be highs and lows
Were endless tedium
But with my dream gypsy
I’ve found a happy medium.

The Incognito Lounge

Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin


Galway Kinnell Asked to Be an Intermediary
Between Albert Camus and William Faulkner
Shortly Before Their Deaths


The author of The Sound and the Fury sits,
hunched over the cafe table completely
absorbed by the visions contained in
the dregs of his triple whiskies,
oblivious to all else. Could it be he
is lost in the imaginary geography of
a Mississippi of the mind, charting
the hidden depths? Or is he merely inert,
deadened by the continual sledging
of a liquid muse? What could Camus,
in the same cafe, have wished to impart,
stalled by his lack of a common language,
asking the fledgling poet Kinnell to
intercede and translate? Roused from
the depths of his cups, a barely focusing
Faulkner regards the poet saying,
"Tell him, I am a farmer. Nothing else."
What are we to make of this near meeting?
these three writers cast adrift in a boat
of words without oars, two soon to be
dead and the other, prepared to intercede,
unable to interject or to express?






Mass Card of St. Anne Found in the Pages of Ellmann's
Yeats, The Man and His Masks


Marking the place between pages 168 and 169;
the marriage of Maude Gonne when the poet,
rejected, was nearly mad with despair
and a grief well beyond that of death.
His was a life without meaning or, so it seemed,
raging as a Lear would, trying on the tragic
masks of drama, one after the next,
striving for the perfect fit, crying out
with altered voices, creating a focus
of Greek choruses that spilled out from
inside to fill the printed page.
The pious face of St. Anne suggests a
long life of redemption for those who wait,
deciphering the runes of an intractable will.
Years later, Yeats will offer himself to
the daughter of Maude and be rejected
in kind, he content to marry, instead,
a woman blessed with the gift of automatic writing.
Inscribing a vision, the poet sees
the gyre of history in self-contained spirals
that move the lips, the dark receding face
behind the man inside the mask.




Frederick Church, Landscape Artist


Each room in his Persian inspired dream
house, Olana, is a form of interior landscape
painting, Chinese puzzles stacked like
interlocking parts leading into a maze
of colors where only light can be extracted
and blueprints drawn with white inks
on parchments stretched thin as dried
skin, visions of a new kind of architecture
are conceived on. Tunneling further inward,
the essential fire at the center of creation,
is a Hudson River school of painting
in a fifth dimension without boundaries where
walls are an infinity of mirrors;
only by drawing new outlines for perception.




Lucia Joyce’s Star Light, Star Bright


Lucia, on her name, to Samuel Beckett, "it means
light, like Paris, the City of Light, you know."


Silhouetted in full moon light,
a tall, thin wraith dressed in faded
black watch flannel, a home spun
shawl for a wrap like a thick
but porous length of skin.
Inert as stone, her mind contains
the paradox of dance, a new age music
scored for a rock orchestra: Hebophrenia
Live! sung by pitiless female voices
and a chorus of mixed demons.
Staring deep into her beloved's eyes
she says, "Lucia, the light, don't you
see the stars shining there?"






Dorothy Parker Meets Barfly in the Incognito Lounge




"You’re so vain, you probably think
this song is about you." Carly Simon




She would be considered overdressed and
out of place, sitting at the end of a
too dark bar, chain smoking cigarettes,
playing with the hard edges of twin gold
necklaces, if it were not for her total
absorption with how the olives in her ninth
martini seem suspended in a clear but elastic
medium, slowly rising and falling in time
to some distant, dark, unearthly music
of their own. Eyes unblinking, impervious
to movement or to the smoke, nothing matters
but the staring, not even the rough, calloused
hand or the deep, whiskey voice dragged out
from within the craggy, pock marked face,
'What brings a nice lady like you to a dive
like this?' Her silence is a kind of reproach,
an answer in itself, or is it just that she
is so completely ossified by all that gin,
she has lost the will to speak or to move?
Frozen that way, together, they are a miniature
mimicking a sculpted stone. They seem made
for each other, inextricable, inseparable,
as one, forever.




Gerard Manly Hopkins in Attendance at
a Performance of Mozart's Don Juan
Embarks on a Voyage of Life


He feels rootless, cast adrift in an
open boat to be buffeted by an elemental
surge of tides and a ravaging wind.
Unfurling a meager sail in his mind
salvages nothing, accomplishes less,
confronting the inevitable, unknowable storm.
There are no words in his vocabulary
to define the sins revealed on stage
either venal or mortal.
Drawn to self-mortification by what is seen,
he spends the intervals between acts,
covering his eyes with a bloody shroud of faith
to prevent seeing a rake's progress to an infernal
reward.
On stage a chorus of unchanged male voices sings
an impromptu Dies Irae, dramatically inserted
just before the end like the wreck of the passenger
ship Deutschland and the fires most of his known
work was consigned to.
God’s grandeur dapples his eyes with light.

Three Acrostic Sonnets 

By Mike Mesterton-Gibbons
​

After Breakfast

A whole day lies ahead. So I will take
Five minutes sitting by myself, and let
The dirty dishes signal I'm on break,
Engrossed in my own thoughts. A cigarette
Relaxes me, it makes me feel unsnared,
But only for a while. The life I know
Rewards conformity. I wish I dared 
Escape from ties to here, just pack and go,
And travel to pursue the freedom I
Keep longing for. Yet duty to my kin
Forbids me still. In truth, as time goes by,
A love of homespun comfort settles in ...
Soon chores resume. But till they call on me,
These moments let me dream that I am free!


The Frankophile

Through Joey Chestnut's hyperactive jaws,
Hot dogs are crammed precipitously fast:
Eight seconds each, which won last year's applause,
For this year's contest would have been surpassed! ...
Revolted Francophiles, whose haute cuisine
Avoids all dining habits that appear
Neanderthal or early Pleistocene,
Keep asking of their homonym's career—--
Of pigging pork ribs, Twinkies, doughnut goo,
Poutine and all the rest at record speeds—--
How life's achievements don't make Joey spew ...
I think his secret is how fast he feeds:
Low speed is so unheard of, he must know
Emetic urges start when he eats slow!


Cash For Honours

Charles, Prince of Wales, is known as squeaky clean.
Aristocratic whiffs of scandal stay
So far removed from him as from the Queen
Herself——a royal country mile away
From him! This future royal figurehead
Of Britain, who excels at small talk, yet
Remembers nothing anybody said,
Has prospered from his proneness to forget: 
One wonders how he met the head of Burke's
Nine times, yet has no knowledge from his chats
Of Cash For Honours ... That's just how it works—--
Untitled wannabe aristocrats
Remit donations to the Prince's Fund
So secretly, when he finds out, he's stunned!

Three Poems

By Kenneth Vincent Walker 


When Ella Sang


Oh…when Ella sang
What purity and elegance,
So smoothly rich, intense,
On a rolling sea of Jazz.


Oh…when Ella scats
The earth stops and waits.
The wind knows its place
And holds its breath awhile.


Oh…when Ella croons
We’d melt within our shoes,
Consuming all the booze
Prohibition has displaced.


Oh…when Ella riffs
We’d lose ourselves in song.
We’d dance until the dawn,
Leaving with a Jazzy smile


All the while, “cause Ella sang.




Legend of Lenny Breau


An obscure genius twinkling
Between harmonic miseries.
The depth of pure creativity
Submersed in cruel waters.


Lenny, Oh Lenny Breau all
Too trusting. Perhaps naïve.
Jazz/ pinholes up your sleeve
As you struggle with sobriety.


A vast mind I have an inkling
Had a language all its own,
And death found a home
Amid reverberations high alter.


In Jazz circles you stand tall as
your gigantic legend lives on.
Your sweet guitar silenced, gone.
Staking your claim and notoriety


In the orbital hereafter & beyond.






In Tribute to Nick Drake


Adrift Drake set off with
The Riverman, Ferryman
To most, obolus guarded
Tightly clinched in hand.


Softly spoken, whispering
Melancholy voice full of
Promise, poetry, wisdom
Beyond his years on land.


A blended cocktail of Folk
And Modal Jazz, haunting
Melodies echoing through
Shards of broken glass.


From the hallowed halls of
Cambridge, to Soho, to the
Unappreciated, visionless,
Unworthy and unrepentant


…Goddamned!

Poems by Goran Petrovic


The Tamer of Thunders


Nikola Tesla the Great
Fulfilled his great man’s fate
By becoming the tamer of thunders
And a doer of electric wonders.


Born in the region of Lika,
In a land of poplars and yews,
His life – an incessant eureka –
Was a journey of great breakthroughs.


Yet Tesla was a loner and shy,
That’s why folks laughed at his face,
But he gave them a proper reply –
He lit up the whole human race!


If it hadn’t been for Tesla
We would all be still half-blind;
Tesla saved humans from darkness,
What a Promethean mind!


But to be a Prometheus, that’s hard,
For Tesla had to endure
The beaks of his envious rivals,
And this he did well for sure!


He kept his honour and face,
He didn’t abandon his vision,
He worked for the good of men’s race,
Though greeted by men with derision.


In the end, good Tesla died
A happy man, so it would seem,
For he knew what really matters –
To follow your heart and your dream.


What people say does not matter,
Your compass is in you alone,
Let others mind their business,
Your life is just your own!


So, Tesla followed his heart
And perfectly played his part –
He made the world a better place,
Improved the life of our race…


He became the tamer of thunders
And a doer of electric wonders.


An Ode to Crazy Horse


Praised be the Oglala warrior
Of the noble Indian race,
For thrice he slapped the Wasicu
Right on his arrogant face!


First, he defeated Fetterman
With all of his eighty men,
And then at the Rosebud River
He beat the “Long Knives” again.


Lastly, in the Greasy Grass Battle,
He crushed Custer’s murderous riders,
And showed them the strength and courage
Of the fearless Lakota fighters.


With his deeds upright and gallant,
With his heart just and audacious,
He proved that “the white man’s burden”
Is at its core fallacious.


Praised be the Oglala warrior,
Whom Wakan Tanka did send
To hammer the white man’s arrogance
And Lakota lands to defend!


Eric the Red Redeemed


Eric the Red was a Norseman who shed
Blood in breach of the law.
Hence, he was banished, from Iceland he fled,
To the west he was destined to go.


Westward he sailed, toward the world’s end,
Until on a new land he landed.
The land was green, so he called it ‘Greenland’,
And thus Europe was forever expanded.


This is a very didactic story
Of the advance of the Viking nation,
For it tells us that sometimes deeds of great glory
Can be done despite bad reputation.


So, we mustn’t be quick to lay our blame
On someone who has done a misdeed,
For out of crimes and out of shame
A hero may arise indeed!


Success in Life


Today the most popular game
Is to pursue money and fame;
Success for most modern-day blokes
Is to be loved by a million folks.


But I say, if you can just stay
Like the sea on a windless day
In your mind, then you’ve won the game
And you won’t need money or fame.


Ataraxia, as the Stoics would say,
Is a far better game to play.

Approaching Halloween


            by Caud Sewer Bile


            “You live in the same kind of grayness as the filthy stuff that formed you.”
                        —Jack Finney, “The Invasion of the Body Snatchers”         
 
They’re here! like werewolves roaming round our urban neighbourhoods,
attacking godly individuals and looting goods,
not trick-or-treating, only feeding in a frenzied mode,
vampires on the prowl for those who love life’s overload.
 
They’re here! like klowns in makeup, k-cup, caked-on flaky grime,
in hopes of shocking, mocking, and defrocking the sublime,
like zombies, those undead, corporeal, crazed parasites,
those carriers of pathogens, who dominate our nights.
 
They’re here! those aliens whose seed-pods dropt into our homes,
to take us over with their blank and vapid monotones.
With deadly drugs they cross the land in lawless, wild band;
and ominously kill and rape their victims on command.
 
They’re here those horrid, torrid ogres, everywhere one goes,
those cryming cats and monster drummers pounding out their shows,
those mental blasters blanking out our minds with filth and rot,
those gross and vile creatures of lagoon and seaside grot.
 
They’re here! like those demonic rats who linger near the swamp,
who swarm about with harmful shout, in circumstance and pomp.
Is there no piper to relieve us of their frothing mouths,
no trumpeter to blast them back to uncouth hell’s foul drouth?


Caud Sewer Bile, i. e., Bruce Dale Wise

Two Acrostic Sonnets

​by Mike Mesterton-Gibbons


Halloween Haunt


Heathrow is where a witch will hitch a ride
At dusk on Halloween. She'll leave the ground
Laid flat beneath a jumbo's underside—--
Latched safely to the plane, she's Boston-bound!
On Halloween, this witch, whose children fled
West long ago to haunt the States at night,
Embarks upon a trip that she'd find dead
Exhausting if she used her broom all flight!
Nocturnal pilots have no means to see
Her broom and she are stowed below the rear
And flying to America for free—--
Until they land, and then she does appear,
Not one bit weary, whizzing through the air
To greet her waiting grandkids with a scare!




I Can't Get Me A Cow


I learned from Dad why bull elks prance and strut
Come fall, when cows, he said, exude desire
And competition for them in the rut
Necessitates a plentiful spare tire!
The tire I found two years ago, a spare,
Got stuck around my neck. I felt content:
Elk suitors need spare tires, and mine was there!
Then Dad explained it wasn't what he'd meant.
Months later, some do-gooder ranger crew
Expunged my tire, but still I can't get me
A cow——this crew expunged my antlers too! ...
Come fall next year, a true spare tire will be
Observed on me. My dad has set me straight—--
With new-grown antlers, I'll get me a mate!

Life Scars

Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin



Self-Portrait with Phantom Limbs


the third eye removed by
evolutionary behest is the one
containing imagination, dream
memories of the axe wielding right
arm amputated on the fields of
battle, survival assured only by
avoiding behind the lines, camp
hospitals, doctor’s visits-the pain
a severed limb inflicts can be felt
all the way to the fingertips, an
exquisite agony equal to that of
dispatching an opponent, an enemy
killed by a swift one-handed stroke,
legs cut from underneath, severed just
below the groin a relic of time spent
marching, infantry patrols, still they
spasm, reluctantly letting go tensile
strength, their memory haunting fevered
night in recovery rooms, connubial
meetings, the strongest limbs, the phantom
ones, though the incessant itching after
removal is the stuff madness is made of.
the body resisting modification long after
the fact, tensed as if tied down and subjected
to formication rites making all limbs
in the mind, ghost limbs, lost untethered
arms stretching out from shadows to test
the strength of new skin, hoping to pluck
unseen torment from within, to somehow
do without.












Dreamscape with Falling Umbrellas


A massive black swirl of incipient
storm blots out the landscape
but for a small corner harboring
final light cast before an elemental
encroachment of serious extremes;
a field, part lawn ornament display,
part cemetery, lavishly decorated
by plastic pink flamingos, Hummel
dwarfs, black jockeys with horse
tying rings, BVM's on the half shell
amid arrhythmic flapping of plastic
veteran of foreign war flags,
Sonora Desert weathered wooden
crosses, names of the deceased scratched
on bare wood, skulls of long horned
cattle, fluttering ribbons tied to
the horn tips-then the gentle first rain:
unfolded umbrellas falling, handles facing
up, rain shields facing down, small
pocket-sized ones first followed by
larger spring release ones, then the golf
outing umbrellas, beach umbrellas-
the whole spectrum of rain deflectors
hurtling down buffeted by a stern
pummeling of cross currents, winds.








Life Scars


1-
Thin torso
too thin, really


puckered skin
on his back
where the round
went in


jagged lines all
up and down his back


Under right arm
long scar


stitching like Frankenstein’s
monster on a bad day


Dead on frontal
view of his body
so much worse


all those wounds,
life lines from
Parkland to ER
and back


2-
Head shot
in profile


almost normal:
unruly hair,
cheeks he might
need to shave
some day


under left ear
ugly, healed


crater
of a wound


You might miss it
even if you knew
where to look


3-


Seen in profile
dressed to
hang out:


distressed jeans
polo shirt
simple to put
and take off


a teenage ensemble
with surgical sling


A lifetime of
scars hidden
inside


On the outside too




4-
Back in school now
with a therapy dog


No one has to ask him,
“Why the dog?”


He still can’t talk
about it


Maybe he never will


Maybe someday
he’ll share his dog
with someone else
who needs comfort


“Teachers have told me
that they go in the closet
and cry,


and then they come back
and finish teaching.”

Three Poems

by Kenneth Vincent Walker


***


The Rogue




I’ve tried to suppress this
Duality I serve, though
It’s thrown me a curve,
As it starts to undress.


For it is vile and grotesque,
Neither refined nor in vogue.
You’d better run for your lives.
You’ve awakened the Rogue.


I’ve tried to caress this more
Genteel side, but it’s found
Somewhere to hide, while
I’m left with this mess


Which is vile and grotesque,
Neither refined nor in vogue.
You’d better run for your lives
NOW!


You’ve awakened the Rogue.



***


Red-Eyed
Monster


There is a level
Of miscellanea
Which happens
To fall woefully
Between nausea


And peak euphoria.
A phenomenon
Diagnosed but is
Most unwelcome.
Revealing of said


Phantom you all
Know by its given
Name, the dreaded
Red-Eyed Monster
Of lore, commonly


Known as Insomnia.


***


The Shoveling Ghost


More skeptical than most
Forever have I been,
And not so given to


Supernatural phenomenon,
Until the Shoveling Ghost
Appeared for a brief stint


For reasons undisclosed
Which I can’t even begin to
Explain in good conscience.


The snow which surrounds
The realm of the living
Seems to have no effect


On our ethereal friend.
There’s nothing I can say to
Put a spin on this apparition.


So I choose to close this
Unnerving chapter with the
Unsettling and haunting


Grin of the Shoveling Ghost
Devoid of laughter which
Stands silently in the wind.

Two Sonnets by Thaddeus Hutyra


***


Perpetual Motion /sonnet/

There is yet undiscovered jewel of all jewels, the cosmic one
One that I happen to support, the idea of perpetual motion
One that shall open to us the gates of the whole Universe
Energy, completely free, bringing us to star-spangled levels.

There is more than enough free energy in the entire Universe
Gravitational waves, the dark energy and one from the stars
Infinite garden, indeed, for us, future intergalactic civilization
Just let enjoy it and win everything what is offered to us all.

By the Lord’s generosity! For believe it or not, dear earthlings
Perpetual motion as seen by me, self-generating free energy
Magnetic, based on opposing magnetic fields is what we need
As well as energy offered by the cosmic strings of the Universe.

Perpetual motion! Don’t believe if anyone says it is there not
For the Universe itself is a perpetual motion, inviting us all!
____

Ode to Human /sonnet/

I will dream today, I will dream under the umbrella of the sky
On its screen I will discover the power of limitless miracles
And I will become tomorrow’s magician, charmer, wizard
I will change the human world beyond recognition in one blink!

It will be an ode to human, to humanity absolutely as a whole
Such one that it will change a person's fate and envelop it with happiness
This is what we need now, in the complexities of everyday life
In order to be able to use Ariadne's thread to spell human life.

It is a perpetual motion machine*, free magnetic energy
Drive oscillators that generate magnetic fields
The starships in effect, an open way into the universe
A man free at last, Earth a virgin land anew.

Ah, human, arise from your knees, in the shroud of humanity
Become a starry being, in rays of your own light! The Universe is waiting!

* Perpetual motion: motor (machine, vehicle),
self-generating free energy, magnetic, based on opposing magnetic fields ...

Three Poems by Kenneth Vincent Walker


*** 


Cat’s Eye Nebula


True north toward
Polaris, just a few
Degrees askew


Within the northern
Perimeter of Draco
With Cepheus in view.


As the spinning wheel
Of Ferris pirouettes as
If in a cosmic opera,


Drawn to the hypnotic
Feline optics of a gem,
And bling brilliance of


The Cat’s Eye Nebula.


***



Eta Carinae


Oh…Eta Carinae your
Beauty astounds, the
Fabric, the colors and
Long flowing gowns.


With her hair tinted via
Stardust, a wisp and a
Flare, perfume a mist
In the absence of air.


More sultry than the
Sun, a sensuality that
Is renowned amongst
The luminaries of this


Star-studded vicinity.


***



Our Lives on Titan


Our lives on Titan
Saturn’s largest
Moon, this prison
Or this sanctuary,


Depending upon
Your parallax view.
If only we on Earth
Were stronger in our


Persistence resisting
The powerful accused
In the annihilation of
Our mother homeland


As evacuations ensued.
However, we alive upon
This rock as colonization
Turns back the clock to a


Primordial-techno reboot.

If Pigs Could Fly

By Mike Mesterton-Gibbons
​

If pigs could fly, and always find their sty,
Fresh pork would be worth more alive than dead,
Perhaps far too exorbitant to buy
In shops——since you love bacon, that's your dread!
Green farmers would let pigs export themselves,
Suppressing carbon hoofprint from air freight.
Consignment drones would languish on the shelves
Of Amazon, while trained pigs lay in wait
Until your order popped up on their phones.
Low-flying pigs with smartphones in their chops,
Delivering your coffee, would make drones
Forever obsolete for coffee drops ... 
Lest pigs' new worth kept bacon prices high,
You'd have to learn to pluck pigs from the sky!

The Gold Diggers
​
By Donald Nigroni

 
These fairies, a folk coming from some fairyland,
a sinister race seeking a space to stand.
Little green men greedy and gaping for gold
as that old tale many times was told.
 
When there was this sudden thin haze twirling
and every one everywhere was envied and enthralling.
Our plain deemed pleasant and proper a place
where time could twist and tumble without trace.

But forbidden to feast on food most foul
then I decided eating meals I couldn’t allow.
From whence my wife became way too witchy
and paradise turned poor and putrid and pitchy.

Three Poems by Goran Petrovic



The War of the Worlds


The ugly Martians came
With one plan in their mind –
To play their murderous game
On man’s complacent kind.


They came to seize the earth,
To make man’s home their own
And, leaving their place of birth,
On earth to erect a new throne.


They built superb tripods,
Ruined London with their heat-ray,
Men fought against all odds
And could do little but pray.


Yet the Martians couldn’t complete
Their task, being weaker than men,
Weaker, ‘cause they couldn’t beat
The bacteria, which humans can.


So, it is not technology –
As The War of the Worlds tells –
That matters, but it’s ecology,
According to H. G. Wells.



The Time Machine


The Traveler got off the machine,
And still struggling with mental haze,
He discovered the feeble Eloi,
The rich in their degenerate phase.


Then he discovered the Morlock,
The poor man’s son, a foul beast,
Saw ape-like underground half-men
On Eloi enjoying to feast.


He saw a dying mankind,
He witnessed the death of the sun,
And realized the earth’s future
Will by no means be fun.


When renowned minds opined
That progress would last forever,
Wells wrote of the utter bleakness
Of the end of the human endeavor.




The Little Shepherd and the Troll


There used to be a dragon whose breath of fire
Gave the whole world a mighty big scare,
And once it happened that this fearsome dragon
Disappeared, vanished, no one knows where.


And after the dragon went who knows whither,
In the shadowy foothills of a mountain steep,
A little shepherd from his cabin departed
To graze his herd of a dozen sheep.


But before he could reach the lush green pasture,
He had to cross a bridge made of wood,
‘Neath which a troll had recently settled
Whose manners were insolent, vile and crude.


And the big gray troll climbed onto the bridge,
Then raised a forefinger, and loudly said:
“Listen, boy, give me a sheep to devour,”
“For if you do not, I’ll eat you instead!”


And the young shepherd, not wishing to die
Or part with any of his white and stout ewes,
Responded shrewdly: “My big gray fellow,”
“’Tis not in your interest to be so obtuse.”


“Lower your voice, or the vessel I’m carrying”
“(and the boy indeed did hold a black flagon)”
“Will set free the beast that we recently dreaded,”
“If I open my flask, I’ll unleash the dragon!”


“My father’s a wizard, who with magic captured”
“The dragon in this flask, and saved trolls and men,”
“And should you not heed the words I’m saying,”
“The great fiery terror shall befall us again!”


“My friend, I tell you, you can’t fathom the power”
“That I hold in this flasket of the color of soot,”
“No one in our land will ever sleep calmly”
“If we don’t use reason to resolve our dispute!”


“I know you’re hungry, the sheer desolation”
“Wreaked by the dragon has caused you dismay,”
“But if you don’t let my sheep and me over,”
“None of us will live to see another day!”


“And to confirm my story, I’ll read you the runes”
“Inscribed by my father on my pitch-dark flagon:”
“‘Steinolf’, it says, ‘the wielder of magic’’”
“‘Herein ensnared the flame-spewing dragon.’”


The troll, dim-witted, was at once impressed
By the speech of the boy (a bluffer indeed!),
So, after some thinking, he made his decision
And said to the shepherd: “Your words I will heed!”


Thus, the boy and his herd crossed unmolested
(The boy’s eyes all radiant with triumphant shine),
And the troll not at all in his mind suspected
That in the boy’s flagon there was actually wine!


Though to me the reason for the boy’s triumph’s clear,
The thing still can’t be understood by some –
Did the boy succeed ‘cause he was too clever
Or rather because the troll was too dumb?

Two Sci-Fi Masterpieces 

By Christian Ward

=====

Encounter, Close


At the bins, an animatronic fox frozen
in the apartment block's UFO light.

A Westworld extra, a conjuring of photons
escaped from a holodeck. Its face too fake -

like a program running to figure out
what it meant to be a fox. Remnants of 

starlight on its back, turning its fur into a field of fibre optic cables. A pair of spy satellites 

for eyes, fixed on my movement. I can't say 
for sure what happened next, but it 

disappeared into its shadow while the motors of my body turned me into the alien squiggle 

of a crop circle, ready to be typecast once again.


====

Dear Captain Kirk 

Yelling Khan! during video calls
is the last straw, buddy. We've given 
you plenty of time to catch up with the rent, 
but all you do is mutter "Enterprise" over 
and over into a plastic ficus. I appreciate you 
working in a tanning salon was a start, 
but freaking out over mahogany tans
and screaming Klingon! is the quickest way
to send someone into a red alert. I've had enough
of your John Wayne swagger; doing a karate 
chop on the postman every time he delivers
mail to the wrong address and hitting
on my mother whenever she uses a swamp
coloured face mask. I don't understand 
how you can mistake an avocado's reptilian
skin for a Gorn or think trying to mind meld
with a cat is an actual thing. Perhaps beaming 
into your van is the right thing to do, while the rest
of us set a course to the familiar, encroaching dark. 

=====

Bio: Christian Ward is a UK based writer who has recently appeared in Open Minds Quarterly, Eskimo Pie and Literary Yard. 

The Eclipse of the Falling Man

Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin


The Accident


All the crop circles in his
mind are burning, leaving
dull gray smoke and ash on
plush grasses, yellowed fields,
images impressed like white
scars seared into earth, sacred as
bones, of cartography dreams
pointing skyward where shooting
stars are razor cutting black holes
in the night. Toward dawn,
when the ground fog still lingers
in the twisted trees, life is culled
from shaded groves; a man appears,
stranger than anything the mind
might create, his flashlit face too
horrible and deformed to reveal.







Homeward Bound


There must not have been
much else for him to do
wherever he’d spent the last
few years of his life except
pump iron, bust heads and
carve stuff into his skin.
Most of his remaining brain
cells had been deprived of
oxygen chasing ufo’s toward
Venus and were spiraling
out of control through his
nervous system causing involuntary
spasms, spastic reactions so
severe he looked like a spontaneous
St Vitus Disco Dance competition
winner with white foam stuff
at the corners of his tainted blue,
vermiform lips. Phoning for help
was probably a waste of time,
though someone was going to
have to clean up the inevitable
mess and the body afterwards.
The hope was whoever was
supposed to meet him here was
unavoidably detained forever.






Sleeper


I receive transmissions.
That’s what the antennae
are for.


Transmission from space.


All kinds. Mostly radio
signals these days;
clear days you can pick up dozens
of stations right here on earth.


Battle plans. Outlines of what
the future will look like once
we take over.


It won’t be pretty for you guys,
that’s for sure, but given what
you’ve done to this planet
what do you expect?


Yeah, lots of people have said
I’m a few pills short of a commitment.
Truth is, I have been committed.
Bunches of times. In fact, I’m out now
On a kind of work release program.


Gathering information. That’s my job,
Kemosabe. I’m working incognito like
James Bond only I’m better looking.


Nothing some cosmetic surgery and a few
false teeth couldn’t fix.


Gotta cigarette? No, how about a quarter?


No, it doesn’t pay well. Hey, when you’re
a sleeper agent, you have to take the good
with the bad. You know, go with the flow.
Be authentic, dude. I’m as authentic as it gets.


I do have one major worry. Sometimes I get
Video messages. I know most people would
need a TV for that but I’m different.
The problem is the signals are changing
and I don’t have a converter box.
What if a vital message comes through
after the change and I don’t get it?
Where will I be then? What will I do?








The Bachelor Party


They looked as if they’d come
from the place where the green
ants dreamed, or their last ejection
from a bar had been an encounter
at the end of the world, where the
bouncers wore hazmat suits and
carried stun guns and pepper spray
as party favors to be used liberally,
as the spirit moved, which it often
did, in the oddest ways, after effects
extending well past their air locked
doors. These guys in their inappropriate
attire like Los Clowns wearing t-shirts
that could easily have said Alpha Centuri’s
Got Talent Too and no one would have
thought it unusual. Their soiled Yankees caps
worn backwards in every color imaginable
but midnight blue, shading their eyes where
digital cameras were trained on the bar
staff, up close and personal, as if observing
the folkways and morays of bar staff
for psychological profiles, would be useful
for the strange invasion of pod people
and their clones at some yet-to-be-determined, date.
These advance alien scouts misled into
bizarre drinking contests involving shots
of Mescal with 151 Rum and coke chasers,
encouraged to eat the worms for dead soldiers,
empty bottles like beef jerky, their circuits so fried
by last call their stretch limo, mother ship, parked
outside in the fire lane, would be compelled
to leave without them.






The Price of Darkness


“Staring death down,
with a bottle of morphine in one hand
and a bottle of Jameson’s in the other”
Paula Meehan


No bar would have the likes
of him inside smelling as he
did of afterbirth and black plague
rags, voice raspy as razor blades,
cuts swaddled in lemon juice,
refusing to heal. Begging for
rocket fuel for his interior trips
back to the home planet is
hopeless; ordinary folks cross
to the other side of any street
he might be on, struggling to breathe
one respirator short of a lung.
No emergency room will take him,
every technician in town knows
his history, knows he’s gone from
bottom of the barrel booze to
the bottom of the barrel itself,
nothing too disgusting to ingest if
the suggestion of alcohol might be
inside. Other street folk refer to
him as the Lord of the Flies,
for obvious reasons, kick back ten
per cent of every score as tribute,
protection against whatever it is
he has.







The Man Who Fell to Earth


Half-sleeping in the heat,
some kind of alien invasion
movie on the TV, maybe,
“It Came from Outer Space,”
or, maybe, “The Man Who Fell
to Earth”, frozen wastes
replaced by desert planet
well beyond a dark side of
the moon, Holst music,
“The Planets Suite” becoming
“Mars Bringer of War” morphing
into Bowie singing,
“….. .. I’m putting out the fire
with gasoline, I’m putting out
the fire………” lucid dreaming now,
so thirsty in the night, so thirsty
and all the water gone, only
Beefeaters and ice, all my pretty
ones dying in the sun burst, arid,
never changing night no rain ever
falls in, heat lightning and random
light, pale white men with cat’s
eyes, reflected visions in a bathroom
cabinet mirror, dissecting the dreamer
awake in another man’s dream of
somewhere else, gunfire in the street,
the first awakening into a long hell
to come.

Three Poems by Ian C. Smith



Dog Days


Overheard in the early stages of these beige days,
my last challenge, trekking the desert
far from a ruinous prime when oases always shimmered,
two women walking laps refer to a dog named Smooth
reminding me of our cat dubbed thus as a kitten
for his velvet pelt that shone, catching the sun,
later regarded by our gang as an operator
who (yes, I know he’s an animal, but so like us)
tried to open doors with paws, who emailed
from adoptive carers, kind former neighbours
tolerant of his overacting in videos sent
when my time came to exit paradise for east of small,
dismantled to a room where I hear my slow breathing.
A theme plied in art, this sudden arrival shocks.


Reassured by Smooth’s new quarters, I reply,
Furry nice, if not downright purrfect: playing along
with fond recall trusting his head won’t swell,
prevent him squeezing through confined spaces
to our old trails, their spoors to my heart.
On the canal path from town, a usual threshold of loss,
adventures morphed into dreams, I see a terrier,
distant, skittering my way where I sometimes sit,
solitary, on a bench watching cyclists, joggers.
I expect its owner carrying a leash but I’m alone
with what I now see as a rabbit approaching fast,
not a terrier, more terror-stricken, like me
by the notion of appalling decline.


This happens in seconds before I realise it’s a hare,
fugitive over gravel, not on the verge, so I stop
before it veers to the softer grass, slows down,
adjacent, eyeballing me as though I’m the one lost,
endangered, heading in the wrong direction
recalling a Cambridgeshire field, wind in my jacket,
flints and hares abundant, time’s triumph distant,
thinking now of Auden’s years running like rabbits.


*****



The Night, the Possum




Giant starry sky night behind an illegal beach shack
in a rickety add-on caravan he calls Steptoe’s Castle,
broken window wedged open for cooler air,
a possum squeezes its way inside, his bed adjacent.
He stirs, wind a banshee, half-wakens to noises.


Here among fishermen of the Roaring Forties
he trawls the roar of his past before he shook the grog,
to make sense of his footprints in the sand vanishing
into a cloister he tries to treasure for calmness.
The possum scents fruit, a dietary compromise.


Lists mulled over: jobs held, the dead, names whispered,
places lived, airports landed in, lovers lusted for.
He sometimes rouses hard, limbs creaky, tantalised,
wanting total dream recall, not glimpses, re-entry.
A kitchen tin clatters, sounding in sleep, outside.


Tiptoeing over soldier crabs on his crescented walk
he ogles a ferry balanced on the horizon as if painted,
recounts ferries boarded, turbulent straits crossed,
the excitement, enigma, of expected arrival.
Wildness crossed his sleeping form to reach that tin.


Now it employs his naked thigh as a trampoline,
claws gripping to launch back to the window ledge.
He wakes to his own shriek, kicking out, bloodied,
possum scurrying into the shack, a havoc of curtains,
both shocked by how it came to this.


*****



Trespass With Black Swans




Truant Reynard, memory of egg-crunch,
cygnets taller, convoy en famille, coats
fluffy grey, prey for him to take for lunch.
Swamp menu varied, waterline high, boats
banned here, high rainfall has hindered his run.
Parent birds usher their flotilla through
weeds as a wedge-tail eclipses the sun,
arcing a current fixed-wing, these true
hunters, fox, raptor, watching, carp-splash, day
dreamer wading flooded paths, sunken heart
weighted, summer furlough a month away
when wild creatures, trespassing me, shall part.
On my return from reading by the sea
grown swans will have flown, this fen hike still free.




*****


Ian C Smith’s work has appeared in , Antipodes, Australian Book Review, Australian Poetry Journal, Critical Survey, Poetry Salzburg Review, The Stony Thursday Book, & Two-Thirds North. His seventh book is wonder sadness madness joy, Ginninderra (Port Adelaide). He lives in the Gippsland Lakes area of Victoria, Australia.

Four Poems by Donna Langevin

***


Pippin


My little Pomeranian was golden.


His coat, lustrous as maple syrup,
sometimes a dark amber
depending on how the light stroked him.


I nicknamed him honey,
peach-ginger, crème-caramel and buttercup
for his disposition.
His apple-shaped head
bright as a Golden Delicious
or a Newtown Pippin,
his wagging tail, supple
as young goldenrod in the wind.


His tongue, had a Midas kiss
that brightened my dark moods.
But when his fur turned grizzled,
the whites of his eyes
grew yellow, and his appetite
waned to a sniff, I relinquished
him to the vet.


Now I find his gold woven into my sweater
and the green blanket on my bed
where he spent his last nights with me.


His sunshine has vanished from my sky,
yet the Milky Way in winter runs
between two celestial dog-stars --
the dazzling blue Canis Major
astronomers named Sirius
and the smaller golden Canis Minor
I now call Pippin.




***


Sugar Daddy


sweet-mouthing me on the phone
with red and green tales
of that hummingbird
tapping
the plastic petunias
on your new hanging feeder
as you whirr around
your California kitchen
measuring
adding
stirring
a fresh batch of nectar


I tell you, darling
brown sugar’s too coarse
honey and molasses too rich
red dye could harm her
The recipe calls for
pure cane sugar
Is there still snow in Toronto?
… I can hardly wait
till you’re here…


At the other end of the sky
thirsty for you, I sip
your sweet-talk for hours.


***


One Tulip Less
for Brian


My brother’s garden, mid-March--


a huge hungry wild turkey
rakes up soil with his claws,
flings its black confetti
over the snow’s melting dress.
Beard tickling the ground,
he probes with his adze-like beak,
digs up a shivering bulb,
gulps down its roots like spaghetti,
cracks the nut-brown nugget,
and begins devouring the meat.


Help yourself, Mr. Turkey,
what’s one tulip less in my garden,
my brother laughs
behind the living room window.


Spring’s perennial promise
of more tulips to come,
to go down this gobbler’s gullet,
he sports leaf-green feathers,
petal-patterns on wings.
His bulbous head blooming scarlet,
he struts away on twin stems
toward a neighbor’s garden.


***


Manatee-Man


in my dream there’s a feeling
of puzzled
well-being
warmth and security as I
cuddle up to a huge
wrinkly
brown-skinned
grey-whiskered
plush-bellied
balding
cold-fearing creature
with foliage
flippers
paddle-shaped tail
and gentle deep-set eyes
who lolls and basks
in the heat of my bed
munching sea-spinach salad


In the morning you grin--


now you know where I went
to escape the Florida chill.


Canadian Donna Langevin won first place in The Banister anthology competition, 2019 and in the Pandemic Poetry Contest anthology, (The Ontario Poetry Society, 2021) Her fifth poetry collection, Brimming was published by Piquant Press, 2019. Her play, Summer of Saints about the 1847 typhus epidemic is scheduled to be produced by Act 2, Ryerson University, and published by Prometea Press in 2021.

Two Poems by K.A. Williams


Cats

Cats
Meowing, purring
Aloof, furry, hunters
Your most loyal friend
Felines

​

Dogs

Dogs
Barking, wagging
Social, furry, hunters
Your most loyal friend
Canines

The Wolf Trilogy

Poems by Kenneth Vincent Walker

***

Season of the Wolf



For years we’ve cried wolf.

Now the wolf is at our door

Rattling the timbers with an

Insatiable taste for the poor.



The ignorant ignore reason

Along with the vain aloof.

For they fail to acknowledge

The inevitable cold truth.



The wolf has been patient

And now leaps on the roof,

Slides down the chimney.

‘Tis the season of the wolf.


***



Roseate (Spoonbill) Triolet


O Roseate (Spoonbill) Triolet

Beneath a Hunter’s Moon

On sorrow’s floating epitaph.

O Roseate (Spoonbill) Triolet

Defiled amid Death’s silhouette

In the lost lullabies of the loon.

O Roseate (Spoonbill) Triolet

Beneath a Hunter’s Moon.


***




Eohipuss


Once upon a time there

Was a tiny prehistoric

Horse that went by the

Moniker of Eohipuss.



And he was the hippest

Horse of course as he

Grazed in vast fields

Of hibiscus.


You may ask what

Makes him so damn

Hip? As I reply

After a sip.

See, he had a hitch

In his step,

A swagger

Ever so cool,

‘Till one day he

Was squashed

By a Tyrannosaur

Who had swore to

Put an end to this fool.

***

Kenneth Vincent Walker is a "New Formalist" poet, spoken word artist,
performer and author of Borderline Absurd (An Exercise in Rhyme and
Reason), published by Poem Sugar Press 2015.

Three Acrostic Sonnets of the Animal Kingdom

By Mike Mesterton Gibbons


Me And My Parrots

My parrots bring me peace to nestle in.
Enduring loss is easiest when I
Am comforted by feathers on my skin:
No human touch can so well pacify!
Determination permeates the calm
My birds induce: each day I must restart.
Youth brought me chronic pain, for which the balm
Proves daily to be nature, and my art ...
A cigarette as tonic is too brief.
Refraining for a moment is too long.
Relighting brings no permanent relief
Or respite from the battle to be strong—--
Though when my parrots stimulate my brain,
Strength radiates to overcome my pain!


Killer Instinct?

Krakovians felt threatened by a beast.
Its snout was fluted, strangely like its tail.
Loose folds of flaky skin, uncouthly creased,
Looked Super Scary on the reptile scale!
Emergency responders heard this plea,
Relayed in urgent tones: "Please neutralize
Iguana-like wild menace up a tree—--
No window's safe to open till it dies,
Since it could leap inside our homes to kill
The lot of us! It's frightening the town—--
It's lurking in that lilac tree and will
Not go away. So please, please take it down!"...
Crew members scrambled to the lilac ... where ...
They found an old French pastry was the scare! 


A Master Builder

A master-builder first-class engineer
Meticulously plans its drainage scheme,
Arresting flows of water with its weir,
Suppressing flood erosion far downstream ...
The beaver, hunted for its fur, had been
Extinct in England since the Bard wrote plays.
Revival waited centuries, till Greens
Began to see the wisdom in its ways ...
Unjustly once prized only for its skin,
Its value now has proven multifold:
Log-rolling beavers welcome wildlife in,
Diversifying habitats untold, 
Ensuring cleaner water, curbing drought—--
Restoring landscapes at a cost of nowt!

Thespian Savannah

Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin



The Running of the Sheep


set loose, pricked by sharpened spikes,
trident points, urging the reluctant on,
bleating, a hideous thronging as
they come by the hundreds, unshorn:
white, black, white with black faces,
eyes shuttered by a blinding panic,
the herding, a stopping, filling gap,
for gladiatorial feats, warriors paused
in mid-conflict, about to be stricken
by sword or spear. This gathering a
kind of caesura, a bloodletting sport,
interrupted; still they come, overtaking
the arena space, leaping into viewer's laps,
derisive voices proclaiming: “The sheep are
coming, the sheep are coming-----"
and they do, long after it is evident
there is no place for them to go.








Mourning Doves at Ground Zero


"-----the twisted code
of hell's vermicular tongue."
D. Berrigan


circle the split earth, the spaces
fired between cracked veins
hardened into obsidian, unnatural
glass the bent ruins of model
villages are reflected in, crafted
into melted plastic sculptures
solid as sand dunes, ceramic
fired clay at lunar ocean's edge,
absolute tranquility, silence only
a perfect vacuum brings, the
weightless dead floating dust devils
made by disturbances in the latent
crust, catalytic conversions, radical
surgeries, burst nebulae the immured
human skin resists, made liquid by
the embalmers fatal Art, Death and
Transfiguration made one, song birds
into harpies, mourning doves to stone.










Newfoundland Ponies in the Open Landfill


"and in my hands an empty glass
that magnifies the sky" Simon Perchik


astride the mounds of detritus,
the discarded, cascading down into
sodden valleys, catch-alls for teeming
rains, leftover fluids, motor oils, battery
acids, transmission and radiator liquids
siphoned empty or not, refrigerator
coolants, air conditioners, appliances
large and small, fly wheels and fan
blades transferring the breeze from one
rusted element to the next, thought
forever dim filaments temporarily alive,
enlivened by a currency stricken from
the night; in the unnatural light, ghost
ponies cast imprinting shadows on rubble,
these remains, permanent as nuclear
bomb impressions on fragmentary
retaining walls.










Prairie Dogs in the Cross Gates Mall


emerge from temporary holes dug near
fountain heads, beneath resting benches,
indoor displays, rental booths for cell
phone callers, win a trip kiosks, homes
for information, lost and found, you
are here signs, outside walls for burrowing
creatures, habitats in a transformative mode,
their small furry heads peaking around corners
ever on the alert for dropped wrappers,
loose candies and popcorn kernels, anything
comestible is fast food for the swift and
purposeful, timing their ascensions above
ground with precision, so efficient most
motion detectors cannot track them moving
above and underground, their mazeing,
their constructions undermining everything,
weakening structures, a mouthful at a time.








Combat Elephants in Vietnam


stand, as if posed, at jungle's edge,
fully armed North Vietnamese regulars
perched on their shoulders, smiling
for the camera, all thoughts of recent
encounters, successful ambush raids
momentarily forgotten, camouflaged
pith helmets set roguishly to one side,
an absurdist's parody of backlot
Rama of the Jungle movies in real life
as etched into the deepening furrows
of the elephant's faces, those deep set,
unblinking eyes.










Rhinoceros to the Box Cars


come as a pair to the freight yard
after dark, no need for prompting
unlike many others that came before
and were locked away inside, these
white rhinos lumber, resigned, pacing
off the final yards together before they
part, heads down, tired eyes ringed
by sagging folds of flesh. The female
ascends a metal ramp to the left car,
the male on the right, their weight
eliciting a dull metallic clattering
as they go, to be enveloped by dark,
locked inside box cars, behind unyielding
sliding doors.






Jackalopes on the Gridiron


congregate near mid-field as if
waiting for the tossing of ceremonial
coins, Janus headed, die-cast doubloons
Fate determining when flipped in mid-
air by black and white striped zebras,
briefly suspending unruly behaviors:
random leaping, crossing patterns,
zigzags in the flats, their bedraggled coats
and drooping ears mud and grime splattered,
oversized feet convection heated, hotwired
by coils hidden beneath artificial grass,
unsuitable for eating grounds; spurred
into random, chaotic motion they scatter,
running indefensible routes, no instructions
possible, no discernable plans implemented,
loud police whistles ignored, only the firing
of the official's guns has an effect on
the field of play, the participants.

A PRAYER FOR ONE WHO SLIPPED BACKSTAGE

By Catherine Lee

(Lee Konitz - 10-13-27 to 4-15-20)

Excited electrons
of a Konitz resonance
remind me
yeah
I want to add my voice
into instrumental
improvised music
that way
I can be taking
the cause of spiritual crosstalk
we can play past colored variations
in properly social distanced space
on a bandstand across
time in time it’s time

https://youtu.be/6R9qyYfuCzI


ATTUNE: SOME OTHER TIME

By Catherine Lee

My body rests on daybreaking plot
of soil full circular embodied moon,
its crescent sliver,
bright-lit edge,
haunts the peak of Pisgah,
catching eye with hope of waning
lightening to come
catching ear recording of
“Some Other Time”
1961 Bill Evans Trio
recorded at some other place,
the stage of Greenwich Village Vanguard.
I listen deeply
to this music’s undulations
repeatedly crescendoed couplings,
deftly hammered strings
& fleetly fingered strings,
brush-sizzled skins & metal plates
vibrate harmonics of creators
being one creation
we human judges
dumbly call this “song.”
Luna disappears
in mist uprising mountain verdure,
causing tears of recognition
of some other time,
of loss of godlike part of me
for I am keeping
raggy time on flatted pitch
of earth within a cove
gnawed into Blue Ridge Mountains.
Yet I am grateful
for this perfect piece of synchrony
wafting prayers like smoke,
cloud vapor veiling
what indwells us all.
In this, perhaps
I am not unaware when arbitrating
such vibrations’ human impact.
let’s say it’s called attune.

https://youtu.be/Fq-8olG7K4w


BAND MATES

By Catherine Lee


tenor sax genius
once taught you how to play
piano hands made
air music
deeply touching me


backstory to this 
adventure tale 
of imagined
we being


***


we listen to 
ensemble play,
horn lines supporting 
soaring soloist
ethereal wavelength
chosen by these other souls
our hearts entwine
through unison 
re-connection hoped for, 
eager for reprise


surprised I am
you’re hearing
this same anthem


I know that 
and how
sounds’ slip knots
capture you


together as band mates 
fleeting music moments
endure as supported soloing 
until this measured time
reaches clocked completion

His Rewarded Patience
 
By David Thorpe

 
There she is again thumping on his brain
his throat dry with impatience,
reminds him of his thirst for her presence,
not quenched by the bitterness of his tears.
 
Yet even Shakespeare knew the spell
that music satisfies the hungry heart,
John Dowland´s soothing lute and words
played their part in love´s chagrin  
 
So on his guitar he strums her melody,
her distant voice subdues his chords,
now out of tune, now in tune again
she now forgetting her repertoire.
 
Winter rain numbs his sombre face
freezing his sense of direction,
friendly foot prints in the silent snow
lead him to dells of solace
 
Open windows, open doors
through which rays of hope,
bring light to darkness, like fireflies,
bearing his rewarded patience,
 
David Thorpe ©®

Poetic Symphony in Three Movements

by Alex Andy Phuong


1. Melodious Melody 


Music is sometimes a joy
To the ones able to hear,
But even though the deaf
Cannot hear sounds
Nor melodies,
All people really do have the ability
To help one another
In a world filled with diversity
As music reveals
Differences
While also encouraging listeners
To make a difference
So that melodious would play out
While living with courage instead of doubt




2. Lifelong Musical 

Some might perform
On a stage
And transform
Into a character,
But true character
Comes from behavior,
And yet even though a savior
Might not have a chance
To save everyone from distress,
People could still try
To make their own personal
And passionate
Music play
As the world functions
Like a theatrical stage
That does change with age
So that the ones who do age
Can change alongside
Constant change


​3. The Melody of Harmony 


Living harmoniously
Might sound like an unrealistic utopia,
But even though conflict
Conflicts with fantasy,
The power of
Peaceful peace
Is still a possibility
Because music is universal,
And life itself
Might not necessarily
Have a dress-rehearsal,
So play the part nobly,
And entertain musically
Without ever dwelling upon
The confines of reality,
And keep dreaming on

Eighty-eight Keys

By Donna Langevin


If you were a piano, my son
I’d want to be middle C
in your family of 88 keys


If you were a viola
I’d want to be a tuning peg
or the silver knob that stretches
the horsehair wing


If you were a synthesizer
I’d aspire to become the program
colouring your shadows or deleting
a dissonant line,
and if you were a flute,
I’d try to uncap the holes
to let your secrets breathe out


But composers, being wild birds
who sing on the staff as they please,
I will resist the temptation
of pegs, programs and keys, and claim
my proud place in your audience.



Canadian Donna Langevin’s fifth poetry collection, Brimming was published by Piquant Press, 2019. She won first place in The Banister anthology competition 2019 and also in the Ontario Poetry Society Pandemic poem contest 2021. Winner of a second place Stella award, her play, Summer of Saints about the 1847 typhus epidemic is scheduled to be produced by Act 2, Ryerson University, and published by Prometea Press in 2021.

Two Acrostic Sonnets

By Mike Mesterton-Gibbons

A Fresh Pot of Tea

A symphony is what my sonnet brings:
Fresh tea's melodic journey through the pot!
Rinse out your teapot when your kettle sings—--
Ensure your water's boiling, not just hot!
So, having warmed your pot, add loose-leaf tea.
Heap one spoon for each person, plus one more.
Put on the kettle once again——that's key.
Once boiled, your water sings to make you pour.
The tea, with lid and cosy, now must brew
Or it will be too weak to make the grade
For tasty tea. But do not let it stew! ...
That's all to how tea's symphony is played,
Except one final note to grace the score:
A strainer is essential when you pour!


The Cuckoo Clock

The cuckoo calls on birds who are not there.
Her calling card, resembling eggs hosts lay,
Embezzles hours of cuckoo foster care:
Can hosts be sure they counted right today? ...
Unwary humans, knowing cuckoos steal,
Could wonder if the cuckoo in a clock
Knows how to fool you: Does your balance wheel
Oppose the theft of time with its tick-tock ...
Or, as each hour approaches, do you stray,
Consult your clock, stop work, and watch the wall
Lest you don’t see your bird come out to play,
On time, and make its tuneful cuckoo call? ...
Chicanery! The cuckoo in your chime
Keeps you enchanted to purloin your time!

The Gould Cage of Three Masters 

Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin



Constance Considers the False Light of Mozart's Bones


His death was ordained in an unfinished score for a requiem
left on his desk.
50 ducats was the price paid for his leaving so much of his
life unfinished.
There is no satisfaction, leafing through a lifetime of faultlessly inscribed
manuscripts for orchestra,
Solo instruments and voice
Without corrections.
All I asked for was some time in his life that didn't involve
music.
There was no time,
Just themes like drinking wine, or making love or
Even dreaming in perfect harmonies that transcended time.
One day, I was the wife of a genius, the next a grief
stricken widow without so much as a grave to lie down and die on.
Living is nightmare, a false dawn of seeing that leaves me
exhausted from perceiving too much illusion.
Mozart, I curse the ground you are lost in for leaving me.
Nightmares are my music, now, but they are sounds without meaning
visions without context.
I reach for you Mozart but all I have is the absence of your bones
This cruel music of silence.





Beethoven's Nephew on the Secrets of His Silence, the Last Years
of the Master's Life


His deafness is a hammer pounding away at the broken layers
of my skull.
Music is like a pointed piece of bone cutting my skin.
Watching him leaning there, feeling the music escape from the piano into his blood
is unnerving.
Like watching the dead rise at night and walk speaking of life in
better worlds.
It is not natural to Feel what can only be heard but then, he is not a natural man.
His skin is an instrument, his dead ears pressed against the piano are extensions of a
Supernatural Force.
A madness, that makes me recoil from his presence.
He almost seems natural when he attempts to speak.
I know that he cares for me, in his way, as if I were his son.
But he will always be a madman with lightning striking in his eyes,
striking chords at random on an untuned instrument.
Only I know of, a fifth movement to his ninth symphony.
It is etched in my being like a disease of the imagination that
only the deaf can hear.




Looking Back, Self-Portrait as Tchaikovsky in NY: Torrents of Spring


There should have been a Russian river,
perhaps, The Volga, but there wasn't.


The Schoharie Creek was out of control,
not really a river but a force
stronger than a Russian Easter Overture
once the ice jams broke.


That force took down
a New York State Thruway bridge
and ten people with it to a muddy death.


Nine bodies were recovered.
The local papers concluded that if that bridge had
collapsed a few days later the whole
of the Easter day Thruway migration might have
ended up dead or on the edge.


Or with Tchaikovsky, considering chords for
a Pathetique, up to his neck in filthy
water, a whole symphony orchestra set up
on the banks consumed by cholera
waiting for direction.


The composer on stage or in transition
between composition and execution,
traveling with his recently published score.


The orchestra about to touch their instruments,
draw a bow across a string in our minds
when the bridge we needed to cross, disappeared.






John Cage's Imaginary Landscape


12 radios
placed in a row
on a table,
center stage.


A conductor, dressed in
formal black, ascends a podium,
taps his music stand. Pauses.


Stage hands enter from stage right-
tune each musical instrument
to different, random stations.


Then hastily leave the stage.


The conductor waves his baton,
once, twice, three times, then
steps from his podium.


Bows once toward the audience
then leaves the stage.


The radios play on without him.







The Idea of Noise
Glenn Gould meets John Cage


A chain drawn across concrete

Breaking glass

An air raid siren

Water dripping on a taut, dried animal skin

Rain falling up

A collision of stars, ruined charts

The tintinnabulation of winds chiming

An implosion of will

Two hands clapping

One

None






The Resurrection Symphony


The master's face reflected in the water,

looking down, contemplating unknowable nether

worlds, disturbing a delicate balance,

subaqueous kingdoms among broken bottle glass,

rusting gold painted caps, antediluvian

choral music in a village square, broken voices

struggling with half tone notes, mute children

playing hide and seek, clapping their hands,

signifying the coming of the night, new changeling

moons, songs within songs; the long, dead

drunken ancestral city fathers rising up,

compelled by pulling inner tides to seek the

forbidden heights, their extended, grasping

fingers breaking the surface calm of the lake.

Two Poems by Michael H. Brownstein


Trying to Find the Wind 

The morning sky cobalt and emerald,
A ghost river and a ghost of shoreline without litter,
The shadows of decrescendo within plywood
And a challenge that brings fortissimo to daylight.

Watch the man at the edge of the curve with his kora,
The duck of winter heavy with clouds of snow and opera
Did not offer relief, nor did the shacks built for strong men,
But the mixing of the agogo, slit drum, seed pod shaker,.

Djembe Drums, talking drums, schamanen trommel,
And the heartbeat of dancing, the rhythm of shell bracelets 
Awakened the madwoman who points her adunga stringed  harp
At the possum of truth and the wind slips in, leaves sing[ng.

And there is coolness, loving comfort, and a movement of shadow,
We look into the music we make and rejoice, rejoice, rejoice. Amen.  


THIS, TOO, HAPPENED IN THE PALISADES

The green eyes of the witch girl,
egg shells and shekeres.. 
...

Once climbing the Palisades of Illinois,
a piece of obsidian slipped into her smile
lining the sky with a melody of silver.
...

Thunder eased into the butterfly,
pianissimo
...

lightning--
forte.
the witch girl's hand a stick,
a large kalimba,
sforzando.
...

When the sun rises,
the deer leave for soft spaces.
She, too, finds a place of shadow,
lays on heavy bits of half notes,
hums the diapason of night,
the way music comes together 
in throat, goat gut, wood and stone
but she does not sleep--
she opens her mouth, 
takes in a deep breath,
sings vibrato/fermata and the wind joins in.


Michael H. Brownstein's latest volumes of poetry, A Slipknot to Somewhere Else (2018) and How Do We Create Love? (2019),
were published by Cholla Needles Press.

Two Acrostic Sonnets

By Mike-Mesterton-Gibbons


A United Germany

 A wall divided East and West Berlin
 Until the year of Nineteen Eighty-Nine.
 Not thirty years since JFK's "Ich bin,"
 Its fall made German folk, not zwei, but ein!
 The breaking of the barrier raised hope:
 Emancipation beckoned far and wide.
 Democracy prepared to spread its scope.
 Glad tidings of world peace fast multiplied.
 Euphoria broke out, quite unrehearsed—--
 Red states had tumbled, China would be next,
 My neighbor said ... but then the tide reversed,
 As we had all misread our history text ...
 Now we must strive again to turn the tide—--
 Yet Germany, still one, remains a guide!


 Tortoise Or Hare?

 The race was on. Hare bragged: "I'm in in the lead!
 Old Tortoise won't catch me with his slow pace!" ...
 Rash Hare would soon learn how slow beasts succeed—--
 The tortoise made the route plan for this race! … 
"Oi! Big Ears! Stop!" bawled out a cop, "your speed 
 Is twice the legal limit for this road!
 Since, for each mile an hour that you exceed
 Eight miles an hour, our government is owed
 One ounce of gold, you owe a whole two pounds—--
 Remit it here and now, or go to jail!" ...
 Hare had no gold. He'd been outraced. "It sounds
 As though," said he, "this route's designed to fail
 Rapidity. Too slow of wit, I'm done!" ...
 Embarrassedly, he watched as Tortoise won!

A Forever Saudade

By David Thorpe

 
On that cold and rainy evening
a sudden attack of loneliness
caught them gazing at empty glasses,
a last ´night cap`, or just one more
 
His invitation she accepted,
a business conversation drink,
whilst bored lips repeated small talk,
their eyes conversed in silence
 
The circumstances dealt the cards
of high stakes they well aware,
apprehension readily defied,
their acquiescence to betoken
 
Of sensual passion their night evinced
a tenderness of intimacy mutual,
yet the tears they shed on parting,
not of regret but of a forever saudade,
for like the moon, Selene and the sun, Helios,
they had broken the barriers
and  journeyed to their mutual eclipse
 
David Thorpe ©®

ODE TO THE WEST WIND
by Percy Bysshe Shelley
I
O wild West Wind; thou breath of Autumn’s being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, –
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed –
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow –
Her clarion o’er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odors plain and hill: –
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh, hear! –
II
Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky’s commotion,
Loose clouds like earth’s decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, –
Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine aery surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head –
Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith’s height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge –
Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might –
Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh, hear! –
III
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams, –
Beside a pumice isle in Baiae’s bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave’s intenser day, –
All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic’s level powers –
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know –
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: oh, hear! –
IV
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share –
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be –
The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne’er have striven –
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! –
A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud. –
V
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies –
Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! –
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse, –
Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened earth –
The trumpet of a prophecy! O, Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind! 

Painting above by Roy Liechtenstein
​


Beth Plays Air Flute


By Robert Cooperman 


In our car, riding home
after our morning walk,
the classical radio station
plays a Baroque
flute sonata by a composer
neither of us has heard of.


It’s lovely, zephyrs of air,
refreshing as the early autumn
open windows. And Beth--
who plays the flute for real--
mimics the fingering
and embrasure,
the melody dancing
delicate as hummingbirds.


“If only,” she smiled.
“That’s one difficult piece.”


When I was young, I pretended
to be Jerry Garcia; I picked
empty air while my left hand
worked the invisible fret board,
“Dark Star” soaring, cavorting
like a kite on the stereo.


Now, Beth, inspired, exalted
by the music, toodles silently;
then the sonata concludes,
her fingers still, the last
perfect notes echoing, fading

Paintings by Salvador Dali 







​
Flies On The Wall

By Mike Mesterton-Gibbons
​

For Ginger Rogers and for Fred Astaire,
Love may have been for real, or just on-set—--
In movies they had many an affair,
Enchanting with their dancing etiquette ...
Such chemistry made rumors coalesce.
On-screen entwinement made their fans surmise:
No screen romance could seem so real unless
Their love was real——and so fans hired two flies.
How well these spies both hid from whom they tailed!
Each eavesdropped on a dressing room backstage.
Would Fred and Ginger's passion be unveiled?
Alternatively, would they not engage? ...
Luck blessed not fans. Fred swatted down both flies—--
Long afterwards, we still can but surmise!

---

Painting above: "The Girl with the Pearl Earring" by Jan Vermeer


A Painting in Oil of Magnificence

(Who was the girl and earring was it a pearl?)


By David Thorpe


Swift moving clouds across a sky of grey,
its teardrops on my cheeks and lips,

a distant bell chimes the hour of vespers,

almost a lament in the haunting gloom

The evening wears its winter gown,
the defeated leaves scattered by a cruel wind,

some drowning in waters of despondency,

reflecting the flames of burning torches

 Across hump-backed canal bridges

my cloak wrapped tight against the cold,

with hurried steps I reach the deserted square,
the tall church tower veiled by descending fog 

My footsteps on the cobbled streets
betray my impatient pace,

a dog on his nocturnal ramble barks,
without knowing quite the reason

My friend the artist begs me enter

to lead me to his master piece,

a painting in oil of magnificence,

the inspiration of Jan Vemeer van Delft

Speechless in a mesmerized trance,
I behold the enchantment of his muse,

the candlelight caught in her pearl earring

her direct gaze not of innocence

but rather one of complicity
​
 David Thorpe ©®

​Painting above by James Lee


Pulp Fiction 

Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin



Pulp Fiction


She liked the kind of strange
men who sat in the back seat
of her cab, unwrapping his taped,
bloody fists, sweating as if he’d
done ten rounds with Mighty Joe
Young or ridden shotgun with
Death. Was the kind of fighter
who, instead of throwing the bout,
killed his opponent in the ring.
His deed being announced on radio
broadcast she was listening to,
heeding his command to, “Just Go!”
as if she wasn’t aware this was
the getaway to nowhere car.
Actually, he had someplace way
out of town in mind, where a bookie
was holding the big money he won,
betting the long odds on himself
to win, a stake he set up with
the cash he’d collected for taking
a dive. Once he got to where he
needed to be, he’d be riding a chopped
bike he stole from a pawnshop sadist,
so confident no one would dare lift
his ride, he left the keys in the ignition
while, inside, men were making his last
hours on this earth, a living hell spent
on the corner of Terror Street and Agony
Way.


She knew her way around men, and
the towns they lived in. Hung with
contract killers who liked to quote
Old Testament prophets of doom
before they completed a hit. Had
a date once with a hedge fund cokehead,
with a bad habit, who made the mistake
of ordering her a “Bitcherita,” in a high end
club, “for his lady of the night,” explaining
the drink was hard lemonade, a shot
of Patron with a lime. Was the last
cocktail he’d ever order, anywhere,
before a strange encounter of a fatal
kind, with some bad hombres who
knew how to make; A Fate Worse
Than Death, take on a new meaning.



***





Pulp Fiction (2)


They liked classic rock n roll,
especially The Killer at the keyboard,
hopped on So Co and underage girls,
did drive-bys instead of drive-ins,
coke in lines but not the fizzy kind
that comes in bottles and cans,
were into the eye for an eye,
Old Testament vengeance tour
but not into turning the other cheek,
understood the Solomon solution
of cutting someone in half to solve
a complex problem but not the Psalms of.
Had a heavy Chevy, cherry red ride
modified to motor, white walls and
a plastic jesus on the dash, a curl of
mardi gras love beads around the rear
view; liked surf music on the sound
around: Beach Boys and Ventures,
Dell Shannon and The Searchers,
needles and pins on tape and in their
eyebrows and arms, eyes like marble suns
setting into a blood red sea.



***





Penny Dreadful


Night like some penny dreadful setting:
shadows and light, street lamp glare and
recessed doorway caves. No exit, one way
blacktop lane, slick with early morning mist,
still as a withdrawn breath. Waiting for a
Third Man clone who never comes, a woman
with no soul, fresh red lip gloss, for a Judas kiss.
Solitary footsteps: high heels on concrete,
staccato as buck shot slung against sheet metal,
The opening click of a Zippo lighter, flame to
cigarette, red ember dot, the click of the Zippo
closing. The pause in mid high heel step.
An inhaled breath released, smoke rings in damp
light. One man, one woman, separate as any
two objects can be, their elective affinities drawing
them together, somewhere in the dark.
To be continued.


***


The Drowning Pool


This is how it begins:
a sedan through underbrush
up against a tree, a steaming
radiator, full moon reflected on
a lake, driver’s side door sprung
open, air bag deployed, blood in
the ruts where grass should be


This is how the movie proceeds:
a handheld camera shakily following
path of car downhill as in every horror
movie ever made. Feet cracking dead
sticks as they go. Pant legs scraping
against shrubbery, scattering leaves.
Hands moving obstacles impeding
progress. Rhythmic, labored breathing,
and the sound of a radio not quite tuned
into a station playing what might have
been country and western music in
another life.


The man from the car stumbling toward
the lake. His button-down dress shirt
torn at the shoulder, blood splatters
on once white cloth. Trouser legs
ripped to the knee, to the thigh, soiled
from contact with wet forest floor.
An open head wound free flowing
down unnaturally pale face. Eyes
trying to focus on what lies ahead,
conscious of what follows behind.


This is where the stationery camera
focuses on the moon on the water,
establishing a shot contrasting to what
is about to happen on the shoreline-pursuer
contacting the man from the car.
Thrashing on shore then a splash.
Then another, louder splash and a muffled
voice speaking words that make no sense.
Red bold type letters superimposed on
the once again tranquil scene:
The Drowning Pool. Unrated.
What happens next is up to you.



***



Bedtime Story



She looked as if
she'd missed a
second casting for
her role as a side
show Marilyn look
alike bimbo in Pulp
Fiction and had settled,
instead, for a walk on
part on the back lot
of Killer Klowns from
Outer Space, was so
far into the joy juice
before high noon,
rapid eye blinking
false lashes, suggesting
long nights up close
and personal, press on
nails, daggers to your
spine, looks that sd.,
"Once, long ago, and far
away, I'd been with
the great ones." but
look where it got you;
nothing but Bad News,
and here, now, with me.

Pollage by Ellaraine Lockie


Pollage definition: Ellaraine Lockie's one-of-a-kind pollages combine her three passions of poetry, papermaking and collage. She uses lifetime collections of handmade papers, postage stamps, charms, milagros, buttons, shells, rocks, feathers, pressed leaves and flowers, rubber stamps, travel memorabilia, magazine clippings and poetry. No glue is used, as items are attached with wet paper pulp. 

Pollage bio: Ellaraine Lockie’s pollages have appeared in juried art shows around the country and have been the subject of a one-woman gallery art show and several online essays and interviews. They also exist in several private art collections and have appeared in: The Centrifugal Eye along with an essay on their origin, the Rio Grande Review, Homestead Review, Sein Und Werden (England) along with an interview, Prairie Connection, Ascent Aspirations, Alchemy, KYSO Flash and MacQueen’s Quninterly, and Slipstream.


Poetry bio: Ellaraine Lockie is widely published and awarded as a poet, nonfiction book author, flash fiction author and essayist. She has won Poetry Forum’s Chapbook Contest Prize, San Gabriel Valley Poetry Festival Chapbook Competition, Encircle Publications Chapbook Contest, Best Individual Poetry Collection Award from Purple Patch magazine in England, and The Aurorean’s Chapbook Choice Award. Her poems have found their ways onto broadsides, buses, rented cars, bicycles, cabins, greeting cards, key chains, bookmarks, mugs, coffee sack labels, church bulletins, radio shows and cable TV. Ellaraine also teaches writing workshops and serves as Poetry Editor for the lifestyles magazine, LILIPOH.

Poem Written While Listening to Vivaldi at
the Schenectady Public Library

By Alan Catlin



Amid strange
assortment of used


books on thrift
shop store shelves,


I find one by a now
dead poet friend.


One I’d never read:
maxims and parables,


word songs musing
on the oddity of being


no more. It seems
to me maybe his


finest work.
How could I have


missed it before?
If only he were


here to sign his
book for me.

The Sounds of Sorghum
 
By Carla R. Bailey

Under the hickory tree
Ole Harlan leaned his banjo
against a knee of a different time
and Ole Jack between the forks
round and round in circles
of sugar cane through the press

He sang Carter Stanley songs
like it was still yesterday
and the grapes still hung on the vine 
Ole Jack never gained pace with the tempo
chewing on hay straws looking straight ahead
nothing will ever be sweeter to him

The claw-hammer twang 
falls in tune with mule-time steps
where forever meets the always 
alongside the hickory trunk
where crisp morning air
carries the sounds into another time 



Melody and Motherhood

By Carla R. Bailey

Flame-time motions of mothers and saints
sing to us a lullaby and tuck in all that’s not holy
some that just never were.  building strongly. 
Soft and serenade we continue the dance and hear
the sounds of heroines singing, and call for the left behind.  

For the final night’s dream, and rocking babies to sleep.
we’ll breathe in the surrender of music
and exhale that same summer song 
sway away the morning light, and never mind the dew.
There’s too many of us to fret and feel away the day.

The kind and timeless melody has us in her grip
To bend our knees and continue to please
All the minutes that are a creeping by
And I’ll open up my heart’s heart 
And learn to never say goodbye.  




Suddenly the Strange

By Carla R. Bailey

The prickle of my white flesh skin
to hear the sounds no words can curve
I’ll look for you over the morning 
and under the swinging yellow moon

There was a fiddle and we heard it great
he processed it all with one ear and a bow
And brought the day all the way to real-like-life
He saw it all from an angle so grievously and sweet

The echos in the valley still carry
with the soft chaos of the tin cup pain
bits of holy water and apple sauce 
Will explain the night away

We’ll sit here until morning sir 
And the sorrow-filled rhythm is here to stay.

Trombone Player

By Mike Mesterton-Gibbons

​
The Dorsey stamp shows Tommy on trombone,
Rejoicing to his sentimental sound
Of swing, with Jimmy on the saxophone—--
Musicians whose great hits were world renowned!
Big bands had never seen such skilled trombone:
Ol' Blue Eyes said he learned to breathe his way,
Not from a vocal coach, but from his own 
Experience of watching Tommy play! ...
Perhaps, since Tommy's timeless, he belongs
Less on a thirty-two cent stamp than where
A stamp commemorates his classic songs,
Yet also says they'll always fill the air ...
Eternal tunes deserve a mail revamp—--
Releasing Tommy's own Forever stamp!

Photo above: Editor in Chief Charles E.J. Moulton in "The Tales of Hoffmann", Vienna Chamber Opera, 1996



One Haiku and Two Short Poems

By Alex Andy Phuong


Symphonic Symphony


Playing symphonies
Musical rhapsody
Live in harmony




Music


Music that is
The language of the soul
Helping make people feel whole
Filling up empty holes
With intangible beauty
The deaf cannot hear,
Yet there is no need for fear
For this present moment
Is here,
And music truly does
Whatever it does
To transcend
And help make amends
While reminding listeners
To never fear the end,
So play on!







Broadway Musical Baby


Fan of Broadway
Knowing the way
Music transcends
And how intangible
It is,
And how the deaf
Might not hear.
Nevertheless,
Extraordinary Auditory
Can create symphonies
While also promoting harmony,
So help the ones
Unable to do what others
Do,
While letting the music
Play on

Photo above: Gun Kronzell, the Editor-in-Chief's mother, successful operatic mezzo-soprano. 



My Mother Sang To Me

By Paul Buchheit



A minstrel's lyric on a city street

betrays a moment past, a memory

held captive by a siren's song: retreat

is my indulgence, to a panoply

of silver maples scattering the sun

upon my eyes like tiny dancing sprites,

the specters of my boyhood beasts undone

by strains from Orpheus and shrill delights

of Pan's seductive reed, the sounds adrift

on perfumed breezes in the melodies

my mother sang to me. And as they lift

me on my wistful passage, and appease

a soul beguiled by scheming Time, I yearn

for pleasantries to which I can't return.

Photo above: The cast and crew of A Christmas Carol
(the Editor in Chief farthest right and his father in the middle)
International Theatre, Vienna, 1984

​

Oktoberfest, Group Home

By Susan Zeni


Picked-over sauerkraut, apple-brown betties slide into buspans.
Radiators hisssss like pressure cookerssss, valves too tight.
Every human thing on Ritalin boils
as Dorothy steps from the kitchen,
mops her face on a big white towel,
waves at the Polkastra, our all-girl band.
Yes, she’d like to retire, live with a sister in Sausalito
but who would stew for them, grill for them, love them?


They dance to our Beer Barrel, Johan Pa Snippen,
as they have gig after gig, year after year,
Barbara’s white hair like wild cotton candy,
Eric and Bill whistling, dinging, tambourine-klacking,
little Gracie splayed on the floor
ready to pound out the cowbell and hi-hat,
sweet Raj, redolent as garam masala,
waits on a hug from the champagne lady
in this cinder block basement of plastic trellises,
gossamered fleshiness, tin-bottomed planters.


Kathy, in a flowered dress,
eyes black and intense,
arms criss-crossing her chest,
alabaster skin, dark hair in frail wisps,
white sweater, single button, wrong hole,
rocks like a metronome in front of my music,
“Only in the night! Only in the night!”


Only in the night?
What does she need,
six years, six Oktoberfests the same plea,
the cipher of her unintelligible,
the warp and woof of her so seemingly simple,
yet so beyond our grasp,
as she breathes on my bellows,
stares at the drummer, concertina, and bass.


Strangers in the night, sleazy Sinatra--
is that what she wants?
Braceleted arms clasping a pillow,
poker chips on the Vegas strip,
bulbous husbands towing their wives
through confectioned streets,
a swollen crooner ogling the mic?
I do not know this song.
I will never know this song.
Is there not enough lonesomeness here
to fill a universe?
Where is her family, who are her pals?


“Only in the night, only in the night!”
She is a broken record,
a locked door, all the doors
in this place locked,
padlocks on chains, bars on the windows,
and I don’t have the key, major or minor,
for all the souls tethered together
in this mephitic cavern of souring kraut.


Flightless birds flap their wings,
fast and faster in the chicken dance,
“Don’t wanna be a chicken,
Don’t wanna be a duck,”
as handsome attendants whirl their favorites
in billowing whoops of tangles and laughs.


Only in the…only in the… O my God!
“Irene, good night? Irene, good night?”


“Yesssss! Yesssss!” Kathy shrieks,
as she spins and leaps ala grand jete’
as she peels off her sweater, kicks off her slipperss
as her buddies high-five, encircle her blissss,
as we strike up the waltz, yesss, yesss, yesss,
“Good night Irene, Good night Irene,
I’ll see you in my dreams,”
as Dorothy steps from the kitchen, pulls off her apron,
hands on her hips, grins a big grin that says,
“Yessssss, these are my people, this is our world.”

Three Acrostic Sonnets 

By Mike Mesterton-Gibbons

Professor of Mathematics


Ms. Longstocking

My name is Pippi. I can lift my horse.
Since I'm so strong, you should not mess with me,
Lest you discover what they call girl force:
One flip from me can land you up a tree!
No grown-ups ever tell me what to do:
Gold coins maintain my lifestyle parent-free,
So I can wear old tattered clothes. Though you
Tut-tut and frown, you do not mess with me!
One time a lady mocked my freckled face:
Child, you are covered! You need salve from me!
Kind lady, I replied, it's no disgrace:
I love my freckles. Please don't mess with me! ...
Nine years of age is all I'll ever be.
Grown people, though, know not to mess with me!


Pinocchio's Nose

Perhaps when Shakespeare said the truth will out,
It meant the famous Bard foresaw a day
No humans' words could ever be in doubt,
Or else they'd feel their nostrils sneak away!
Could Shakespeare have supposed an actor's snout
Could grow onstage from lying? Like as not,
He'd have to make his actor's back face out
In later scenes——or modify his plot! ...
Othello's tale could have a happy end,
Should Iago's nose grow like Pinocchio's:
New lines for Desdemona could be penned,
Occasioning no jealous-husband throes—--
Since all deceit would add a nasal inch,
Exposing Iago's lies would be a cinch!


Acrostic Sonnet

A Shakespeare sonnet's fourteen lines must be
Constrained to match its rhyme scheme to a T,
Requiring A B A B C D C
On top of D E F E F G G.
Strong beat must follow weak beat just five times
To make the meter perfect. But there's more:
It takes a turn between two later rhymes,
Concluding with the twist one's building for ...
So that's enough for Shakespeare? Not for me!
One fourteen-letter phrase must be enrolled
Not only as the title, but the key
No left-hand side can not display in bold ...
Each time I spot a fourteen-letter phrase,
This sonnet-writing urge brooks no delays!

Spock

By Christian Ward

He's the ideal flatmate: clean, tidy,
never drinks or smokes. Doesn't get music
but that's okay. I've learnt to stop staring
at his ears in case he grips my neck
and I collapse like laundry on the floor.
Some days, late at night, I hear him muttering
'Captain, Captain, Captain' into a shoe
and laugh to myself. Spock, fine as he may be,
doesn't make for the best company. Everything has to be logical: call centres, mangoes, even sex. My girlfriend says he's a pervert whenever she’s around, that he leers at her in a strange way, as if something is trapped under his skin and he's desperately trying to get rid of it. Weirdo.
And, if you're wondering, never talk to him
about poetry. He bloody hates it. You can almost smell the dactyls bubbling on his tongue as he drones on, how illogical it is to describe emotion on paper, before becoming still like a heron about to dive into the dark of a pond it has never seen before.

I AM AWAKE(THOUGHTS OF A VAMPIRE)
​
written by: Sophia Behal
performed by: Sean van Dutch


I am awake.
A sleeping city lays
beneath my feet.
But now a stranger passes.

I am awake.
A tasty smell of fresh blood
beneath my nose,
lingers and gives me a fresh energy shot.

I am awake.
A certain someone close to me lies
wherever you are; time flies,
and close to it my attention ties.

I am awake.
A search starts:
for a perfect time & place,
for the hurtful act at a corner in the dark.

I am awake
as everyone sleeps.
No one would witness
when my demon’s heart-shaped fang the neck pinches.

I am awake.
Drops of blood circulate.
A moment to celebrate.
One left for the other’s sake.
I am awake.

The Third Man and Dos Lolitas

Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin


Higher Than Kites, Higher Than the Moon


Faulkner would have recognized
these guys as next door neighbors
to the Snopes, refugees from a
field study on the cause, effect
and harm caused by rampant inbreeding,
people who went to family affairs in
a pickup that looked as if it had spent
the War Years, the Punic War Years,
buried in a pile of compost and mud,
flatbed rusting through to the main
frame, muffler long ago left along side
the hardened ruts of what passed for
main roads to Nowhere, a place where
they and their kind lived, carrying a
homemade coffin with them wherever
they went that carried the remains of
a significant other inside, extra
pre-cuts for what fell out over 'Shine
and road kill feasts on holidays, home
comings and funerals, tipping over
out houses on the way home for fun,
higher than kites, higher than the moon.














Wm Faulkner's As I Lay Dying


Dirt roads lead nowhere after
the flood are mud furrows obstructing
a pilgrim's progress to ancestral
burial grounds, the dearly departed
encased for transport, through
this world and into the next,
in a rude cord wood casket
accompanied by a cortege of wild
acolytes half-living, half-dead themselves.
At road's end, mudflats and bogs
enshrouded by a low cling of swamp
gas and of fog, bear tracks and feral howls
at night, and by day, as this sad
sarcophagus and its standard bearers
cross a great divide to the promised
land as last shadows seen this side of grave.
















Toy Seller on the Steps of St. Martin-in-the-Fields 1920


My ten year old self wants
the lizard-displayed among
many such toy stuffed animals
hung with all the seller's wares
from a thick leather strap as
an attachment, an enticement
obtrusive as an unnatural
predator inserted within a flock
of mock blue heron, teddy cubs,
dwarf ponies…the lizard crawling
in full attack mode, strategically
situated dead center in the seller's
chest, an eye catcher, not unlike
the balloon seller in the post
World War II Vienna streets
at night in the “Third Man” at a
crucial time, an odd distraction
just before the collaring of elusive
Harry Lime. This man, this predecessor,
on the steps of St Martin-in-the-Fields
awaiting a march of children, airs
by Henry Purcell, the English Haydn
or, in this time between World Wars,
to end all World Wars, anticipating
a choral rendering of last poems
from the trenches by Wilfred Owen,
a War Requiem by R. Vaughn-Williams.














Promotional Movie Poster 1962
after Bruno Barbey


Lola Haze holds her lolly to
her lips, stares out from beneath
dark glasses, watching all
the boys, the men, the whole
of the male sex, crave the woman
inside the adolescent girl,
one who was never a virgin
nor would have wanted to be.
Her likeness is peeling at
celluloid edges, this all-too-soon
to be married symbol of her kind,
fated never to be an earth mother
dying, as she will, in child birth
so unlike this plain wife of Jesus
walking by, it seems strange
to think of them as belonging
to the same sex.
















The Misfit and the Freak


Most of the novels about life
in bars are like Hemingway
with a bad hangover, nothing as
classic as a much better writer than
Papa, Chandler, full of lines that
flatten the heads of draft beers as
they are spoken. Every so often
a plot will develop like a bad
treatment for a great book later made
into an even worse movie people
see and mistake for the real thing.
Trying to impress with a worldly,
intellectual acumen, people speak
as if they were well read though
what they say is like the Cliff’s notes
of something with vital pages missing.
Mostly the characters along the wood
are like demented relatives of Faulkner
inbreds lost in some dense woods of
their own invention with festering bodies
long past their due date. Or else they
are guys like these two, Lenny and
George from Of Mice and Men
through the looking glass, the big guy
being the relatively well-spoken one,
the controller, while the smaller guy
is like a lit fuse burning down to
the charge, a non-stop talker, primed
on pills, a misfit and a freak drinking
flaming shots of Cuervo Gold, stolen
stuff in their pockets and dead things in
their wake, the bar an outpost even Conrad
heroes would never go.









Tom


“Ordinarily I wouldn’t share this
with customers but I know you guys.”
I thought about his fellow waiter who
shared that same story about Doc from
Winesburg, Ohio, the one good book he
actually read, a story so familiar
in the telling, you wanted to ask him about
Joe Welling, or one of the other characters,
knowing that would spoil his routine.
“These four guys came in dressed okay:
suit coats over open shirts, jeans but good ones.
At least they made the effort with the jackets,
so we let it go. Little did we know that was
for show.


Anyway, it was as if they hadn’t eaten in years.
Ordered it all: apps, salads, starter wines, aperitifs,
top shelf entrees, multiple bottles of vino….
You know :the stuff you really need to show them
the label of to make sure it was okay, because
you don’t want to make a mistake opening it;
that’s how much it cost. By the time they stagger
order desserts and house specialty coffees,
we’re wondering if the check might reach four figures.
All I knew for sure was, it was damn near the
biggest check I ever had on a four top.


No one thought anything about the first guy
getting up for the men’s room. His jacket was on
his chair, right? Then the second guy.
The third guy, same thing until it’s one guy at the table.
He yawns, signals for the check and goes for the head.
I’m working the adding machine like crazy,
not looking over, so I don’t notice right away:
the guy never came back from the john.
Come to find out the jackets were like Salvation Army
specials; still had the tags stapled to the inside pockets.
It really sucked at the time, but you had to give them
credit for the cleverest way I ever heard of for beating
the check.”









Dos Lolitas


They looked as if they could
have been Dolores Haze’s
slightly older sisters, in a bar
with a much older man who
might have been as old as 19.
They wanted something to
warm the frozen cockles of
their cold hearts, said they had
money or could do whatever it
took to score something good.
“Maybe if you wore more
clothes you wouldn’t be so cold.”
The bartender, said.”Or is business
so bad working Central Avenue,
that’s all you could afford?”
“Actually, we were working in
the Park.”
“Maybe you should have rolled
some of the winos for their
stash.”
“We tried that. The fight like
tigers, even the frail ones.”
“Well, you can go back and try
again. It’s not too late if you hurry.”
“We’d do whatever it takes to
get a drink.”
“Nah. I’m not into watching
the kind of sex tapes Security
cameras take. The resolution is
bad and besides that stuff always
turns up on the Internet. I couldn’t
handle that. Not that you’d mind.”
“We’ve been on the Internet lots
of times.
“Yeah, and all the guys that took
the pictures are doing time.
When you reach the age of consent.
come back and maybe we’ll talk.”
They didn’t like that. Whatever.
There must have been half a dozen
bars between this one and the park
and one of them was bound to have
a bartender undaunted by a morals charge.

Odysseus Takes His Place in Hades


By Robert Cooperman



We sit in silence, the way of the dead
unless one of the living ventures down
and lets us lap blood as if hungry hounds.
Still, our thoughts flow from one to another
like streams set free by Spring’s break-up thaw.


In the gloom: Achilles with Patroclus,
and cuckold Menelaus and his fuck
of a brother, Agamemnon, the authors
of our troubles at Troy; when I visited
alive, that venomed asp, Agamemnon,
cursed his wife, Clytemnestra, for his murder,
but the greedy boar slew their own daughter
Iphigenia, for a fair wind to Troy
and its store houses of glittering riches.


As for Menelaus, his face still red
with rage whenever he thinks of Helen.
If she weren’t immortal and laughing
at us for saluting her with our peggos
whenever she let her gown slip off her
luscious shoulders, he’d slay her over
and over, for running off with Paris,
whose idea of war was the one in bed.


“Was your long life happy?” Achilles asks.


“I went mad,” then stop, too boring to tell,
and wonder if the child I slew is here,
or in Elysium, as he should be.


But Achilles insists I continue:
“We have all of time, here, so tell the tale
with each embellishment you were famed for.”
He sits back, hoping for the endless lies
I spun, like the cleverest of spiders.
Even great Ajax, who hates me, draws near.

A Dream Within a Dream

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE



Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow --

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone? 

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.


I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand --

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep — while I weep!

O God! Can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

The Spirits of Trees and Ferns

By David Thorpe


The spirits of trees and ferns,
intrinsic to the scents and aromas
of forest whispers and sighs,
embrace the fauna and flora,
sharing this vast lung,


the sanctuary of Artemis,

guarded by stalwart pine soldiers
Intruding sunbeams pierce the silence
of the forest darkness,
opening wounds of light,
which illuminate enchanted hollows,


not yet deflowered by the hand of man
Early morning prints of animal dwellers
soil the annual bridal gown,
a veil of crystallized tears,
nature´s endowment to a virgin woodland,  
come winter


Unawareness prevailsof a lurking danger,
for like a ghost it is invisible to many,
stealthily creeping down
from onerous clouds,
a poison trapped within omnivorous pollutants,
indiscriminately attacking its prey


Are we the culprits - ? - allowing ourselves to be gagged  
by the cunningness of avarice and indifference,

who sweeten their soliloquies with vague promises,

a gullible audience to appease 


David Thorpe ©® 

High-Spirited

By Alex Andy Phuong 



Vivacity
Tenacity
Within post-modernity
Are both essential
To keeping spirits high
Even as time passes by
Soar and love goodness forevermore
To let longevity ensure
That hearts stay pure
So that life itself
Could endure


Alex Andy Phuong earned his Bachelor of Arts in English from California State University—Los Angeles in 2015.  He was a former Statement Magazine editor who currently writes passionately.  He has written film reviews for MovieBoozer, and has contributed to Mindfray.  His writing has appeared in The Bookends Review and The Society of Classical Poets.  He now writes with the sincerest hope to inspire readers, and fully supports those who dare to pursue their dreams. 

Three Poems 

By 

Megan Denese Mealor


***
​​

Before the Beginning
 

God without Eve:
watercolor wanderlust
a blizzard stoked with stones
 
She smoothed in
vicious strokes of sea
lit reclusive hillsides
with bellflowers and begonias
etched herself at awestruck angles
tangled Adam's warring bones
climbed and climbed forbidden skies
slept forgotten in the mosses
 
Serpents sweetened and riddled
deafening star-stunned sparrows
left unfeathered, undefined


- Originally published in Liquid Imagination, November 2017





Addictions


there is a murderess on the loose
no asylum could hold her lightning

her beauty is so beyond repair
she will catch fire in the rain

her spirit cannot seem to stay inside the lines

one side of her is a queen
on her way to execution,

unable to believe that nothing can save her:
not her jewels, not her king
the other side does not exist. it is not there anymore
her rage has silenced moonlight,
painted over forests and fathers,
filled the earth with glass and bone
when she smiles,
flowers learn to speak
she promises nothing
while war swells in the blistering streets,
we bury our dead without bitterness,
promise ourselves that nothing is in vain,
scream and scream in whispers
she laughs herself apart
you will never find her again,
though she will be everywhere

- Originally published in Digital Americana, Fall 2012




Prostrate

You skim a little Puce graffiti,
sip from a tumbler of lukewarm Darjeeling.

You mail a glistering chain letter
to your half-hearted half-sister in Chesapeake

because you know she’ll fail to pass it on

and you want someone to have evidence

of your best efforts.

You listlessly pedal your cyclocross
through a levitating backdrop of loblolly pines
all the way to the red-light fringes
of your gutted hometown,   
where Jane Doe junkies congregate
around lewd neon pick-up trucks.

You pause at a moth-eaten chapel
dubbed Windsong Church,
catching wafts of gimcrack gospel
drifting in the unkempt daylight.

You wonder what your infidel mother
would say if she could see you imagining
this holy house’s carved intestines:
a plexiglass pulpit presiding over
golden oak slatback pews,
heirloom hymnals hypnotizing
the spire sparrows,
painted glass apostles
depending, impending.

You have almost forgotten to exist
without her vivacious cinnamon hair,
her trail of yellow diamonds.

You almost did exist
within the flowerless space
of that total eclipse.

But here you are now,
self-righteous in your cork bed flats
and poured glass bib,
raw denim Sunday best,
littering the creek rock parking lot
with your prodigal noontime shadow,

still inconstant,
waiting to believe.

- Originally published in Gone Lawn, June 2018

Meeting God in a Lake and other Spiritual Poems


By


Jake Cosmos Aller


Author’s Note: these poems are about some of my spiritual encounters in my life. I am not a follower of any traditional religious tradition, sort of an agnostic Buddhist if there is such a thing. But neither am I an atheist. Perhaps the universe is alive and that is what we perceive as God? Who knows? I certainly do not.

***


Index


Meeting God in a Lake
Cosmic Cat from Berkeley
Meeting God in Bombay
Cosmic Dog From Goa
Buddha Cat from Edsel Road

***



These have been published, most recently in Hypertext in 2020.


***



Meeting God in a Lake

In my 64 years around the sun
I encountered God four times
At least I thought it was God
But could never be sure

The first time I met God
I had taken magic mushrooms
And had gone to a lake
And soon was tripping inside my head

Lost in inner space
Zoning out tuning in
Dropping down the proverbial rabbit hole
And then in the middle of my madness
I felt oneness with the universe

My body melted away
And I joined the universe
All boundaries dropped away
And I knew that the universe was alive
and I was part of the Cosmos
And the Cosmos was part of me
And I wondered at that moment If I was face to face with God

I asked God to reveal himself to me
And nothing happened
Just laughter as the whole universe
Burst into laughter
And the madness began to fade
And I slowly came down from the high
And became aware of myself
And I was no longer one

With the universe
I felt profoundly moved by the experience
Felt that I had achieved perhaps nirvana
Or felt the presence of God
The feeling faded over time
And my quest to find God resumed
But I knew that I would never again
Come so close to the divine essence
Of the very Universe






The Cosmic Cat from Berkeley

I next encountered the divine
Many years later in Berkeley, California
I had gone home to be with my Mother
While taking leave from my job in the Foreign Service

I had two weeks there by myself
My wife came later near the end of the trip every morning
I woke up had coffee
Did yoga
Spoke to my mother
Who was sliding into dementia
Day by day losing her reason

Then I would go out
And explore the city
Go to a museum
Go to one neighborhood
And just be there
Rediscovering the Bay area
After years of being away
Having dinner with old friends
Seeing movies etc

Every morning a black cat came to visit
The cat was friendly and waited for me
And then would join me in my morning rambles
Following me to the bus stop
I started talking to the black cat
He looked at me with the spark of divinity In his dark eyes
I called him the cosmic cat
He seemed to like that
He would look at me
And I opened up to me
Told the cat all my dark secrets

As I walked the streets
Of the old neighborhood
Every morning and every evening the cat
Would be there to greet me
And to carry on our endless conversations
Then I had to leave
And in our final conversation I asked the cosmic cat

Say, Cat are you just a cat
Or are you a demonic cat
Are you possessed by God Or by Satan

The cat looked at me
And I realized that God
Was indeed residing in the cat
But that god was residing everywhere
All I had to do was open my mind
And the rest would follow
So I said
Goodbye to the cosmic cat
And he purred and came up to me
And I felt the comforting presence of the

Divine

As I said goodbye to the cosmic cat
And said goodbye to my mother
As this was the last time
That we would be able to really talk
I told my mother about the cosmic cat
She smiled and said that the cat was there for me and her
to comfort us both in our hour of need

and that the cat was indeed a cosmic cat





Talking with God in Bombay

Five years later
After I had last talked to God
In the form of the cosmic cat

Who I hung out with in Berkeley 
I found myself in Bombay, India

Where I was involved with another women
And contemplating whether to leave my wife
For the promised excitement of the other women

I did not know what to do
So I went to Church
And on the way home

I stopped on the side of the road
And prayed to God 
to provide me a sign

What should I do
I asked God
And then I felt it again

God seemed to be everywhere
And nowhere 
And I found myself down 
the rabbit hole again

I had a vision of an old man
Sitting by the side of a bed
Looking at an old women

And realized that 
I was seeing the future
And the women 
in my vision was my wife

And then I knew the answer
that God was giving me

I had to find my way
Back to my wife
And rekindle the love 
that we shared 

I looked up 
and saw my wife’s face
In the sky

I went home and wrote
A long poem for my wife

She was in the military
And in Korea
And I was with the State Department
Stationed in Mumbai, India 

And I called her up
And began talking to her
For the first time
In a long time

And I told her what was on my mind
And told her that we had to decide
Would we continue as a couple
Or would we continue to drift apart

Somehow I finished the conversation
And fell asleep with the peace and contentment
Of God’s presence filling my heart and soul

The feeling of being connected with God
Faded over the time
But the conviction that God had spoken to me
Never really left me

I asked God
whether God was the God of Jesus
Or Allah or Brahmin
And I realized 
that God is God

And the universe is God and I am God
And that was the end of the story
And my last time I prayed to God




The Cosmic Dog from Goa

My final time with God
Happened a year later 
I was staying down in Goa
With my wife

Enjoying being with her
After our reconciliation
We stayed at the Taj Mahal Goa
Living like a King and Queen 

Just for a few days
High up on a hill
Overlooking the beach

Every morning I went 
down to the beach
And did yoga by the water
While contemplating life

And every morning
I saw the same Dog
Not just a Dog
But a cosmic Dog
Filled with the divine spark of God

And the Dog recognized me
And spoke to me and I knew
That God was present once more
In the face of that cosmic dog 

Kindred spirit
perhaps to the cosmic cat
that had saved my soul 
in Berkeley so long ago

I told the dog everything
And he just looked at me
With those soulful eyes of his
And I knew he knew that I knew
That he was possessed by God

God had sent him to me
To make sure 
that I was on the right path

That the reconciliation that God had promoted
Was on track that I was back with my wife
And that everything was the way it should be

Again I asked God 
whether he was Jesus or Allah
Or Brahmin or Ganesh or Buddha

God the cosmic dog
just stared at me
I finally asked him directly
Say if you are God the God of Jesus
Bark once

The Dog looked at me and barked 
I said well if you are 
Allah bark twice
The dog barked twice

Well are you Buddha 
then bark three times if yes 
The God Dog barked three times

Hmm well are you Satan
The dog growled at me
And I knew I had gone too far

Finally, I was at peace
And for the next three days

The God Dog 
was my constant companion
And I knew God for the final time
In my life


​

Buddha Cat of Edsall Road

I had another encounter 
With the divine recently
Another Cosmic cat perhaps

Perhaps not
who knows what cats are

are they aliens
from another dimension
or was he channeling God ?

I called him the Buddha cat
For the cat loved 
Sitting in a meditative pose

Not moving
Just starting at me
With his soulful deep eyes
Boring into my soul 
exploring all my secret thoughts

the Buddha cat does not move
does not react, as he is so deep 
into his interior mediation
truly in tune with the cat universe 
and the cosmos as well

the Buddha cat
seems to be one with God
one with Buddha, Allah, Ganesh
and the billion names of God 
Known and unknown

The Buddha cat can teach us all
About the art of meditation

As he zones inward
And loses his soul
Joining the cosmos
And becoming the Buddha cat 

The Buddha cat 
Lives in a modest Town house 
In a modest suburb

The Buddha cat reminds us all
To look for God in the everyday 
All around us 
If we but have eyes
To see God everywhere

​Dream Poems 

By Alan Catlin 



May Day Dream Poem


We’re in a place that feels
like Japan. I assume we are in
Tokyo because of the congestion,
the neon, the sensation of being
with millions.


I’m with an Albany Poet,
Dan Wilcox, and we’re in
a car trying to find our way
to the baseball stadium.
I sense we may already be late
for the opening ceremony
which we don’t want to
miss.


We’re in a kind of Uber vehicle
and our guides are two Russians
who look disturbingly familiar.
Like Lev and Igor from the Mueller
Report fiasco and they are clearly
jerking us around. We manage to lose
Lev, as Igor seems to know where
we are going. It seems to take
forever to get there, in slow motion,
but we do.


My wife is already at the game
and she has scored a cool, in English,
replica of a team jersey with the number
of one of the players we loved,
from another era, on it though it isn’t
clear which team it is or what player
the number represents.


I’m obsessed with finding a Suzuki
jersey but they don’t have any in my
size. The sense now is, the only reason
we have come to Japan is to score
souvenirs. A feeling of abject despair
is overwhelming.


Dan has done the sensible thing,
found our seats, and is sitting down
to watch the game. I am hitting up
all the vendors on this futile quest
for souvenirs that don’t exist.


I’m not sure which teams are playing
or who to root for. I used to be a Giants
fan but I heard from a friend who knows
about these things, that the Swallows
are better.


It gets dark early and there are no
lights. I realize the game is over
but I don’t know who won.


I am alone in Japan looking for a
Russian Uber driver that knows our
language, areal spirit guide. I don’t
think he exists either. I’m beginning
to doubt I’ll ever find a way home.








Sleepwalking in a Dream


Recently, I started sleepwalking
but not in a regular, normal way.
I was not wandering about in
measured way but as a form of
exercise in response to meeting
my wife’s daily goal for me of
10,000 steps taken. If, for some
reason, I fell short of my assigned
amount, the sleepwalking regimen
began with a vengeance. Some days
I would wake feeling as if I had not
rested at all. Other days, I felt fine.
However, once winter began,
I’d often fall way short of the required
amount given there was no way
anyone would have gotten outside
even if they’d wanted to. Let’s face it,
there are just so many times you can
pace the floor plan and climb up
and down the same two flights of
stairs. I came to dread weather events
like thunder snows and temperature
inverted freak outs. The weather had
become so much more complicated
once they started naming stuff and
creating new terms and distinguishing
one kind of storm from another, that
used to be lumped together under one
easy to understand term: “bad weather”.
Now they are called Events like they
were staged stuff for a reserved place
that was eagerly awaited like a traveling
circus. Right. During these liquid days
I would fall short anywhere from two
to eight thousand steps. I began having
severe dread deficits in my restless
attempts to catch up. Soon, I was so far
behind it was as if I had never slept
and I’d get out of be looking like Dracula
during a blood shortage. Finally, my wife
made me see our doctor. After hearing
the complaints, as described by my wife,
he concluded I needed more exercise.
Either that or I should be exorcised.
I could have killed him on the spot but
my wife intervened. “What did I tell you?”
She said. I decided to kill her instead.


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


On the endless road that leads nowhere.
Under El Greco sky, through Burchfield trees.
Emerging from wind breaks into fallow fields.
Concrete slabs where the houses were. Cracked
into fissures where the weeds are now.


Anthills
storage spaces
for dreams


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


Bare trees in stunt growth marsh.
An aching rain cold as ice floe, cold as
bare skin beneath a midnight sun. When light
arrives, even the earth retreats. Fresh mounds
of bones where the animals lie down.


Nothing grows-
Northern lights
fade


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


Ground water/ ponds layered by
viscous scum. Seem mercurial, quick limed
in dawn’s half-light. Death machine runoffs
stifle life. Pebbled beaches rank with pale,
discolored fish.


Seagulls scavenge
what
remains






The Night Café


Green ghost lights
in the café of too many


shadows. Stale scent
of spilled, spoiled spirits


in smoke tainted, rank
air. The artist’s corner


table, empty now, smells of
turpentine, linseed oil


and residue of absinthe
spent dreams, all sketched


with coal on smudged foolscap.

Three Acrostic Sonnets

by Mike Mesterton-Gibbons

Professor Emeritus
Department of Mathematics
Florida State University


On Christmas Day

 On Christmas Eve, there were no toys to see.
 Next day you were hard pressed to see the floor.
 Consumerism piled around the tree—--
 How splendid for the owners of the store! ...
 Relations whom you asked to be restrained
 Ignored your pleas and stacked their presents high,
 So when your children saw how much they gained,
 The glut perplexed them, and they asked you: "Why? ...
 May we return some toys we got today,
 As there is far too much for us to take?—--
 Some kids will have no toys, since Santa's sleigh 
 Delivered theirs to our house by mistake!" ...
 And then you smiled with pride to realize
 Your kids, though very young, were yet so wise!



 The Covid Crisis

 The Covid crisis won't recede from view.
 Hair covers me and quarantines my face.
 Eclipsed from you, I'm knotted through and through,
 Combs failing daily in my cloistered space.
 Once when hair care required my car to run,
"Vrrr-ooom!" was not a sound that found my ear.
 Instead a batt'ry dead from too much sun
 Declared: You have been spared, just stay right here!
 Can I have trust the barber must just know
 Risk's down in town to zero on this day?
 If I come by the courage there to go,
 Suppose my nose meets Covid on the way?
 Is care for hair the risk my car believes? ...
 So far, my car has earned my curls reprieves!



 You Got Cher, Babe!

 You should not pen a pining pachyderm,
 Observed to be still grieving his first mate—--
 Until a second mate to date long-term
 Gives him the eye, he'll mope, and put on weight!
 Once heavy both in body and in mind,
 The elephant becomes a sickly beast:
 Cher found Kaavan both lonely and resigned.
 Her goal became to have her babe released ...
 Eats changed to fruit and veg from sugar cane.
 Renditions of Sinatra filled the air.
 Babe——Cher’s Kaavan——slimmed down, to board a plane,
 And smiled once more to hear songs sung by Cher ...
 Because of Cher, Cambodia awaits—--
 Enticing Babe to chase prospective mates!

Ring Out, Wild Bells

From In Memoriam
Alfred Lord Tennyson

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more,
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

Auld Lang Syne
​ ​
By Robert Burns

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
   And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
   And auld lang syne!
   For auld lang syne, my dear,
   For auld lang syne.
   We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
   For auld lang syne.
And surely ye’ll be your pint stowp!
   And surely I’ll be mine!
And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
   For auld lang syne.
We twa hae run about the braes,
   And pou’d the gowans fine;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit,
   Sin’ auld lang syne.
We twa hae paidl’d in the burn,
   Frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
   Sin’ auld lang syne.
And there’s a hand, my trusty fere!
   And gie’s a hand o’ thine!
And we’ll tak a right gude-willie waught,
   For auld lang syne.
   For auld lang syne, my dear,
   For auld lang syne.
   We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
   For auld lang syne.

New Year’s Morning

by Helen Hunt Jackson
 
Only a night from old to new;
Only a sleep from night to morn.
The new is but the old come true;
Each sunrise sees a new year born.

Jill Clark

is Children's Educational Director for Taylor and Seale Publishing in Daytona Beach, Florida. Her poetry book Loose Balloons was released in 2019. Her follow-up poetry book Where Do Balloons Land? will be published in 2021. Jill teaches online K-5 lesson plans to public and private schools.

​The wise woman that I know is one dulled 

By Brendan Faithfull

The wise woman that I know is one dulled
of a quick wit or fast tell of people,
and she, the wise woman, has her head filled
with a certain knowledge invincible
A woman who beyond her scripts and tomes
blunders in her speech to embarrassment
and wise enough laughing at herself knows
only very little self sentiment.
This wise woman though is possessed of strength
who knows just when, as she does, when to fight
and would struggle whatever be the length
for all that she loves, for all just and right
This wise woman I know trucks some knowledge
and knows when to apply her great courage.

​
Brendan Faithfull is an emerging poet who grew up in the village of Malmsbury in Central Victoria, now living in Melbourne. During his formative years in Malmsbury he was first exposed to Shakespeare’s Sonnets, Banjo Patterson’s Man From Snowy River, and most importantly Byron’s poetical works. Brendan studied Politics, Economics and Literature at La Trobe University in Bendigo in 2010, before transferring to the University of Melbourne in 2011. Here Brendan continued his studies in Literature, but importantly focussed on Poetry after meeting Emeritus Professor Kevin Brophy. Brendan has featured in Melbourne Writers Group 2018 Anthology Heroes & Villains, and most recently has been published by Grand Things. Brendan continues to study and write poetry in his own time between modelling, political and election campaigning and managing his LARP, Exodus.

Toddler, Guide Me

By Padmini Krishnan



I felt your kindness
when you gently dropped
an abandoned caterpillar worm
amongst the layered leaves.


I saw your generosity
when you shared your
bread slices with a
shivering sparrow,
dripping wet,
taking shelter in
the balcony


My heart melted like ice
under my feverish body
when your tiny arms
hugged me.


I see in you not
my child, but
my mother,
ever compassionate
ever giving, guiding me
without words
whenever I slip into
my world of selfishness.


Padmini Krishnan writes short stories and poetry. Her works have appeared in the Plum Tree Tavern, The Heron's Nest, Writing in a Woman's Voice, Potato Journal, World of Myth, and the Stonecrop Review. Her e-chapbook was published in Proletaria. She blogs at https://call2read.wordpress.com/

Three Acrostic Sonnets

by Mike Mesterton-Gibbons


At Thanksgiving

A table set for two still says Thank You.
The places that aren't set say so much more:
There's never been Thanksgiving when so few
Have gathered here at home——not once before!
Across the Pond, our family FaceTime in.
Now we can share a meal, though far away.
Kind words are still exchanged with closest kin.
Still pumpkin pie's the special for the day ...
Guest rooms remain unfilled, though, for this year.
In lockdown, we must share thanks from afar:
Virologists advise to not be near.
In truth, we're glad things aren't worse than they are ...
Now we just hope that we, next year, can all
Give thanks around one table in the fall!



Octopus Teacher

On Netflix there's an octopus whose charms
Conceal the most intelligent of minds.
Two thirds of her cognition's in her arms,
One third in her main brain is all one finds.
Pyjama sharks regard her as a meal,
Until they find they're easy to outwit,
So craftily she moves: nine brains reveal
That smarts all in one place are not most fit! ...
Encephalon is singular in us,
And though an extra brain did not evolve,
Combining brains, just like an octopus,
Has still been humans' only way to solve
Enigmas that one mind can't puzzle through:
Robust brain power means both me and you!



I'm Attenborough

I'm ninety-four and still I climb up trees.
My love for apes and monkeys knows no bounds.
Antarctica is where you'll see me freeze,
To catch a glimpse of penguins on their rounds.
The tropics still are where I scuba-dive.
Exotic species all know me by name.
No creatures bat an eye when I arrive,
Because they know I love them all the same ...
Oh dear, oh dear! We reap what we have sown:
Rare species I once snuggled on your screen,
Or marvelled at in such a soothing tone,
Unless we act may never more be seen ...
Go forth and be a veggie! Ride a bike!
Hug trees! Love bees! Use solar and the like!

Two Poems by Dr. Meena Srinivasan


1. 
Metanoia
---------
Broken when 'love' left
Empty soul hurt, bereft
Meaning was hard to decipher
Of the present or future
Fondness seemed far-fetched
On the face, sadness was etched
Music lost its charm
Even friends seemed out to harm
Trust undermined, expectations pear shaped
Felt gloomy and disenchanted
Happiness far yet misery so close
Promises lost their grandiose
True love but painless, is a myth
Real and intense hurts, not when blithe
Self belief was the relief
A change of heart did imbue
Good sense did shine through
Meena 



2. 
Long to 'belong'
Feel relevant
Feel wanted,
Bonded, when belong
I'm mighty strong
Offended, pride shatters
To others, it actually matters
Feel related, appreciated
My presence if makes a difference
Love, power or lust
Nothing's permanent
None is life's determinant
To 'belong' is a must
Feel a sense of purpose,
Motivated, included
Feel involved when accepted
Even wordless
Excluded, systematically ignored
A misdemeanour that developed
Growing with time
Becomes a heinous crime
Social exclusion, discrimination
Begets disintegration, disillusion
A vicious cycle, rendering the mind idle
Fight this wrong, let's belong!
Meena

Halloween Trilogy 

By Meg Smith


For All the Mummified


A song is unfurling in the blue gauze,
an alphabet of things undone, 
a bloodless hymn of histories. 
There is no time left for sleep,
but only, the music of the lyre,
and the pop songs in Khan El-Khalili -- 
the cats are drawn out, from every corner,
and the one scarab I have found, digging
with wise claws, for every clue. 
For all that is raised up, to dance, 
all the falls again, unfurled in secrets. 
All will come to know. Only this can love. 






Worthy of a Ghost 


This is the night of election --
like an apple, rolled through the doorway of a dining room,
disturbing the conversation, the board game. 
It is not to be undone. 
With words that cut, fall, darken -- you have carved
that doorway, ragged, and open forever. 
And through this point will pass, backward, and forward,
the haunted things, hearts redrawn, that forget nothing,
and save nothing, yet live in everything. 





Bone Canticle


I could not go to this garden, anymore;
such bodies held fast by the grip of the vine;
this gives their only height, their only being. 
It's easy to fall away. It's easy to breach
the surface of soil. It will be done, slowly,
or in the rush of thunder and a rain tearing
the surface. Then, will come singing, hands,
knuckles, teeth, reaching, upward. 
Then will come only the blood of light 
from a late-setting moon.

Three Acrostic Sonnets

By 

Mike Mesterton-Gibbons
Professor Emeritus
Department of Mathematics
Florida State University

​

Trick-Or-Treater

The doorbell rings. You answer it. Who's there?

Red Riding Hood? The Big Bad wolf? No, no—--

It's neighbors' kids who hope a friendly scare

Can fill their bags with chocolate to go!

Keep loads and loads of candy by your door—--

Or you may short an Alice or March Hare,

Rapunzel, Robin Hood, a Dumbledore,

Tyrannosaurus Rex, or Smokey Bear! …

Remember when you wondered if you'd got

Enough supplies to last for Halloween

And so you bought another giant lot?

That meant too much——the kids have now all been! …

Excess amounts of candy on a shelf

Remain for you to eat tonight yourself!




I'm Notorious RBG

I'm scarcely five feet high but I stand tall.

My stature towers far above my size:

No one dare claim that my achievement's small

Or doubt my luster in my nation's eyes!

To girls, I've blazed a trail they too can ride

One day, provided they work smart and hard,

Refusing to let justice be denied.

I've shown them that no future role is barred! …

One caveat is not to think new laws

Upholding equal gender rights worldwide

Should be cheered only by the women's cause:

Remember, my success helps either side!

Both men and women own this truth to tell:

Good law for girls is good for boys as well!





Critical Worker

Coronavirus rules the world today,

Respecting neither privilege nor rank.

In my case both are low, though many say

That when a life is saved, it's me they thank.

I feed them, clothe them, nurse them back to health,

Concerned less for myself than I should be,

And overlook disparities in wealth,

Less harmful to my patients than to me …

When this pandemic's over, will you go

On taking me for granted, or instead

Raise pay for work I do? You surely know

Kind words do not provide my daily bread!

Essential as I am, must I implore? …

Remember who kept Covid from your door!

Picture above of Charles E.J. Moulton in the original production of Roman Polanski's musical "Dance of the Vampires"
Raimund Theater, Vienna, Austria - 1997



Bloody Vampires

Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin



Three Stooges Celebrate Halloween


They carried shot
glasses door to door
imploring, "Trick or
Drink" to astonished
homeowners who
either couldn't take
a joke or could,
filling their glasses
with what was on
hand: store brand
Vodka, no name
English Gin, Dark
Puerto Rican Rums,
Old Rot Gut Rye,
Bourbon, Scotch---'til
they were three stooges
stumbling over sidewalk
cracks, low curbs,
Elm tree roots, sick in
nearby shrubs or behind
parked cars, white as
spirit ghosts set free
for a day of the dead.










Shadows


“You have no shadow, now. It is
somewhere else doing whatever it
wants to do.” Peter Rock


Once the skin has
been unzipped and
the essence inside escapes
only the body remains


to be buried in crypts
with life-line bells
close at hand


coffin lids removed
just in case the person inside
decides to return


Shadows blend with the night
lurking nearby, plentiful as
ground fog except on full moon lit
night when they gambol and play
like water spouts and sprites


By day, they change from
assuming limbs and trunks
like trees or street light poles
humming with an electrical charge:
the closer we become, the further
apart we are. There is no joy in this.







Books of Demons and Devils


After Dante, no one
was surprised
how many levels
of hell there were


What was surprising
was how many devils,
demons and Satan’s little
helpers there were


Who knew they needed
so much staff
to manage and
maintain the place?!




Luckily there was a
whole volume of written
work enumerating
and classifying
all the various
evil ones with pictures
and brief bios for each one
so you could compare
the two and identify


I learned an awful lot
from that book


More than you could imagine









Ghosts, Transparent and Otherwise


“People, the ghosts down in North-of-the South aren’t
see through.” Diane Seuss


Depending on their tribes, on their location,
they may be guiding lights like hurricane
lamps in a perpetual storm or sky scanning
beams over airports attempting to penetrate
thick cloud covers. Other ghosts, in arid
areas, are illusions, are like oases perceived
as watering holes with sustenance and shade
where nothing exists. On event horizon beaches
they are like Dali silhouettes framed against
a seascape with something else inside,
something like a crowded bazaar, good for
sale market places where ghosts are terrorists
wearing long black robes with suicide vests
strapped tight to their bodies, underneath.
waiting for the appointed time to blow stuff up.












Bloody Vampires


There they sit, at the bar, these
beautiful young things, hell’s lounge
lizards in togs that cost more than
the gross national products of third
world nations. These never-in-distress
damsels and their cunning stunts
such as providing Cherry Kool-Aid
for their drinks of choice: Triple Shots
of Morgan spiced added to the kiddie
porn drink, shaken, not stirred, of course,
strained, over ice and garnished with
two cherries, a cocktail called the Bloody
Vampire in their honor. Even ossified,
they look as if they were posing for Cosmo
candid shots layouts or On the Town
New Yorker gossip features. Are as
unapproachable as decadent royals or minor
deities on holiday in human form on
Planet Earth. Have more platinum in
their clutch bags than custom jewelers,
rare metal dealers suggesting they have
no know limits. Don’t so much leave
the bar as dematerialize.










Bloody Murder


Everyday must have
been a practice session
for Halloween costume parties,
traveling Charade games that
were so bizarre, you'd be hard
pressed to guess what it was
he was supposed to be dressed
as. I thought maybe he was
trying to win a Dennis Rodman
in drag lookalike contest, even
if he was about a foot and
half too small, and in need of
some heavy tanning sessions
plus a better hair colorist.
I had to admit I'd never seen
a man wearing that kind of
lipstick, not even in a Fellini
movie, but he either had never
heard of Federico or was
playing dumb, not that
I really cared either way.
I responded to his
suggestion to make him
something good with:
"Anything in particular?"
"Surprise me."
"The last guy said that ended
up in ER."
"You're a really funny guy."
"I've been told that."
"Ok, big boy, make me what
you made him."
He looked dubious when
I placed the drink in front
of him sd."What's that?"
"A Bloody Murder."
"What's in it?"
"Chilled Vodka with Cinnamon Schnapps."
He made a face but drank it anyway.

POEMS BY PAULA BONNELL

REINCARNATION

In the next life I’ll be an opera singer
I won’t be able to add or subtract
You’ll be my manager
I won’t know whether to love you or hate you
The biographers will be fighting about it
for books to come
We’ll give each other such a dazzle of yeses and nos
as will put to shame the infernal maybes of this life


CHANGING THE PAST

One of those things – like being
in two places at once – that probably violate
the laws of physics. Not a good idea
unless you want to risk implosion
or disappearing through the vanishing
point or whatever is the natural
consequence of such a violation.
The laws of physics don’t have to
be enforced; they simply state what’s
inevitably going to happen under
certain conditions. They describe,
not prescribe.
But just for a moment
let’s consider that when you said,
“You can’t possibly meet respectable
people this way.” (through
an ad in an alternative newspaper) I’d responded,
“You mean you’re not respectable?”
And for another moment, think also
about your asking “Are you a snob?”
and my replying “What do you mean
by ‘snob’?” or “Snobbery takes place
in class societies, like England or
most universities, where everyone
has a standing above and below
others; they’re ranked.
This is America; we’re all equal.”
And I really don’t know if you intended
to insult me by your first question or why,
if you believed what you said, you had
decided to place or respond to an ad.
I’ll just put it down to lack of social
graces. Or maybe, taking into account
what you told me later about how late
it was in life that you had your first
meaningful relationship, that you were
something of a solipsist, not particularly
social.
Nevertheless, despite this unpromising
start and the brevity of our companionship,
something tried to happen. I would say
your (avowed) mind-body problem got
in the way. Since then each of us abides
separately, you relating extensively to
the laws of physics, I merely speculating.

Copyright © Paula Bonnell 2020

The Double Parking Aliens

Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin


​
What Children See


Children take turns looking inside
the pin hole of the painted egg.
They see an incipient winter storm,
grotesque snow men, patterned after
a lifetime of nightmares in a locked
white room turning black. They see
a world out of control spinning upside
down, that makes them feels ill at ease.
They see the future reflected in a broken
mirror pocked with pin holes.










Radio Free Albemuth


He stood rubbing
the graying stubble
of his weather beaten
face with the stumps
of his fat, dirty fingers
wrapped in torn,
filthy rags, peeling
small black scabs
from the crags of his
face, as he slides
small exact change
across the wood for
draft beer said,
"My handle is
Radio Free Albemuth.
Bet you don't know
anything about the
book or the place
that inspired it.
I've been receiving
transmissions from
outer space long
before any one of
you ever arrived
on this planet, and
will be, long after
you're gone."
I thought, maybe,
this guy was doing
some kind of Martian
two step through the tulips,
it was better to refer him to
a higher authority outside,
closer to the landing site of
the next divine invasion.
I'd even give him change
for the public phone, on
the corner of Quail,
if needed to call home
collect for a pickup.







The aliens


double park by the primo, fire lane,
by-the-front-door-of-the-bar, space,
intending to stay for five, place a bet,
grab a number, have a brew, instead
stay for an hour, oblivious to traffic
nightmares outside, the honking of
the horns, the denting of the bumpers;
wear Ted Bundy Fry Day memorial t-shirts,
the mass murderer’s handsome, smiling face
inside a circle, red line overprinted,
simulated heat waves circulating all
around, “dead to the world but alive in our
hearts”, imprinted on the back for all to see;
proudly proclaim, after crashing family
barbeques, outdoor cookouts, that they,
“don’t just have a record but a fucken album;”
think all boundaries are made to be torn
down, all rules to be broken, endlessly
demonstrating, “that an order of protection
is about as useful as a string of garlic;”
think that life is just one long Clint Eastwood
movie they would be stars in, never expecting
to end up perched on a wobbly wooden cross
in a graveyard with a noose around their necks
or on the wrong end of a “make my day”
ultimatum; are always surprised when bad
things happen to evil people, as if, for some
reason, they might not deserve the worst possible
redress.












Blue Yonder


They bring things that are
of no use, not to them,
not to you, not to anyone:
broken ray guns, death star
storm trooper masks, tricorders
for contacting space ships long
ago taken out by Vulcan war
ships, cracked hoses, watering
cans with no spouts, a Zen garden
rake; all this stuff they want to
pack into the overloaded truck,
the space where the back seat
should be, all that junk lifted
from landfills and roadside attraction
dumps. A pry bar would be useful
for arranging latest acquisitions but
none are available at any price,
still the collecting goes on, after dark
by the lights of their short circuiting
dashboard, control panels, the static
from their radio broadcasting secret
messages from the wild blue yonder,
up there, where the stars are.












Future Stars of Network TV Show, Perp Patrol


They are leaning against The Van,
a vehicle that might have passed
state inspection once, but not in anyone’s
recent memory. Stand staring in direction
of free range kids: the boys with home
styled Mohawks, gang banging someone
else’s kids, holding him down and whaling,
until the blood flows. The girl’s looking
like a cross between Raggedy Anne’s worst-
hair-day-nightmare and a street walker in training.
Will bad mouth anyone who refuses their
request for cigarettes, though they are
years away from double figures in time
spent upon this earth.


Mom speed balling thin, chain smoking
no-brand, no-tax Mentholated death butts,
eyes perpetually glazed in kiln fires
by amateur artists, nipple piercings tearing
through soiled tank tops, bare midriff exposed
to better reveal, infected rings, demented
cell block tattoos of mutant butterflies in flight.


The man is chug a lugging PBR’s from cans,
shoulder length hair unwashed for weeks,
faded, sleeves-removed T says, Charlie Daniels
Band. Mother Trucker arm tattoos over swastikas
and White Power logos, his face looking as if
he had been used as a workout bag for a heavyweight
fighter, or, worse, by a biker gang stiffed
in a drug deal.


The free rangers are raising holy hell
in the playground, manning the monkey
bars, commandeering the slides, the swings,
pummeling all who stand in their way,
a veritable force of nature until the Man
runs out of beer and bellows,
“Get your asses over here, like now, or, I’ll cut
you a new one.” And they move, as if electrically
charged, as if they have known worse things
to happen, and could imagine whatever that
was, happening again.







The Future


“So our hope lies in a world without hope,
governed by Satan.”
Ake Edwardson, Sun and Shadow


“Neighborhood girl, 8, killed
by stray bullet while riding
her new bicycle.”
The news article said.


Police canvassed neighborhood
looking for leads but no one saw
anything, though everyone seemed
to have heard the shots. Were on
the street seconds later, and were glad
to appear on local TV offering
opinions about all the things they
didn’t see.


Weeks later a thirteen year old
boy was arrested for the crime.
Said he felt bad about the little
girl. “I wasn’t trying to shoot
no little girl. I was trying to off
someone else. She just be in the way.”


Asked where he got the gun,
he confessed it wasn’t his, was,
in fact, a community gun that anyone
could use, if they had to, as long as
they put it back where it was to be
hid when they were done.


Said, he had to wait until he was 16
to get his gun but guessed, now,
he’d never get his own.

Three Poems by Catherine Lee

Catherine Lee explores poetry’s percussive jazz voice and social change activism by reading solo and performing with improvising musicians “on poem.” Her multimedia pieces — radio specials, original poetry, commentary, and documentary videos — are archived on Soundcloud and Vimeo and research about master performers is blogged on Padlet and Facebook/Jazz Ovation Inn. Her jazz-related poetry is featured in the July 2020 "Music" Issue 5 of the United Kingdom-based publication Northampton Poetry Review, on pages 63-74.

Snooze Alarm: Fallout Secret
Women and Children First

It’s 1955, shoot ’em ups galore at Los Alamos  
Nevada Testing Site officials
counting on a bed of sleeping sheep
those for-your-eyes-only experts in the know 
don’t say nothin’ but:     
not to worry, rural folks
(they aimed blast clouds away from cities, as best they could)
no news, no feed but cheery words 
for pregnant mamas living near
the night and dayglowing Utah bedrock
bearing since those special sun-ups
invisible and lethal clouds mushrooming 
killer particles       and         silence 
 
Lucky clockworks counting decades later  
’til official word’s released:     those radioactive-pastured
Utah ewes dropped dead from man-made-god-like 
causes, not natural. Ditto for the stillbirths,  
Mormon youngsters sickened, died of cancers. 
 
It’s half a century later, now, long past time to wake, 
alarming voices say to listen to 
what is NOT said, to what IS revealed and when, 
about the mushroom-clouded videocam  recordings March 14, 2011 Fukushima Japan;
about Valentine’s Day kiss of what radwaste 
blew from inside storage cavern 2014 
Waste Isolation Pilot Plant near Carlsbad NM USA 
 
Tune eyes and ears to siren songs of bluefin,
future generations, children sounding 
prayerful incantations of 
a birthright: truthful, abundant, clean, and
peaceful world where human
animal vegetal and mineral
are recognized, in love, as one 



The Half-Life of Deception

                               Half-life: 1. the time required for half of the atoms of a radioactive substance present at the beginning to become disintegrated <there will still be one quarter of the element left at the end                                   of two half-life periods -- G.E.Owen
                               2. the time required for one-half the amount of a substance in or introduced into a living system to be eliminated whether by excretion, metabolic decomposition, or other natural process 
 
April 26,1986 
25 years ago, and counting
Unit 4 (of 4) at Russian 
power plant, Chernobyl
blew up, or was it melted down?
No matter. Both in fact.
The first explosion, one
that blew 2,000 tons of protective
structure off what scientific
experts called “containment”
shot a plume of radioactive smoke 
more than 10 kilometers into sky.
Among the poisons billowing from crater: 
Iodine-131 (half-life 8.02 days of beta, gamma rays) 
Strontium-90 (half-life 28.8 years) Cesium-137 (half-life 30.07 years) 
Plutonium, several kinds (half-lives 6,563 to 24,200 years). 
These releases only ended 3 weeks later when resulting blue/red fire in 
destroyed reactor core was quenched by   
soon-dead radiation-poisoned heroes. 
 
What went up    did come down. 
 
Mostly in Ukraine, Belarus,
and Russia near remains of plant: 
curies quantities times hundreds more 
than what rained down with bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. 
Winds blew Chernobyl smoke to Finland,
France, Bulgaria, Germany, Greece, Poland, 
Italy, United Kingdom, Sweden.  
 
If you were old enough to understand this news,
recall the Russians only admitted their disaster 
some days later when some Swedish scientists
reported measuring    much     too      much 
of background radiation. 
North Africa was hit with 5% of total, significant contamination.
Another 1% of poison blew in 8 days later,
then fell out       on North America. 
 
As for biologic impact of physics gone past critical mass,
who can gauge becoming chromosomal aberrations? 
What    will     be passed to generations who are  lucky to survive, beget? 
Some affected species die, do not reproduce. 
Those that happen to survive     will     mutate.  
 
Just that one Chernobyl power plant emission did     
pollute a hemisphere with radiation half gone in 24,200 years,
three-quarters gone in 48,400 years, seven-eighths gone in 72,600 years.
All gone when human beings gone another place than Mother Earth. 
 
Did they learn a thing from that mistake? 
Sure. They named a new invention: 
chernobylite,  a type of corium, 
man-made radioactive lava blend  of zircaloy,
the fuel rod cladding,  uranium dioxide reactor fuel,
silica from concrete, serpentinite, the melted thermal insulation. 
 
Now there’s Japan’s Fukushima, 
6 reactors on an ocean-facing coast 
where the word “tsunami” was invented.  
 
March 11, 2011 began another week,
and counting, of failures of containment in Japan,
when experts said “it’s not immediately clear 
how much — if any — radiation was released” 
by serial explosions, vented gas. 
“If any” — that intelligence-insulting,
face-saving failure to contain untruth or wishful thinking,
uncontrolled cascading reactivity of bluff. 
 
Most toxic method ever humanly devised of boiling water,
making steam to generate  
electricity th ey — still — are calling  safe and necessary energy. 
 
An unfathomable number is the half-life of deception. 



  
Again From the Top                    
 
Listen. Scott LaFaro’s bass,     Bill Evans’ hands,     
Paul Motian’s pulse recording of last hit: two-week engagement June 1961
Can connection be so visceral,       
harmonious? Days later Scott’s car 
lost control      and hit a tree and    smashed    the bass;  
LaFaro      died on impact a devastating loss that silenced his surviving
bandmate . . . 
 
but 
 
Mine,     in autumn 1980, was not such an    ordinary car crash. 
 
Driving back from reading poem with bassist I had   such a crush on . . .
I had borrowed someone’s car or should I call it      wreck about to happen? 
 
Heading toward the gig late summer Sunday
engine burst in flames 
 Driving, I was stupefied    and helpless 
  he knew what to do   
   something coolant     
    spraying on hot engine         
     tow truck belt right size
we were fine, like jazz cats do
on time to hit      just barely 
 
      We did my poem  “Charles Mingus Slipped Backstage” 
      (backstage the place musician spirits wait before they reappear to wail)       more I don’t recall 
      state altered as I was by dream   time in the moment     coming true 
 
$60,000 contrabass sat easily in big old Buick with bald tires
driving south from North Shore, Mass     Salem back to Cambridge,
it began to rain, coat road 
93 to Storrow — interchange that       never sleeps — steely S turn
started skidding     spun out     smashed one side   
crossed 3 lanes to other curb 
bounced again and came to rest       broadside     
to rushing traffic Miracles: no other vehicle involved;
none hit us nor each other while the totalled heap decayed; 
behind us, watching crash unfold, off duty state
patrolman in a van aided by directing traffic ‘til 
the right authorities arrived; 

[no break]

jazz fan in fact, he drove the unscathed bass and bassist home
leaving girl behind to ride with wreck to tow lot pondering
that repercussions thing. 

       I marvel at how easily 
       the bassist charms the rest — 
       moves one notion 
       to the next 
       perfect in the moment 
       all support, all timing 

Odd: said incident had caused no damage
lack of injury – according to authorities – meant it never happened. 

Fast forward then two dozen years – big changes:
my bassist is still playing somewhere near Seattle, he has raised a son;
that wicked Storrow S curve gone, less perilous bridge Big Dig installed. 

Somehow I happen to discover Live at the Village Vanguard June ‘61 

      Enter Rocco Scott LaFaro 
      bassist from backstage ... 
      Last hit: two-week engagement 
      Can connection be 
      more audible,      
      more obvious? 
      A few days later his car lost control and 
      hit a tree and smashed the bass 
      both players died as     wreck caught fire; 
      a potent, stupefying loss  
      that silenced his surviving bandmate, Evans, for a while.

Such impact does Scott’s playing have
he amazes, perfect timing,
fixed in moment, still
so young, so virile, full of promise,
listen and
connect
again
from the top 

Jean Fineberg

"I am a freelance saxophonist/flutist, drummer, composer and bandleader based in the San Francisco Bay Area, specializing in R&B, Jazz, Soul, Funk, Reggae, Latin, New Orleans and related styles.     The JAZZphoria octet has just recorded several of my original tunes for an upcoming album. JAZZphoria plays all original groove based music from Swing, to Bebop, Reggae, Funk, Bossa Nova, Soca and Salsa. The band is comprised of two trumpets/flugelhorns, two saxe/flutes/clarinetss, guitar, piano, bass & drums.  All the arrangements feature big band style harmonies, great jazz solos and are backed up by a rock solid rhythm section.  I'm about to add new videos from our last gig at the California Jazz Conservatory in Berkeley, CA."

Jean Fineberg, https://jeanfineberg.com/

***

Poems by Jean Fineberg

1)  IN THE SHADOW OF FAME

   (condensed version published in online Scarlet Leaf Review, June 2020)

I was a legend

in my own mind,

an anonymous star

in a big galaxy


I shot an album cover

eight women wearing only silver paint

and posed for People Magazine

painted waist up


I did a live TV show

from a theater in the round

on a rotating platform

while high on mescaline


I opened for big stars

in stadiums and arenas

for tens of thousands

who never knew my name


The band gave me a feature tune

We rehearsed it for weeks

and when the tour came

We never played it


I was locked out of a motel

and slept in a tour bus

when the manager spent our money

on drugs


I was stranded in an Acapulco hotel

with no ticket home

when the promoter said

he was broke


I was 23

and did what I thought

a star should to do

I seduced groupies --  

The doe-eyed teenager

with “help me” scratched on her stomach

The lesbian wannabe

who gave me her rent money


The waitress who took me home

and cried all night,

The sweet bikini girl

who slept with all the boys too


When the shadow of fame grew long

and the big stars deatomized

some morphed into holograms

and started GoFundMe campaigns


I went back to playing bars

The groupies are older now

but they know my name

and still buy my CDs


I’m a big star in a tiny galaxy

world famous in my town

It’s not so bad--

after all, it beats anonymity


***


2)  BRAGGING RIGHTS

   (published in online Scarlet Leaf Review, June 2020)


My father wanted me to be a doctor

but he lost bragging rights because I’m a blues musician


I play him my latest recording

He shuts it off, saying the drums are offensive


They remind him of those awful boys with gold teeth and backward caps

who pull their cars up too close and blast their so-called music


I snatch back my CD

At his 80-year-old friend’s dinner party, I give it to the host


Who passes it around and proudly plays the whole thing

really, really loud

Inside Out

Microsstory by Anna Maria Dall'Olio
​

The first time I left a disco, all that glitter - inside out.

Lucy in the Sky

60s Poetry Rock by Robert Cooperman



Druggie Songs




So smirky when we quoted
druggie lyrics in “White Rabbit,”
aside from the lyrics, the flute
hypnotic as a swami summoning
a cobra from its basket,


or in “Lucy in the Sky,”
the acid reference inescapable,
the trippy melody taunting
anyone over thirty to figure out
what the song was about.


If music wouldn’t save the world,
it was at least our secret code
from parents straight and dull as rulers,
speakers exploding with narcotic decibels.


Those lyrics, our sacred texts, deeper
than Milton, Homer, Shakespeare,
the King James Bible, the sum of all
knowledge, all wisdom, the highest--
pardon the pun—of high poetry.


Well, we were young, believed
we’d invented sex and drugs,
and of course, rock ‘n’ roll.












The Lid




One night, six of us
smoked a lid of grass: an ounce;
young, invincible, and stupid.


We played the Beatles’
White Album, over and over,
“Helter-Skelter” blasting away,


its hortator-insistent beat
smashing from speakers, friends
confiding I was twitching


like a frog hit by an electrode:
“Epileptic seizure!” they gasped,
half terrified, half in awe.


God knows how many brain cells
I tossed away that night.
I joke now that if not


for that weed orgy,
I might’ve rivaled Keats.
Well, at least I have enough


gray matter left to make dumb jokes








Jimi: 1974


Spelling his first name like Hendrix’s,
he owned the neighborhood head shop:
incense a Hindu temple, display cases
of rolling papers, hash pipes, bongs, hookahs,
Indian blouses, serapes and ponchos;
posters of Hendrix, Dylan, Otis Redding.


He was possessed by the original Jimi’s
riffs snaking from the PA system; me obsessed
by the Dead; every now and then, we’d part
the bead curtains to where he and Delores
cooked, ate, and made love; we’d toke up,
Delores packing weed into Ziploc bags.


When I left for grad school out west,
Jimi and I hugged, and when I returned
for Christmas break with Beth, whom I’d marry
and love forever, I stopped in to introduce her.


“Bob!” his bear hug levitated me.
and gently shook Beth’s flute-playing hand.
“Man,” he confided, “you left at the right time,”
catalogued the shootings, the shop owners
robbed, the one murdered, and opened the drawer
under the old fashioned cashier register,
revealing a shiny-deadly pistol.


“Delores left, Man, couldn’t take the bad vibes,”
he shrugged; neither Beth nor I able not to see
the hidden pistol, summers of love over.

"Born to be Wild" - Life in the 60s

Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin


The Elements: The Band


They were wannabee
rock stars, prototype
punkettes with spiked
hair, blank eyes, and
voices rasped by razor
blades. Claimed they
were three screaming
banshees from hell
but were actually from
Syosset. Were backed
up by four guys voted
most likely to die of an
overdose by their junior
high classmates.
The drummer losing
a spot for a heavy metal
band gig to a guy who
was rumored to have
spontaneously combusted,
leaving behind nothing but
a singed set of sticks and
a brutally abused cow bell.
Did club dates in places
health inspectors wouldn’t
go. Lost fans to characters
straight out of movies like
“Under the Skin” and
“The Hunger”. Flamed out
long before their singles went
gold on albums that had
no names as much due to
a lack of interest than
creative differences.
They won’t be missed.










Lounge People Listening, Waiting for “The End”


Young America 1970, half wasted
drinking from the keg of perpetual
flowing beer, sacred font open 24 hour
a day, for charter members of Roosevelt
Drive Social Club, duplex of dharma
bums, a month away from graduation
and a letter of greetings and salutations
from Uncle Sam draft board;
black robes and mortar board hats in May,
jungle fatigues by October, flag draped
coffin by the first of the year, full military
honors; it had happened before and it would
happen again. No one mentioning what lay
ahead, but everyone aware of the elephant
in the crowded living room, the Woodstock
Live album on so loud Jimi Hendrix made
ears bleed the national anthem, taking you
higher as Sly and the Family Stone and
the hydroponic weed smuggled in from
who knew where, classes some kind of Kent
State nightmare no one bothered with any more.
Interiors so crowded early spring afternoons
relocating all the furniture outside on the lawn
under the high flying drinking flag: a martini
with olives on a cresting wave, seemed the only
way to fly, all the summers of love over,
young ladies on the daybed/couch dressed
in funereal black, white skulls on gold chains
around their necks, dead eyes and too red lips,
all the gone tomorrows, today, that seemed to
say, abandon hope all ye who enter here.












Number 9 Dream, Just Before Finals, Winter 1969


After all the cafes have been
closed, the beatniks busted,
hipsters, gone cats, have all switched
from smoke to hooch, three piece
suits, suburban commutes and thirty
year mortgage nightmares,
only the black walls and hollow
shells of the fifties left behind.
Happening bistros are now dive
bars with names like Horny Toad,
Happy Hobbit, Emergency Room,
graffito encouraged in black light
back rooms, glow in the dark phrases:
“War is not good for children and
other living things”,
“Sterilize LBJ-No more ugly children”.
Slogans fading in real light around
last call, overseas war images on
black and white TV at end of well-
carved, cigarette burned bar.
Doors “Crystal Ship” segues into
Jim Hendrix, “All Along the
Watchtower”, long haired, deadend
crew’s, final shooters for the road
washed down with warm, flat beer.
Outside, snow falling, a foot on
the ground and more to come,
nowhere to come from here but
home.












The Times They Are a Changing':
Summer Late 60's, Death & Transfiguration Blues


Brush cuts and slacks transformed
into long hair & bell bottoms, jeans
patched over worn through holes,
ripped fabrics becoming functional
art forms, wearable works in progress,
underage drinking pints of cheapest
Vodka available to young men, drinking
it straight or with warm Coke mixtures
replaced by roll your own dabs,
communal water pipes, filtration systems
containing bottom shelf white wine,
sharing a smoke of many dreams, deep
sixing beers, wild laughter in the dark,
near hysteria, wired on acid rock, protest
songs, folks singers socially aware &
Vietnam no longer some way out there,
unimaginable place in the back of stamp
albums under French possessions but a
subject for subterranean homesick blues,
songs of sorrow and lamentation for picket
lines & protests, summers of love drowning
in blood, an alcoholic purple haze, secret
agent's orange, mushroom like clouds, what
did it matter? What was that sound? Draft
riots and FBI files, Big Brother & His
Holding Company, register with your draft
board, pick a number & die, Uncle Sam
a skeleton with Death Watch Beetle eyes,
a paranoids worst fears realized, up against
a wall mother faker, 'it's all over now, baby
blue', 'it's alright now Ma, I'm only bleeding','
'blowing' in the wind,' blues.












Visions of Johanna


I don't remember the first time
I saw her


Not exactly
The last few years of the 60's are one long,
stoned, alcoholic blur of darkened bars,
concert venues, frat houses subterranean
homesick blues


"Sunshine of Your Love"
the song of doomed youth I most recall,
her saying, "You look like Donovan.
Before he sold his soul to a record label."


But what I was had more to do, had more
in common with being an exploding ticket
holder on a drunken boat to nowhere
drinking because I was depressed,
the more I drank the more depressed I was,
than actually selling my soul


I was thinking she was some kind
of acid angel who could rescue me from hell
on an endless weekend afternoon of substance
abuse and self pitying gestures that made me
feel as pathetic as I was


Could see her pied beauty face across a dance floor,
barroom, streaked by strobe lights and day glo paints,
coming colors in my mind and I thought
I could reach out and touch her but when I went to
touch, she wasn't there


She wasn't anywhere, was lost in some electric lady land
dream of the 60's, a stolen muse, a siren song;
sometimes I wonder if she was real














Summer of Love


Lightning over the water,
over the docks where inboards
are moored in their slips,
sailboats battened down for
the inevitable storm and inside
the vine covered house, Gracie
and The Airplane are singing,
"When the truth is found, to be lies,
and all the love within you dies----"
pot smoke as thick as candle wax
on the wicker based Chianti bottles,
so strange to be 18 going on 19,
strange as the surrealistic pillow
sounds, the images of Nam jungle
of never ending war, all hell broken
loose on sound-turned-off tube in
the darkness, naked to the waist,
blowing excellent demon weed and
washing it away with flat Filipino
beer, San Miguel and M., one screwed up
chick on a mission to burn baby burn
like a city, like Newark in flames,
Vanilla Fudge dropping down onto
the turn table, "You keep me hanging on---"
in half time, a warped acid freaked
chorus of long haired angels singing
and playing for the dead and the soon-
to-be dead, M. exhaling a lung full
of weed in my face, leaning closer as
if to kiss; race riots in one eye, jungle
war scenes in the other, rolling thunder
all around.










“like the songs you used to hear on late-night radio”


Late night FM radio in the 60’s,
no cool jazz or silly little love songs,
no top 40’s hits, bubblegum music
or Montovani but real cuts from deep
inside the political scene, unrest and
protest, music from the mud at Woodstock,
from the killing fields of Kent State,
pagan princes, stoned goddesses,
acid rockers tripping through city
streets eight miles high and falling
fast the Altamont horror like a chainmail
monkey on their backs. Killer lyrics
and dead rock stars, doom sayers of
a police state, military-industrial complex
out of control, righteous music of long
haired hippie heads blissed out way past
midnight on the promise-of-sex-blessed voice
of Alison the Nightbird, WNEW on your dial,
free form radio: whole sides of Sergeant Pepper,
Moody Blues, Clapton and Cream, Bonnie
and Delany, Yardbirds and Crosby Steals
the Cash and Runs, maybe some Monk
and Miles mixed in, music to burn draft cards
and flags to, music for making bombs,
music to die for.










Born to Be Wild


We rode when the moon
was full, stoned freaks in
some top down convertible,
long hair blowing in the wind,
speeding down unlighted narrow
switchback roads, drinking beer,
standing as tall as we could,
singing along with 60’s protest
songs, barely hanging on,
a suicidal psychopath at the wheel,
driving dead center through
blind turns into straight-aways
daring what was coming to come.
Switching AM stations, we become
The Dave Clark Five, singing, “Catch
Us If You Can” singing, “Glad All
Over” singing Steppenwolf, “Born to Be
Wild,” the refrain “Never going to die”
extra loud; that’s how young we were,
how crazy, how stupid, how wrong.

Poetry Collection by Virginia Chase Sutton


​
Abandoned House


Snow begins to fall into this deserted
house and you stuff clothes into
broken windows. No heat, no electricity,
no water, no sustenance of any
kind. Tonight I wish I could see


inside your heart. It has been dashed
to bits then badly glued---family
mistreatment, bullies, all the women
you held in your arms only to watch
them dance away in red pointy shoes.


It made you muscled, lean. But
that is muffled beneath the weight
of snow as it piles up on the roof.
Over in the corner, where mice tickle
ancient newspapers, white blindness


keeps them sheltered. I am on the old mattress
on the floor. Surely it has held all kinds
of lovers---perhaps as distant as you are tonight,
shivering in your fleece jacket. Come to bed
I whisper, my voice drowning in the cold.


Come to bed. Your sleeping bag, unzipped
and spread open, reeks of newness. Mine
a beat-up piece from home hundreds of miles
away. It is good I tell you. You turn, a smile
forming on your heavily whiskered jaw.


Joining me, we toss our clothes atop the bag
to keep them fresh. Our bodies shiver in the dance
that rocked this mattress so many times before.
Such drama in this room, now the silent rampage
of snow as it tumbles through the roof.


Beneath you, I watch your eyelids as they flutter,
the moment you give over to passion. I will dress
for warmth later, after more love. I will tell anyone
who does not believe how one body stuns the other
at climax, my shoulders laid bare to the cold.




​



Perfection


We are all beautiful at 17, our flawless
skins attached to willing bones and sinews.
Some of us are waiting for our chance,


for someone to say I want to make out
like teenagers or for the stranger with
a bottle of Boone’s Farm Apple Wine


he will share though I am underage.
Or the joint passing between us,
making me happily relaxed in the pink


lace bra I am willing to shed for
the unknown, the chance at real love.
I do not know yet how lovely I am


with soft brown hair and blue eyes
flecked with squiggles. And though
my body is not like the striking grace


of cheerleaders back home, it stuns
with dazzling breasts and big areoles
that men will kiss and love. I will learn


of this loveliness as I discover those who
are worthy. Later, my friends will grow
into their flesh as I grow away, already ahead,


open and waiting, discovering a taste
for a certain sort of man. He will hurt me
with his attention/inattention, leaving


me alone some weekends when I want
his body and crazy kisses. What
he suggests as we love. It is all so new,


this perfection, a body that happily does
as I bid, no thought or chance of illness,
destruction or loss. Love gorgeousness.


It will not come again---this purity
of spirit, this holiness, this beam and shine,
beacons from my eyes, my eyes.








Just a Fling


My bad boy reads stacks of comic books I toss
into the garbage. I allow you into my apartment that comes
with an evening job at the college library. You want to get high,


do vodka shots, go out all the time. Many dull evenings
at work though I adore the swish of card catalogs in their sweet
openings and closings. I stare at Grant Wood murals painted


on library walls. The one I like most, a tense landscape, across from
the checkout reflects our courtship. Our sex life is tawdry mornings
when the sky has rolled away the darkness. Now you leave small drawings


with words I cannot read. Playing your kalimba badly and artlessly, irks me.
You carry it everywhere, made of expensive wood, keys twanging,
hollow interior echoing across the entire floor of the teetering Victorian.


One night you are stinking drunk again, flopping on the ground, on the verge
of alcoholic collapse. You hand the kalimba to me. Finally, furious
with you---finally, overwrought, I toss it onto an overflowing dumpster.


In my deepest fury, we are over and done. I am still obviously
lightning-strike-stupid about you but I do nothing. One twilight you slip
into the library, prying open a window screen in the fourth-floor stacks.


You fling book after book, spinning, pages ripping, ruined,
covers flapping like flocks of colorful birds as their wings open
and close before they smash into the summer-baked ground.














Five Cocktail Napkins from a Dive Bar


There is an unnamed bar on the railroad tracks
that cuts the center of this Midwestern city,
a place where men get wasted on watery beer.
I come here, always the only woman, with
my almost-straight boyfriend, because we do not have
much cash. It is a cold night and patrons sleep


outside the bar which empties onto the tracks.
Trains hoot warning blasts, traveling a glacial pace,
give drunks time to roll back to the sidewalk.
Paul gathers a stack of cocktail napkins from the bar
when he collects 2 shells of beer at 25 cents each.
Grain Belt. And we begin to record tonight’s escape.


He is like that---wanting to remember everything
about us, writing even as the cigarette-pocked table
rocks. No one ever approaches us, each patron
lost in misery, cold, and beer. Comfortable
in working class duds and youth, we should be
more compassionate as the door slams. But


we are underage, do not think of anything other than
ourselves and our perfect friendship. I am so in love,
I would go anywhere with him. Less in love, he brings us
to this place of sadness where we write notes about adventures.
A drunk stumbles, knocks over a table and falls. Another man
helps him up and they leave. The ancient jukebox has a variety


of tunes from before our time. For every nickel, something
plays. Popular is Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree,
a song with a positive spin on finding home after a man
has done his time. Paul heads to the bar for more beer.
Go get it yourself is the motto here. Five napkins later
we have tonight’s story to keep, long as paper lasts.


Flushed with drunkenness, we clasp hands to remain upright
and carefully step over bodies---nowhere for them to go
but brief unconsciousness beside the bar’s door.
Shivering, they get some relief from a warm puff
as it flips open. We always return. We always write
the present, even as it is the past, all for a couple of bucks.

Sunlight becomes her

By David Thorpe

 
Sunlight becomes her,
glimmering tresses of burnt sienna,
their sensuality holding in captivity
the side wards glances of enchanted eyes,
unrepentant of lascivious thoughts
 
Sunlight becomes her,
piercing into her quiescent heart,
resuscitating the dormant fire,
to melt the icicles of inhibitions,
between her breath and mine
 
Sunlight becomes her,
its shadows of mystic darkness
shrouding her charms, to be revealed
on nights when thirst of longings
are finally quenched
 
Yet daydreams evanesce come eventide,
thus forth I venture to love´s embrace,
she tilts her head to greet me,
her smile a garland on her lips,
a smile which becomes her so  
 
 David Thorpe©®

Love Among the Ruins

By Alan Catlin

***

Love Among the Ruins


During the air raids
we used to hide
in out storm
cellar


It was so exciting
making love
that way


After the war
it was never
the same












When smoke gets


in your eyes was the theme
of their love affair in black
and white, something they
conducted in out of the way
cafes, those cigarette smoke
filled nights of Humphrey Bogart
movies on silent bar TVs,
way too loud public speakers,
designer cocktails, excuses
to get crazy, drop their trousers
while husbands, spouses,
significant others, were away on
business, visiting the sick, having
affairs of their own.
Afterwards, the scent of cigarettes
a dead giveaway nothing was as it
seemed.














Diary of a Mad Housewife


If the truth be known, she took all those,
Visiting Poet/Writer in Residence gigs,
just to get out of the house.
Her old man could have cared less what
she did with her writing as long as she
gave him space for his true passion: making pots
of money designing Brutalist buildings
and making love to all the nubile interns who came to
worship at his drawing board.
Every semester on the road for her, promised
potential new bedmates, as sex with her husband
was as dismal as it was rare, generally a farce
of nature after too much wine, good food, and
occasional recreational drugs.
Of course, they had children, conceived in what
appeared to her now as: forlorn hope disguised
as love and a deluded optimism for a future neither
one of them believed in.
They had grandchildren, as well, kids she spoke of
often to convey to her listeners that she was
in a committed relationship but she was willing
to be flexible as long as it went no further
than a brief, but memorable, affair.
Maybe there would be a body builder among
the latest acolytes, this occasionally happened,
even established poets worked out, as she did,
every morning to clear her head and flex muscles
she might need later on for more intimate
encounters. A Martial Art expert would be a
refreshing change; the poetry was awful but
the sex was great.
Most of the hopefuls would be women.
There was no avoiding that.
She had tried one or two out for trial runs but
they were unsatisfactory as she just couldn’t swing
that way.
All of them shared one trait: unrealistic expectations.
There was no avoiding it and most of her job
entailed letting them down gracefully and with tact.
Hell, you never knew when a great line might sneak
into a dreadful poem, a line she could steal and
pretend was her own.
If someone complained, who were they going to believe:
a neophyte nobody or the visiting writer in residence?
The White Giant’s Thigh


All the bar girls loved
his poor boy at the party
good looks: shaggy hair,
a few inches too long,
curling iron teased,
his weeks-without-shaving
beard made to look like
six o’clock shadow,
his half glasses for reading
verses scammed from back
pages of college texts or
the ones he memorized like
“Do Not Go Gentle Into
That Good Night” or
“The White Giant’s Thigh”.
All those words he made
his own with rich recitations
in deep baritone voice,
whiskey edged and cigarette
rough, a pint a poem he never
pays for. All of the breathless
women dying to run hands
beneath bleached-to-a-stylish-
fade t-shirt that said:
Poets Do It With Words.
After he’s made love to them all,
he returns to his spot along
the rail with the battle tested
boys who buy him rounds
for last call, savoring all
the details he tells and whatever
he withholds: Into Her Head
Lying Down, dreaming of
the land where their ancestors
lived and they were young
and wild and the world was
full of promise for a greener day.
















In Paradise




In Paradise, the 24/7 nude revue is well
under way. All the men are standing three
deep around the horseshoe shaped bar,
downing ten dollar well drinks, watching
the Amateur Night girls shed their clothes
on sweat-stained stage, gripping slick silver
poles, listening to the Rod Man sing,
“Do You Think I’m Sexy….”.
The strippers eyes are all aglow with a pinch
of angel’s dust and industrial strength weed.
Every one of the women is a winner,
an eleven on a scale of one to ten, all the tips
folded Franklins stuffed into stretched-to-
the-max black garters. All the men are macho
hunks, rough riders, special forces black ops
on R&R, one assignment away from being
enshrined in a heroes hall of fame. In Paradise,
the lights behind the bar always dazzle,
the music hard driving loud and the Gates of Hell
are always locked and secure, the smell of
sulfur and burning souls muted by the scent
of freshly sprayed perfume, all of it blown
about by the best air units money can buy.
In Paradise, even the virgins are dying to
make love.

Painting by Scarlett Neumann


​
The Tigers of Venus

Poetry Collection by Charles Rammelkamp



A Night of Passion


When I say
Kendra and I spent
a night of passion,
remember, we were on Venus.


The only two on the mission,
like a Space Age Adam and Eve,
it was like we’d quarantined ourselves
in our own Garden of Eden,
millions of miles from humanity.


With the slowest rotation
of any planet in the Solar System,
it takes two hundred and forty-three
Earth days to spin on its axis.


You do the math.
In the intimate dark
we lay in each other’s arms,
exploring each other’s body
for that entire night,
Kendra whispering deliriously
a word that rhymed with “Venus.”








Our Daily Haunt


Give us this day our daily ghost,
or maybe it's only a memory assault,
a guerrilla attack from the irreversible past,
our old friend regret clogging up the gutters,
forcing a disturbance up the pipes.


My father appears before me,
gazing at me through the inscrutable slits
his eyes have become from late-night reading.
Is that disapproval in his glance? Disappointment?


Oh, how I used to let him have it
when I was in my insecure twenties.
But he always forgave me,
and I wonder if it's the forgiveness
I always hated the most.


My former girlfriend,
dead ten years now I recently learned
from some casual remark
in the college alumni magazine.
Did I drive her to her grave?
She stands before me now, naked,
that condescending smirk twisting her face,
the same look of superiority
she always showed me.


It’s as if I’m summoning tigers from the air
and watching them disappear again,
beings from nowhere accusing me
of coming up short, missing the mark,
and worse, infinitely, terribly worse.
Or is it I who am less substantial than a ghost,
haunted by a past empty of a future?







The One-eyed Monster


We called the next door neighbor Cyclops
because he put his left eye out
hammering nails, the hammer shattering
the lens from his eyeglasses on the backswing,
sharp shards piercing the eyeball, a dagger in a jellyfish.


Cyclops' only child, Roxanne,
became a groupie for a country western band,
followed them around the country,
gig to gig.
Everybody assumed she slept with all of them
but nobody ever asked.


Roxanne finally got a job in a bank,
married a widower with three sons.
Cyclops retired from the furniture store
a few years after she settled down.
So we all thought things had worked out,
if not a fairy tale ending, at least
everybody was taken care of:
Night after night we heard laughtracks
spilling out of his house,
the endless loop of half-hour television comedy reruns.


But one night he ran out of his house
in the middle of a "Friends" episode,
erratic as a headless chicken
screaming he was dying,
his life an absurd joke,


Who is killing you, Cyclops?
we shouted, just as urgent,
Why are you dying?


"No man!" he shouted, his anguish
tragic as a sob,
"No man! No man is killing me!"

The House of Malediction

By David Thorpe

 
Ere the gathering storm
the evidence of the crime eradicated,
the abandoned footprints,
crawling clandestinely over the sentinel sand
to reach the tide in ebb,
shrivelling up into itself
as it murmurs profane curses
to the fleeing crows,
squawking abhorrence
of the witnessed felony,
their echoes resounding
without clemency
in the wounded silence,
where only drops of blood were heard,
dripping in morbid consistency
throughout the house of malediction,
ascending to its judgement
into an ethereal welkin
 
David Thorpe ©® 
The photo courtesy of Jerome Coppo

SAFARI NOCTURNO

Bilingual Poem in Spanish and English

By Daniel de Culla



La banda de heavy metal Kiss
Con su “The Creatures of the Night”
En el tocadiscos se ha rayado.
Yo, Yo mismo y Yo, sólo Yo
Y todo lo que llega a la Vida
Como diría Janet Devlin
Nos cubrimos de noche y pasión
Mientras el eterno borracho
Sale del bar echado a patadas
Pues mirando a una camarera
Con ojos rojos y sangre fría
Le dijo mordiéndose la lengua:
-Si tú quieres, te amaré a besos
Y te