Ghosts from the Past
Poetry Collection by Joshua Frank
The Ghost Girl
One sunny May, I ran to play,
When I was twelve years old,
Upon the hill. I miss her still--
A girl with curls of gold
In ribbon ties, big sky-blue eyes,
And waving, dark-red dress
Soon ran my way and asked to play--
How could I not say yes?
“I’m Beth,” she said. “My mother’s dead;
I’m hiding from her ghost.”
I thought, “A shame, her gruesome game,”
But soon I was engrossed.
We laughed and played along the grade,
Cavorted up the hill,
And soon rolled down, clothes turning brown,
Collapsed, and then lay still.
Then Beth and I stared toward the sky,
Then wrestled, then caressed,
And very soon that afternoon,
Our love began the rest.
We hoped our playing would one day
Give rise to married bliss.
I gazed into her pools of blue;
We leaned in for the kiss.
A woman’s ghost gave off the most
Horrendous, ghastly chill.
We stood upright in cold and fright;
Her ghost-hand reaped the kill.
I saw Beth die. Her ghost stood high
And quickly shed its shell.
Her ribbons fastened to the grass
As down her body fell.
Both, hand in hand, flew off the land.
Beth’s ghost was forced to go
Away from me like Annabel Lee,
But where, I’ll never know.
Then Beth up high bid me goodbye;
She waved as she looked back.
The two ghosts flew into the blue,
And everything went black.
I felt Mom shake me wide awake;
She’d found me on the hill.
“Are you all right?” She yelled in fright.
I sat up feeling ill.
I told her of my one-day love
And how she met her death.
My mother deemed it all a dream
And said there was no Beth.
So I believed I’d been deceived
And never met the lass,
Until I found, upon the ground,
Her ribbon coiled on grass.
The ghost who took her didn’t look
And left it unawares.
I picked the band up in my hand
And three blonde, curly hairs.
Younger Selves
I have you leaning up against my side,
Our boys and girls around us on the couch.
Below the window, watching from outside,
Our younger selves, age twelve, crawl up and crouch.
The boy and girl each took a time machine,
The dial set to travel here today.
We met below that window, saw this scene,
And learned that you would be my wife someday.
The woman here whose head leans next to mine
Was also she who you’d grow up to be.
Our older selves thus showed the clearest sign:
No need to ask you, “Will you marry me?”
Back home, they’ll seek each other out and meet,
And here we are—the circle’s now complete.
Ballad of the Video-Game Hero
I rode in a mine cart, back home from the land
Of my favorite video game,
Through the pixelized prairie and vast seas of sand,
Over rivers of lava and flame.
The hero sat there in the rickety cart
Staring off into pixel-sky space,
Much older than on the game cartridge’s art,
With tears on his wide, wrinkled face.
“I’m leaving and never returning,” he said.
“Come listen and hear my sad story.
The princess and I, we hoped someday to wed,
Way back in the days of my glory.
“The dragon would kidnap the princess, then I
Would run through an obstacle course
To his minions’ dark castles in mountains up high
And take back their strongholds by force.
“My princess was in the last castle I’d raid;
I always found treasures to haul.
The Kingdom would welcome me with a parade
And a sumptuous banquet for all.
“But after some years, the dragon found ways
To undermine me and my quest.
He gave up the tactic of ‘pillage and raze’--
Bribed the people with treasure-filled chests!
“My princess then fell for the dragon’s top minion;
The Kingdom surrendered the war
And exiled me out of the dragon’s dominion--
They don’t want to be saved anymore!”
We came to my world, and we sealed up the gate
To the land of his video game.
My world is secured from his land’s tragic fate,
But I’m worried for us just the same.
For evil has bribed all the people here, too,
With shiny new gadgets galore.
No more do they care for what’s good and what’s true--
They don’t want to be saved anymore!
Tales of the Schizophrenic Astronaut
Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin
Life on Another Planet
Nuclear waste formed in mother’s mind
as clouds that began in Brooklyn
on nights she misremembered which
end of the opera glasses you were
supposed to look through. They were
singing Tosca in the streets or
so she thought, following the music
of the stars scraping together
on her own station, tuned into a place
where sounds emanated automatically
into the mind without benefit of an
intermediary source. That kind of music
melted down horizons of stained
glass, watercolors with magic inks
she saw things in; life on another
planet that wasn't pretty, that was
almost worse than ours and ours was hell.
Subway to Planet X
There were star charts in each
of her eyes that began on another
planet she call X the Unknown,
a substitute planet for earth.
Each map she saw displayed new
dark areas sinking into an ocean
that rose to the tips of mountains
creating islands that replaced
continents. The year 1938 would
have revealed for her an Africa
of the mind that extended all
the way into the 90's; vast unknowns
populated by hostile natives
waiting for subways unaccountably
transferred to New York City.
Down there, she was queen of
darkness; cultivating the spark
of wheels meeting rail. It was
always one hundred degrees in her
mind and there was nothing to breathe
but there was always that magic
spark from another source to give
meaning to her life.
Self-Portrait with Hamlet's Mother on
the Battlements of Elsinor
Spirits travel here but only certain
receptive souls can see them and interact
without benefit of an intermediary,
a medium whose oracular wisdom touches
the entrails of those who left this life
for the other, troubled and confused.
Oceanic tides are trade winds tunneling
inside the wormholes of a mind made
feverish by strong potions, lecherous
impulses and a grief too awful to bear.
This world is unbalanced, made unruly
by unnatural death: bosky woods no
longer remain rooted to a solitary place,
Hyperion becomes satyr and red wine
no longer act as a balm but are a fiery
draught that kills, one fatal sip is all it takes;
once she swallows, the queen looks
as if she has seen a ghost.
Mixed Undifferentiated
Schizophrenic Motion Picture Reviews
Sitting by a projector, endless reels of harmless
movies: Frances the Talking Mule in a dark
recreation room. Hidden symbols are revealed:
the mule represents a delegation from other
inner worlds, an individual of the self,
the undead wishing to be heard: the power of speech
must be imparted to sacred birds, domestic pets,
inanimate objects; light bulbs contain filaments
of reason; construct metal cages, traps, truth
restrained and revealed, you can eat celluloid
and be redeemed: it has been written the God
of the Dead is a Mule
Spanish Articles as Pathways to the Other World
Mother was writing about another universe
using language other than her own;
"Sin: Without, living without sin,
righteousness, those emulating the higher good
(Gut, German, good, the stomach what comes
from within)
El Derecho, Right, His Will, Holy Goodness,
God (Gut, good)The Way Man (El Mano) should follow
Amanuensis (Latin) She who takes dictation
from The Source (God, gut, good)"
The narrative went on that way for pages
suggesting her mind was a train yard filled
with perpetual motion machines so crowded
it was beyond belief:
"La Pluma is the pen we write down dictation
from The Source with.
La is the female element of the person
of the self which contains both man
and woman in one body.
El Lapiz is the pencil used to sketch
testaments for transcription and is often
broken or revised. El is the man of the self
also, the trains that run above ground.
La Comida is the human existence as often
written about by other authors, many of whom
never actually visited this planet only
the one occupied by our twin in another universe.
Los Twinosos: the being of the self in flux
between two existences that continually overlap
so there can never be "death"."
It was beginning to make sense, the articles
defined the sex of the object all of which
existed in parallel universes inside her mind.
Reading on, I found:" La Leche, the milk,
the nectar of the Gods.
El Agua: His water, life's blood, that which
never dies, Life everlasting."
I stopped reading; it was too much trying to follow,
the logic of this other world based on articles
that lead nowhere, not even to her mythic
parallel universe.
Wild at Heart
When he came to the crossroads
of nowhere and somewhere else,
the devil was bestowing gifts:
Second sight to the daughters of Cassandra.
Hot picks for Paganini strings.
Mona Lisa lips to star struck Marilyn twins.
In the moment, he passed up the gifts:
of a singer’s perfect pitch,
crazy fingers for jazzman’s ivory keys,
the perfect body for the perfect mind.
Settled on what he did best,
to keep on, keepin’ on.
The devil smiled and granted his wish
silently adding,..on the dark side of Jesus...
which was where he was headed on his own.
Saw himself as a fallen man made for sinning,
and for wild women, who could really sing
the blues.
Called them all, Baby, and said they were
pretty like a city at night when all you could
see was the artificial night.
Roamed from one sundown to the next,
a tarnished Hohner in his duffel made for
playing in every lowdown bar or garage band jam.
Folks who’d heard him play, swore he could
make that mouth organ talk, make it howl
at a neon-colored moon.
Drank pit stop, no label gin, from clear bottles,
hell raised and burned by an invisible flame.
Carried three Morgan dollars in each high hipped
pocket, liked to say, “Where he was going,
you always need to be ready to pay the piper,
to tip the ferryman on that long, lonesome
river ride, that never ends.
The Paradise Trilogy
Poems by Alex Andy Phuong
1.
Another Side of Paradise
Ponder with wonder
Marvel at the sublime
Making the most
Out of finite time
A journey towards discovery
Travels to the other side
Without the need to ever hide,
And form dreams for the future
Filled with endless possibilities
While understanding the power
Of hope and creativity,
And thinking with clarity
Truly is essential
To focus on all that is fundamental
While doing anything
To be at a personal best
While also remembering
How life is not even a test,
But a test of character.
2.
A Parallel Reality
The ebb and flow of an ocean wave
That creates an allegory of a cave,
And the feeling of being
In a different dimension
Through the power of transformation,
And as hours of time
Reveal the nature of the sublime,
Focusing on the fundamental
Is definitely instrumental
To making the music of the night
Without the need for fear and fright,
And even if reality had a parallel,
There will still be hope that all is well.
3.
Across the Ocean of Time
A bounty as boundless as the sea
Alongside a golden pond
Where the celestial sphere
Can deliver a sense of purpose
For being here,
For the willingness to travel on
Could start even before the break of dawn,
And as the sun travels across the sky,
Time itself might appear to fly
When the journey on a path
Towards discovery
Can reveal hidden mysteries
All while trying to avoid
The grapes of wrath,
So dare to create
A place full of tranquility
As a way to appreciate
The peacefulness of harmony.
The Hollywood Collection
Poetry by Alan Catlin
Post Card to Splake Dec. 05 2018
Maybe The Misfits should have
been called Last Tango in Las Vegas.
The three main stars dead who appeared
on the big screen, unwittingly
playing roles in a last picture
show. Thelma R. hung around and
Eli W. lived forever, comparatively,
thriving in roles like the ugly guy
Tuco, in the last of Eastwood, Man
with No Name trilogy. No wonder
Tuco didn’t get Marilyn in Misfits
though he did get the blonde in Baby Doll;
he sure made a great slime ball when
motivated. And Monty. His
soulful eyes, face turned away
from the camera to better conceal
facial wounds suffered in drunken
car crash calling home from a glass
coin operated phone booth to assure
mom everything was going to be okay.
As if it could ever be okay again.
Some say James Dean was the tragic one.
How does he compare, really?
So young, untested, effete, effeminate,
almost; his best career move dying
young to insure immortality, screen
stardom for all time despite a slim
body of work.
What did he accomplish, really?
Played chicken with Death and lost.
Eyes Wide Shut: a medley
Somewhere along the line electrical
circuits in his head had become a study
in crossed wires. The scent of electrical
fires lingered on his breath, leaked
through open pores, leftovers from
some disaster porn show like a closed
room execution site he had been intimately
associated with. His eyes twitched,
muscles spasmed without visible reason,
some kind of uncanny Tourettes thing
that began after having been exposed,
at too an early an age, to multiple viewings
of “The Shining.” Remembered how it was
to be tyke on a bike, hot wheeling through
hedge mazes, up and down identical corridors
that never seemed to have a way out. Or maybe,
his afflictions could be traced to having
snuck into a Room 237 like place and seen
himself in a mirror, drawing blood images
of the future on the glass, knowing nothing
could change the bloody outcome to be
once you have been mired in what has past.
Saw himself as a voyeur, experiencing his
life through someone else’s eyes. Knew
himself to be a Peeping Tom, prone to peering
through keyholes, raised shades, parted blinds,
spying on women he imagined were nude models
like Marilyn but were, in fact, body doubles for
Shelly Duvall. Imagined them stepping naked
from showers, rising up from hot baths, haloed
in ethereal mists, all the windows opaque,
the mirror, steam smudged over; his fingerprints
and those of myriad others who came after.
Their stripped bare bodies slick and glowing
with a film of rinse water and essence oils almost
within his grasp but not quite, smeared as they
were by Kubrick colors, Red Rum on the rocks.
All the eyes in the mirror, open wide, shut.
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 man’s incredible
capacity for stupidity and
monumental pride.
“The wet sheets of Marilyn Monroe”
After a line by Jared Smith
draped like canvas sails
over funerary statues,
concrete urns, over plinths,
marble headstones, crypts
like objects wrapped by Christo
in a dream; the shaped hedges
and trees of the cemetery,
winding into mazes, all draped
with these wet sheets, damp
humps in the moonlight like
burial mounds awaiting the corpse
all heavily scented with Pine Sol
and with death.
For Jean Seberg Whenever I find Her
“Now the flames they followed Joan of Arc
as she came riding through the dark.”
Leonard Cohen
She is the handmaiden to
a king who would have her
head on a pike unless there
is a story to beguile him.
Every night she must transform
herself into something new
to satisfy his urges, becomes
a dream object in someone else’s
mind as flammable as celluloid,
as flimsy as gauze.
A sword is her chosen weapon
but when that fails to please,
she uses it to end her life.
A severed head on a platter is
a role that can only be played
once, like dreaming of seeing
your perfect body reflected in
a pool and drowning trying to
reclaim it.
Play acting as a saint, as the chosen
one, becomes less of a reward than
a sacrifice, like being burned alive
twice, once on the screen, the other
in the tabloids.
Denied her essence, even a child,
her birthright, herself, she becomes
a back seat baby in an abandoned
car, a woman everyone sees only
when she becomes invisible.
Betrayed by Rita Hayworth
Tango tunes, music to dance
the night away, flushed by sweet
wine, a taste of liqueur, her face
a lover's incantation, a siren singing
the irresistible, breathless words of
love all those moonlit nights outside
her second story bedroom window,
surreptitious as a burglar dressed
all in black, the love of her the worst
kind of drug, stronger than compulsion,
primal, it pulls you beyond reason,
beyond the dream image of her
silhouette behind the drawn shade,
a profile of a movie screen lover
embracing the tango man, stung by
the kiss of spider women, that last
embrace an acceptance of the venom,
so sweet, so pure, so everlasting.
I’M GOING TO BECOME A MILLIONAIRE
By Daniel de Culla
A certain Marla Burla
Writes me an email telling me
She is writing to me on behalf of
“Skoll Funfation”
An American Foundation
Whose vision is to live in a sustainable world
Of peace and prosperity for all
Catalyzing transformative social change.
When she writes to me:
“When you receive this email
Be very happy
Because you have been selected
To receive 3,500,000 dollars.
Send me a postal address
And a savings account, or bank
So I can send it to you.”
I am not excited about this luck
Because I know it is a scam
Like any other
And that it is not the one who goes down
That goes down
But the one who falls.
I have answered her with these words:
-Prove that you are telling the truth
Send me, first, a courtesy gift
And I will give you the address
Of my bank account and a kiss.
After fifteen days
More or less
I received a package via Amazon
From Palo Alto, California
(That's what the address said)
Containing a kilo of bottle caps
Of Tropical Torpedo beers
Dirty Bastard, Blackwoods, California
Anchor, Bud Light and Flying Dog
Which made me laugh a lot
Because I will have the photo of the players
From the Burgos Football Club
And those from the Huesca Sports Society
So that my grandchildren can have
A championship between them
And play in Gamonal, Rio Vena
And Barriada San Juan Bautista.
Marilyn, My Marilyn
By Kenneth Vincent Walker
I often thought that
You just needed to
Be loved and that
Love would surely
Save you from your
Thoughts, from your
Fears, from what Life
Had squeezed out of
You, but I was wrong.
For your father who
You never knew would
Someday return to you
Or so you thought, but
Life is not as simple as
That as you then found
Out and it was just too
Painful to take and you
Opted out. We were not
Of the same age at all
You and I. For you were
Thirty years my senior;
Yet I’ve always felt your
Sadness, that deep dark
Void, which contributed
To a maudlin madness,
Which you could never
Quite avoid with alcohol
And barbiturates, which
Cemented your femme
Fatale status in the stars
Twinkling like your eyes as
The show draws to a close
Dearest Marilyn Monroe.
Retirement of the Muse
by Teresa Ann Frazee
In between stray shadows, where the blackbirds flew in circles and wolves began to howl, is when I
found this ancient poem. It was tucked deep inside an old book. The pages were worn and the
parchment brown. The words were written in forgotten dialect. A tale of a goddess reduced to a
mythical legend pressed between pages. An ageless sister bound to an infinite time, where only dreams
know of such a place.
Again and again, weaving lyrically beautiful fantasies
Deliberately sparing the problematic starkness of life
Painting an unrealistic portrait devoid of disappointment
While, purposely ever smiling like a paper doll wife
I have been busy, presiding over art and poetry
Affection interlaced with charm fulfills passion’s drought
Whirling brand new tales in a mosaic of magic
As the truth and forthrightness are less than devout
Primitive mists emit in the enamored air you breathe
With a summoned scented kiss of madness, pulses revive
Your mythical concept whispers through magnetized lips
In the bewitching embrace where the creative thrive
Offering gifts of song, like a wild child, bracelets jangle
The applause always appeared to serve my ego well
Bathe in the light of the divine, illusion knows no bounds
Unblinking, infinite eyes, cast yet another spell
I have made adjustments in my private quest to break free
And so begins the self-proclaimed celebrated cure
Resilience has turned Musedom into extinguished days
Took back my energy, when my prominent voice said no more
One more enigma in his life
By David Thorpe
*
Born into a preacher´s family
yet born not to become one,
he discovered later his vocation
his vision of fulfilment,
the depiction with oils on canvas
*
Inspiration of his brush revealed
the local poverty in scenes
of winter´s predictable depravation,
where the light of hope a scarcity,
as was a table plentiful.
*
The artistic life of Paris
in the company of peers
enlightened his heart to paint
landscapes of summer days,
sunflowers and startling starlit nights.
*
Storm clouds gathered in his mind,
darkening his sense of reason,
the shackles of delirium
enchained his growth of self-esteem
in a cul-de-sac of perniciousness.
*
His heart had loved in vain,his ear a victim of his dole,
his fame not yet aflame
when death came from a bullet wound,
one more enigma in his life.
David Thorpe ©®
Three Poems by Alan Brayne
THE NIGHT CAFÉ
Scrape up the broken creatures
In this glaring yellow hell,
Shine a light into their eyeballs
And slip them one last slug:
One more for the road they never tread.
Toss out that vase of flowers,
Their scent a cruel reminder
Of the softer shades of life,
A world with a flow of air
Where the bright shine isn’t dead.
Gather up the emptied glasses
And their reeking detritus of hope
In this space where hope timelessly died:
Greens that were never in nature,
Reds that were never alive.
No window to let in the light
So the dawn has to crawl through the cracks
And at last this cave can breathe:
But where will those broken creatures go
When the clock says they must leave?
EDVARD MUNCH
on the bridge that crosses silence
mind unravels
colours tremor
sunblood stains the faces
black clothes smother
the heaving sea my sleepwalk
my awakening
screech owls gather
long shadows
fall I fall
into the evening,
yearn to end
please let me fall and end,
my end forever
FROZEN WARNINGS
let the young grass shiver
like the heart in a wintry sun;
the glum harmonium mourns,
a lament from the marshes and mists
A thousand cycles to come,
how lonesome the heart can be.
let the icicles drip
and rub salt into milkmaid skin;
the wind scrapes its ancient viola
as it weaves its path through her blood
A thousand blindings of white,
how snowbound her heart can be.
let the faraway mountains
glint like knives in the light;
the songbirds shrivelled and silent
so the hermit is truly alone
A thousand lives yet to live,
how weary my heart can be.
Bio: A retired teacher and lecturer from England now living in Malta. Recently self- published a book of poems, fiction and essays, Digging for Water. The author of three novels set in Indonesia: Jakarta Shadows, Kuta Bubbles, and Lombok Flames. Interests include art, film noir, the I Ching, philosophy, walking. Just recovered from working out how to set up my website: alanbrayne.com
Above: Sunset painting by Bob Ross
Catatumbo Symphony
By Daniel Moreschi
As sunset paints a stage at the unwieldy mouth
of Maracaibo Lake, sporadic breezes lead
the water's surface, stirring swirls among the reeds,
creating shimmered mirrors that reflect a shroud
of gray, covertly brimming overhead. Though veiled,
the Andes loom like silent giants, bearing witness
to where tones of wind-kept whispers linger; stillness
fractured by intensified caresses, trailed
from swell-bound blusters. Rustles rattle, ripples race
and flits of wings resound in flurries, just as makeshift herds
of varied species—not knowing where or when to turn--
assail reluctant paths. Their scrambled scansion breaks
with strides aligned; the animals encircle ways,
as if beset by their own shrinking shadows. Amid
the flicker of a dazzling zigzag, steps go still,
then all that can retreat is routed by a wave
of distant thrums: a rat-a-tat of crackling claps
and loops of charge-lit choreographies unite,
as both composer and conductor of the night.
These streaks of sheets unfold in sequences. They wrap
around the clouds in branching arcs. Each flash commands
its own embodied image in the waters. Tempos
alter, lightning extends; crescendos bellow: echoes
of this dance reverberate across the land.
The floors unravel, flora tumbles, trees are traced
along a pass of peaks, while hillsides silhouette.
A dozen hours advance. Between the thunder’s threads
and sections, interludes of silence find their place.
The fervor softens, outros pour and lapses grow;
once-restless skies inhale and sigh. As dawn appears,
the marsh is held by restful air; horizons clear
as currents fall and curtains rise to end the show.
Catatumbo Symphony
By Daniel Moreschi
As sunset paints a stage at the unwieldy mouth
of Maracaibo Lake, sporadic breezes lead
the water's surface, stirring swirls among the reeds,
creating shimmered mirrors that reflect a shroud
of gray, covertly brimming overhead. Though veiled,
the Andes loom like silent giants, bearing witness
to where tones of wind-kept whispers linger; stillness
fractured by intensified caresses, trailed
from swell-bound blusters. Rustles rattle, ripples race
and flits of wings resound in flurries, just as makeshift herds
of varied species—not knowing where or when to turn--
assail reluctant paths. Their scrambled scansion breaks
with strides aligned; the animals encircle ways,
as if beset by their own shrinking shadows. Amid
the flicker of a dazzling zigzag, steps go still,
then all that can retreat is routed by a wave
of distant thrums: a rat-a-tat of crackling claps
and loops of charge-lit choreographies unite,
as both composer and conductor of the night.
These streaks of sheets unfold in sequences. They wrap
around the clouds in branching arcs. Each flash commands
its own embodied image in the waters. Tempos
alter, lightning extends; crescendos bellow: echoes
of this dance reverberate across the land.
The floors unravel, flora tumbles, trees are traced
along a pass of peaks, while hillsides silhouette.
A dozen hours advance. Between the thunder’s threads
and sections, interludes of silence find their place.
The fervor softens, outros pour and lapses grow;
once-restless skies inhale and sigh. As dawn appears,
the marsh is held by restful air; horizons clear
as currents fall and curtains rise to end the show.
Above: The Doctor by Norman Rockwell
Poems by Arthur Davenport
Biography: Arthur Davenport has been a poet and singer-songwriter for over fifty years.
He writes lyrical poems, introspective ruminations, tall tales, nursery rhymes, scientific poems and odes to nature.
Many of his poems were written for poetic therapy, to overcome tragedy in life.
The author has taken a birthright of challenge as impetus to overcome and recover, enduring as a profoundly positive person.
That is reflected in a desire to seek unity where lies division, reconcile differences,
and live a life of joy to celebrate the miracle of being, challenges notwithstanding.
******* *********** *******
Websites:
https://www.arthurdavenport.com
https://soundcloud.com/arthur-davenport
https://www.facebook.com/ArthurDavenportMusic
Dr. Blissenblessed
(2017)
Mr. Harold Lipsnpitz went to Dr. Blissenblessed
to have an itchy twitching whatsit test,
then wonder what to do the best,
according to the whatsit test?
“Hello Harry,” said the Doc.
“Come on in, let’s take stock.
Why is it you came to me?
What do you want me to see?”
Mr. Harry Lipsnpitz was suffering from itchy fits.
He replied with pangs of angst:
“I’m a tired and grumpy crank,
in stitches about these itches.
They stink, stunk, stank.
They are rude, rotten, rank.
Now I have the bitchy witchies.
They started itsy bitsy,
then grew into a skunky, scratchy, skank.”
Then Harry wondered what Dr. Blissenblessed would order
for the itchy twitching whatsit test?
“When did you first have these witchy itchy twitching fits?”
asked Dr. Blissenblessed to Mr. Lipsnpitz.
Harry sighed, moaned and cried, then endeavored to reply.
“When I had to hike for the army in hot socks,
and hats made of twisted woven wooly hair,
there came an itch that would not stop.
First on my toes, then on my nose,
then upon my derriere,
when it spread into my underwear.
My socks, and hats and skivvies
were all made of sheepy, fleecy, fuzzy hair!”
“I see,” said Dr. Blissenblessed,
as he pondered what that he should test.
Reassured with Harry’s words,
he knew then what to do the best
for the itchy twitching whatsit test.
“Well then Mr. Lipsnpitz,
I’ll need a swatch of cloth from your underwear.
From your socks, I’ll pull some hair.
And while we’re taking samples,
I’ll need fibers from your hat.
If you do not mind Sir,
could you please do that?”
“Why yes, of course Dr. Blissenblessed,
if that is what you need the best
for the itchy twitching whatsit test.”
A strand of this, a thread of that.
A hair pulled off his woolen hat.
A string of socks.
A strand of locks.
Some yarn and cord pulled off his jocks.
“We’ll send the sample to the lab to test and ascertain
if your twitchy itches come from allergens,
or if they’re made inside your brain.”
“And Harry, while we’re waiting, just relax, if you’ll do that.
Here’s a witchy itchy scratcher to put upon your back.
I’ll prescribe a tube of steroid goo to rub upon your feet.
Please stay out of the sun, avoiding sweat, dust and heat.
Buy some silken underthings that are not made of hair.
Woven silky worm webs are much better
for the itches you have down there.
There, your prescription is complete.
May you get relief for your itchy scratchy feet.
We will deduce thereafter what to do is best,
according to results of the itchy twitching whatsit test.”
“Thank you for coming Mr. Lipznpits.
Wishing you relief from itching fits.”
“Thank you Dr. Blissenblessed
for the consultation and the test.”
“You’re welcome,” said Dr. Blissenblessed.
“And Harry, don’t despair.
It’s probably just you should not wear clothing made of hair!”
******* *********** *******
Bus Stop Intellectual Poet
2004.08.06
Cheap alliterative rhymes of a bus-stop intellectual.
A pondering, peeving, pitiful, petulant poet.
She left me in the dark asleep; I didn’t know it.
Something is missing.
Was it a memory or a dream?
Tumbled marks on a swerving line.
Did I say it straight, or was it in between the words this time?
I kick the cat for a hiss and spat, and stumble down the alley.
Feeling good, I knock on wood, and bang my head to tally
all the spare change that fell through the hole in my pocket.
Throwing the dregs away, losing what I never cared for anyway.
Gin swished mind,
sloshing streams of thought poured over the sidewalk.
Passing time waiting for a ride.
Soaking people passing, with words spilled from a jumbled mind.
Cheap rhymes of a bus-stop intellectual poet.
******* *********** *******
Shadow Babble
(1999)
Pull the ripcord.
Stop the free fall.
No more torment.
Hear the dove call.
Jump back from the railroad track.
Or get in and ride the train.
Get off of that wheeze and cough.
That stuff’s gone to your brain.
Stick the pin into the sluice.
Coarsing through your juicy juice.
Picks you up, then lets you down.
Bumping through the twinkle town.
Riding high, crashing down.
Pushing hard, darkness drowns.
Pull the chain, then dig it hard.
You got an inch.
They take a yard.
Beyond you now the sacred cow.
Her milk flows through your veins.
In darkness still the whippoorwill
sings sweet and sad refrains.
Letting go, no weep, no woe.
She loves you just the same.
Even more, when you reach her shore.
You’ll be safe, though mad and lame.
Forevermore, when you reach the shore
of her fruitful fertile plain.
Poems by Arthur Davenport
Biography: Arthur Davenport has been a poet and singer-songwriter for over fifty years.
He writes lyrical poems, introspective ruminations, tall tales, nursery rhymes, scientific poems and odes to nature.
Many of his poems were written for poetic therapy, to overcome tragedy in life.
The author has taken a birthright of challenge as impetus to overcome and recover, enduring as a profoundly positive person.
That is reflected in a desire to seek unity where lies division, reconcile differences,
and live a life of joy to celebrate the miracle of being, challenges notwithstanding.
******* *********** *******
Websites:
https://www.arthurdavenport.com
https://soundcloud.com/arthur-davenport
https://www.facebook.com/ArthurDavenportMusic
Dr. Blissenblessed
(2017)
Mr. Harold Lipsnpitz went to Dr. Blissenblessed
to have an itchy twitching whatsit test,
then wonder what to do the best,
according to the whatsit test?
“Hello Harry,” said the Doc.
“Come on in, let’s take stock.
Why is it you came to me?
What do you want me to see?”
Mr. Harry Lipsnpitz was suffering from itchy fits.
He replied with pangs of angst:
“I’m a tired and grumpy crank,
in stitches about these itches.
They stink, stunk, stank.
They are rude, rotten, rank.
Now I have the bitchy witchies.
They started itsy bitsy,
then grew into a skunky, scratchy, skank.”
Then Harry wondered what Dr. Blissenblessed would order
for the itchy twitching whatsit test?
“When did you first have these witchy itchy twitching fits?”
asked Dr. Blissenblessed to Mr. Lipsnpitz.
Harry sighed, moaned and cried, then endeavored to reply.
“When I had to hike for the army in hot socks,
and hats made of twisted woven wooly hair,
there came an itch that would not stop.
First on my toes, then on my nose,
then upon my derriere,
when it spread into my underwear.
My socks, and hats and skivvies
were all made of sheepy, fleecy, fuzzy hair!”
“I see,” said Dr. Blissenblessed,
as he pondered what that he should test.
Reassured with Harry’s words,
he knew then what to do the best
for the itchy twitching whatsit test.
“Well then Mr. Lipsnpitz,
I’ll need a swatch of cloth from your underwear.
From your socks, I’ll pull some hair.
And while we’re taking samples,
I’ll need fibers from your hat.
If you do not mind Sir,
could you please do that?”
“Why yes, of course Dr. Blissenblessed,
if that is what you need the best
for the itchy twitching whatsit test.”
A strand of this, a thread of that.
A hair pulled off his woolen hat.
A string of socks.
A strand of locks.
Some yarn and cord pulled off his jocks.
“We’ll send the sample to the lab to test and ascertain
if your twitchy itches come from allergens,
or if they’re made inside your brain.”
“And Harry, while we’re waiting, just relax, if you’ll do that.
Here’s a witchy itchy scratcher to put upon your back.
I’ll prescribe a tube of steroid goo to rub upon your feet.
Please stay out of the sun, avoiding sweat, dust and heat.
Buy some silken underthings that are not made of hair.
Woven silky worm webs are much better
for the itches you have down there.
There, your prescription is complete.
May you get relief for your itchy scratchy feet.
We will deduce thereafter what to do is best,
according to results of the itchy twitching whatsit test.”
“Thank you for coming Mr. Lipznpits.
Wishing you relief from itching fits.”
“Thank you Dr. Blissenblessed
for the consultation and the test.”
“You’re welcome,” said Dr. Blissenblessed.
“And Harry, don’t despair.
It’s probably just you should not wear clothing made of hair!”
******* *********** *******
Bus Stop Intellectual Poet
2004.08.06
Cheap alliterative rhymes of a bus-stop intellectual.
A pondering, peeving, pitiful, petulant poet.
She left me in the dark asleep; I didn’t know it.
Something is missing.
Was it a memory or a dream?
Tumbled marks on a swerving line.
Did I say it straight, or was it in between the words this time?
I kick the cat for a hiss and spat, and stumble down the alley.
Feeling good, I knock on wood, and bang my head to tally
all the spare change that fell through the hole in my pocket.
Throwing the dregs away, losing what I never cared for anyway.
Gin swished mind,
sloshing streams of thought poured over the sidewalk.
Passing time waiting for a ride.
Soaking people passing, with words spilled from a jumbled mind.
Cheap rhymes of a bus-stop intellectual poet.
******* *********** *******
Shadow Babble
(1999)
Pull the ripcord.
Stop the free fall.
No more torment.
Hear the dove call.
Jump back from the railroad track.
Or get in and ride the train.
Get off of that wheeze and cough.
That stuff’s gone to your brain.
Stick the pin into the sluice.
Coarsing through your juicy juice.
Picks you up, then lets you down.
Bumping through the twinkle town.
Riding high, crashing down.
Pushing hard, darkness drowns.
Pull the chain, then dig it hard.
You got an inch.
They take a yard.
Beyond you now the sacred cow.
Her milk flows through your veins.
In darkness still the whippoorwill
sings sweet and sad refrains.
Letting go, no weep, no woe.
She loves you just the same.
Even more, when you reach her shore.
You’ll be safe, though mad and lame.
Forevermore, when you reach the shore
of her fruitful fertile plain.
Above: The Seasons of Change by Charles Burchfield
Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin
After Reading the Journals of the Artist Charles Burchfield #2
Starlit night. The brightest light comes
from the ground where the snow mounds
huddle amidst the frightened trees. The bare,
creaking woods are bent and grieving in
grip of the Northern wind. Ghost shadows
wreathe the dead fallen limbs, the prickly
plants that cluster together for security
and warmth.
Morning releases the fog from
beneath the somber
shedding bark; cold limbs weeping.
After Reading the Journals of the Artist Charles Burchfield #3
Deserted graveyard amid new growth
trees. Overgrown with bindweed, thistle,
rag weed, blue chicory and dried grass.
An untended white garden harbors
ghost flowers; white relics that dry on
their stems in high noon light.
The ground is parched, hard as green
mold covered stones. Soon the crows
will gather amid the trees, their voices
articulating what the dead would say if
they could speak.
Heavy summer rains roll downhill-the all too solid
earth retains the heat.
After Reading the Journals of the Artist Charles Burchfield #4
Star clusters in the night sky are sprays
of volcanic light. Flying creatures are
not bats exactly, but something sinister
that exists only when waking inside a
dream.
Black ripples in the sky could be birds
or the scars they leave behind when their
flying leaves wounds.
The shrubs between houses have grown
out of proportion to the landscape,
rising like blisters inflated by bellows
that spread infectious diseases.
Even the flowers in full bloom have been
transformed into shrunken heads on
stems like pikes as a warning to all
those who seek comfort here.
The sphinx is sleeping
here inside a cave
of leaves; even the butterflies
sting
After Reading the Journals of the Artist Charles Burchfield:
The Dream #6
After the wildfire the swamp looks like
what the end of the world would if water
was colored by lingering clouds of noxious
gases. Designers from the factory slide,
then stick in the rust-colored mud that turns
into quicksands that refuse to yield its grip.
Struggling for air, the men are tearing at
the wallpaper they have designed until
their efforts propel them into the other side
where there is nothing but sodden pulped
paper and the molds that accumulate in
the dark.
Torn wallpaper bleeds; only the walls breathing.
After Reading the Journals of the Artist Charles Burchfield #7
The vision in the pale blue sky is
a looking glass into worlds that haven’t
been discovered yet. All four seasons
are present in a panoramic view that
changes shape and texture like windblown
clouds in an Autumn fantasy. Orion in winter
represents the dawning of an ecstasy of Spring.
Summer solstice reveals heat lightning that
remains unfinished when Winter finally comes.
Water colors outside
the lines where
the artist sketched.
Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin
After Reading the Journals of the Artist Charles Burchfield #2
Starlit night. The brightest light comes
from the ground where the snow mounds
huddle amidst the frightened trees. The bare,
creaking woods are bent and grieving in
grip of the Northern wind. Ghost shadows
wreathe the dead fallen limbs, the prickly
plants that cluster together for security
and warmth.
Morning releases the fog from
beneath the somber
shedding bark; cold limbs weeping.
After Reading the Journals of the Artist Charles Burchfield #3
Deserted graveyard amid new growth
trees. Overgrown with bindweed, thistle,
rag weed, blue chicory and dried grass.
An untended white garden harbors
ghost flowers; white relics that dry on
their stems in high noon light.
The ground is parched, hard as green
mold covered stones. Soon the crows
will gather amid the trees, their voices
articulating what the dead would say if
they could speak.
Heavy summer rains roll downhill-the all too solid
earth retains the heat.
After Reading the Journals of the Artist Charles Burchfield #4
Star clusters in the night sky are sprays
of volcanic light. Flying creatures are
not bats exactly, but something sinister
that exists only when waking inside a
dream.
Black ripples in the sky could be birds
or the scars they leave behind when their
flying leaves wounds.
The shrubs between houses have grown
out of proportion to the landscape,
rising like blisters inflated by bellows
that spread infectious diseases.
Even the flowers in full bloom have been
transformed into shrunken heads on
stems like pikes as a warning to all
those who seek comfort here.
The sphinx is sleeping
here inside a cave
of leaves; even the butterflies
sting
After Reading the Journals of the Artist Charles Burchfield:
The Dream #6
After the wildfire the swamp looks like
what the end of the world would if water
was colored by lingering clouds of noxious
gases. Designers from the factory slide,
then stick in the rust-colored mud that turns
into quicksands that refuse to yield its grip.
Struggling for air, the men are tearing at
the wallpaper they have designed until
their efforts propel them into the other side
where there is nothing but sodden pulped
paper and the molds that accumulate in
the dark.
Torn wallpaper bleeds; only the walls breathing.
After Reading the Journals of the Artist Charles Burchfield #7
The vision in the pale blue sky is
a looking glass into worlds that haven’t
been discovered yet. All four seasons
are present in a panoramic view that
changes shape and texture like windblown
clouds in an Autumn fantasy. Orion in winter
represents the dawning of an ecstasy of Spring.
Summer solstice reveals heat lightning that
remains unfinished when Winter finally comes.
Water colors outside
the lines where
the artist sketched.
Dawn Choristers
By Mike Mesterton-Gibbons
Dawn choristers make sounds of many types:
At dawn in Scotland, you may have to bleep
What's sworn at bagpipe players, on their pipes,
Not understanding people need their sleep.
Cocks crowing are no welcome sound if you
Had plans to sleep till noon: before the crack
Of dawn, a piercing cock-a-doodle-doo
Revolts you, were you late to hit the sack.
In music student dorms, in early morn,
Sleep may be broken by a saxophone,
Trombone, drum, oboe, clarinet or horn ...
Euphonic sounds are wonderful to clone,
Record, and play again—but you should keep
Some earplugs handy for your morning sleep!
Poetry by Joshua Frank
Synesthesia
The violin plays shades of blues
The viola moans its tones of oak
The cello hums rich autumn hues
The colors rise in curves like smoke
The piano plucks its bubble notes
Myriad colors float and pop
Each horn, an orange circle floats
The flutes shoot out their dark blue dots
The circles vibrate till they stop
Harmonious colors fill my thoughts
Ode to the Cello
Fingered strings upon the cello
Vibrate by the moving bow.
Autumn tones in red and yellow
Echo from the to and fro
Through the eight-shaped box’s hollow,
Out the narrow, curving holes.
Oaken humming sounds must follow
Movements of the bow that rolls.
Violins sing high with tension,
Flutes all tweet like chirping birds,
Horn sounds bubble in suspension,
Clarinets speak notes like words,
Yet my ears prefer the cello
Over winds and higher strings.
None can sound as rich and mellow
As the notes the cello sings!
The Campfire Sing-Along
Four families sit down in a circle at camp
By pines lit by sky white with stars and a fire
And, one by one, people start singing along
When one of the fathers picks up his guitar.
The children, excited to hear the guitar,
Will always remember that night in the camp
When all of the families were singing along
As one single voice that encircled the fire.
The logs turn to ash; night is fading the fire.
They stop one by one, with detuning guitar
And voices too tired for singing along,
And children get carried to tents in the camp.
The fire put out, all are plodding along
In the camp, with their minds filled with song and guitar.
Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin
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.
LA Woman
I hear Jimbo singing on some eternal jukebox
in all the dark back-alley bars
stoned and drunk and falling
off the stage, the mike stand
a weapon he might hurl any minute,
his dull eyes getting duller
with each verse he can barely recall,
a bottle of Jameson's Irish at the ready,
for on the ground rocket flights
to uncharted heights new depths,
“Mojo Risin Mojo Risin”
And we're hitching a ride on some open
box cars into a gold mine,
but the cars are for all the dead killed in
whatever war we are waging, some eternal
conflict that never seems to end.
When we close our eyes to drink deeper
from the Irish, the cars becoming hansom cab hearses,
all draped in black crepe, riding the rail
of some demented, no-longer funhouse ride,
into the deepest pits of hell.
a fiery pit on the other side of the arcing night.
Special forces rangers are carrying the scalps
they gathered raiding Indian country, dressed up
as the night, they come in:
this death from above, mining mission,
from the killing fields of acid rock music.
We become eternity's tunnel rats
palpitating the stone effigies carved into
the columbarium lining the cave walls,
adytum for the grateful dead chorus singing
from the shores of the flaming pits
of nuclear wasted hell:
“LA Woman LA Woman in the Afternoon-----“
rocking the whole dead scene
so loud and surreal we are carried all the way back
on the shoulders of all the dead we left in our wake.
that became just another weird scene inside the gold mine
from which there is no coming back.
Kindertotenleider
These are the songs
odes to approximate morning
for the ones who left in innocence
And never returned
These are the words
that can never be unsaid
odious words
That can only be assigned to grief
These are the choral renderings
that blending of voices assembled to inflict
pain, palpable as a wound
That will never heal
These are the children
skipping hand in hand
ascending the mountain trail
Oblivious to storm warnings
calls to take heed
to look up and around
To take stock and beware
These are your children
the only children you will
Ever have-Call to them-Call out-
Stop what has already happened
what is happening now
Call out to them now
change the funeral marches
into lullabies
Change grieving back into laughter-
Perform this one miracle-
We’ll not ask for another
We’ll have no need for another
Do not deliver the letter
written from beyond
by someone already dead
Saying everything will be all right
We do not care to read this letter
We know we do not
It will never be all right
Nothing we could ever do
will be able to change what
Has already been done
White Rabbit
It brings me all the way back, Gracie's voice:
"One pill makes you larger
And one pill makes you small
And the ones that mother gives you
Don't do anything at all.
Go ask Alice…"
and we did ask Alice through the looking
glass questions that could never be answered
smoking loco weed and chug-a-lugging green
monsters out of the marked with a star bottles
transplanted into another dimension
so that now, thirty-five, forty years later,
the first chords of White Rabbit
are a teleporting time machine
and somehow, we are improbably
young again, long haired, and always
more than a little high, the sky bent
in some crazy angel not quite meeting the earth
where it should, everything an event horizon
seen through tri-focal sunglasses
and we're on some doomed mission well beyond
the doors of perception and the mad Doctor
who was running the show would reach into
his medicine kit bag for something to, like,
up the ante, something like, raise the dead meth,
and off we'd go on some uncharted lunar launch
or a mission to Mars hopped up for the long haul,
who needs oxygen mask for a trip like this,
who needs a map to describe the wastelands,
we are traveling through, these recently exfoliated,
demilitarized zones of the mind now purgatorial
play lands instead of jungle, a thin white line
of a toxic chemical substance separating the dead
from the living just this side of nowhere from hell
our twisted sister Alice sleeping on some surrealistic
pillow just another severed head in an evil garden
of severed heads staked on punji sticks warning off
the unsuspecting nearing this Do Not Enter Zone
no gets one out of alive except maybe Gracie,
walking the razor wire all along the unclearly defined
perimeters of our minds, singing:
“Feed Your Head Feed Your Head”
Mahler's One Thousand and One Nights in New York
The dead tell stories in twelve languages
stolen from the tongues of nomad tribes;
waking up mid-nights in the city feeling
the moon lighting candle wicks, stirring
hearth embers, fallow hearts chilled deep
inside cold bones, casting off eiderdown,
a thousand chained voices, music that freezes
the lips is described upon window glass;
down below, New Year's Eve revelers watch
the glowing orb descend, chant verses of
an Auld Ange Syne, touch the sky, struck
silent in mid-song; inside, Mahler turns
the family picture album page, Marie, the
love child, six years old again, no longer
dead, seems about to speak to her father
of the seventh year.
Poetry Is Not
By Sochukwu Ivye
a dive into life locates far-fetched depths,
worlds upon worlds and sunken artifacts
with which poetry distinctly interacts
the crystal lens through which the world is seen,
poetry, captures life in a clear language
while it shines its torch in the dark vantage
when poetry mimics a crab's sideways stride
it follows life's zigzag path for learning
its course called complex is not its yearning
poetry longs to raise the cloth shrouding life,
and call eyes and minds to the underneath
should it not be graced with our laurel wreath?
to tell form or name, poetry calls a twin
and implores eyes to note the resemblance
making this description a remembrance
when listeners are weak for similes
poetry clears the gap, making the twins one
to strengthen explanations slowly spun
because some heads cannot carry some tropes
poetry talks about a whole by its part
with liquid illustrations at the heart
caressing reason for comprehension,
the gone and the faraway, poetry sees
making pictures broader for the mind's ease
poetry gifts humanity to objects
giving mouths to beings that do not speak
ordered weights it grants a climb to the peak
poetry wakes mid plain descriptions and life
striving to acquaint one with the other
seeking to ease the heart and not smother
poetry tilts and squints its eyes to read life
as poetry students, in its footsteps, walk
they should not, at mimicking its traits, baulk
poetry, like a camera aimed at life's depths,
tends to feed clearness to the attentive
to produce these pictures proves inventive
swimming in the muddy water of life
to probe the contents leaves poetry muddy
and christens it ‘the mud’ in a study
poetry wants to see, feel and tell it all
although judged like a dupe for life's weird lot
life is dense; life is thick, poetry is not.
Sochukwu Ivye is a poet whose rare forays into verse are marked by a serious commitment to his craft. Despite his infrequent output, all of his poems have found homes in prestigious press houses. Currently teaching English at a college, he holds a Master's degree in the language and nurses ambitions of pursuing a PhD in the field.
Like Stevie Nicks
By Darian Speer
To dance like Stevie Nicks
Singing a song
Perhaps of my own
Perhaps of another
With a shawl
Embracing my body
As I swirl and twirl
Across a stage
Like Stevie Nicks
The world is my stage
To dream
A wild dream
Wild and free
To be known
Wild and free
Like Stevie Nicks
Music for all seasons
By David Thorpe
* Warming soughs caress the strings of a consenting lute,
an Elizabethan sonnet of pastoral lyrics in unison to play,
thereupon the slumbering nature enticed
to shed its doleful blanket no longer welcome,
but rather a harassment to rays of sunlight,
eager to germinate the seeds of spring blossoms,
their fragrance a balm for an awakening heart.
*
To a Chopin waltz the acacias in full leaf
gently sway shelter in their shade for lovers,
to escape the heat of summer, from which scented gardens
derive their thirst, as the thirst of love of impatient lips,
longing to taste the nectar sweet and unfurl the flag of passion,
releasing thus the wings of desire to fly and there to nest
´neath the sensuality of virgin breasts.
*
The “Water Music” of Händel predicts the autumn rain,
dampening the fallen leaves awaiting their dispersion;
November on early mists of dawn rides,
enshrouding the day with humid kisses,
till moonlight usurps its rival in a winning battle,
and love withdraws to find the cause misplaced,
once held high on a cherished standard,
now put in question before a disconcerted jury.
*
Beethoven´s “Silence” reflects the image of mute darkness,
frozen speech unable to express the profundity of sentiments
in search of warmth and affection,
hibernating within the apathy of the winter of love,
exhausted from scars of a thwarted battlefield,
better a time for contemplation of more intrinsic values,
would the unbolting of sluice gates swirl away
with the torrent, the foundations of sensibility.
David Thorpe ©®
In The ‘50's
By Doug Dawson
There once was a time when those newfangled gadgets filled us with awe and
with wonder – they knocked our brains, if not our bodies, asunder.
They knocked our socks off, because they were both modern and new.
I think in the 50's we were more gullible too.
Buttons to push, knobs to turn, lights blinking away, hey what a fuss we made of the newfangled inventions they gave us – heaven save us!
"These gosh darned things are just changing the world," we thought - "and they'll take us along for the ride."
We thought we were high-tech, back then in the 50's, feeling all proud and heated
up inside.
We had washing machines, autos, hi-fi and TV.
Just ten years earlier radio was the center of all things – to you and to me.
And now every louse in the house could sit still as a mouse -in front of a flickering
screen, silent and tired – no conversation required.
We didn’t have to stand in line at the movies any more – now they’re there on TV,
turning each one of us into a boob sitting in front of the tube.
Even closer to us were the synthetic fabrics we wore on our bodies.
Polyester and nylon - why do fabrics need to breathe, anyway?
We had filter cigarettes – everyone had a butt in his mouth – smoking was the
order of the day.
The movies in 3-D with those funny glasses that fall off your face.
And much more: color TV, the race to fly out into space.
And we went fishin' - "nucular" fission, that is.
They split the atom - Adam would sure be amazed.
We knew there was danger, protected our kids: they got under their desks, clasped their hands on their heads - nothing can hurt a young mister or miss who’s prepared for the end of all things.
"My God - we're lords of the earth," we imagined.
"Cripes!" we intoned, at each nuisance we faced.
The omniscience we fancied danced in our heads and serves to show you how little we
knew – the human race, that is.
Even then there existed a gap between technicians and everyone else.
Technical "haves" and "have-nots," you're one or the other.
You could learn about science, but why even bother?
Imagine the gap that the science of the future will bring.
People who don't speak the lingo of science will feel like some vulnerable thing.
Back in the 50's. Even back then, with the run of the place some couldn’t do squat with
the high-tech inventions we had – or had not.
I saw a man draw a blank when he looked at a panel of lights.
"You see that switch?" he said, impressed with the sight as he said with a grin,
wiping his chin, just like the "Man from Nantucket."
"That don't do shit!" was his brilliant appraisal, as he’s flipping the switch on and off, not
knowing what to make of it.
"He's no technician," I thought to myself - but he was just mouthing a saying we had in
the 50's.
Doug Dawson has written for the U.S. Defense Department and for car and trade magazines and has had his short stories published by Academy of the Heart & Mind, Ariel Chart, Aphelion Webzine, Literary Yard, Scars Publications, The Scarlet Leaf Review and many others and are included in the print anthologies “The Devil’s Doorknob II” and “Potato Soup Journal’s “Best Stories of 2022.”
His book “Route 66 – the TV Series, the Highway and the Corvette” will be published by BearManor Media in 2024.
Poetry by Joshua C. Frank
Hamelin Revisited
As children, we heard of the Pied Piper’s tricks
In the Year of Our Lord thirteen-seventy-six,
Of his magical flute’s most insidious pillage
Of luring the children away from the village.
The parents, alas, couldn’t counter the magic;
No city since Sodom had an ending more tragic!
Yet, were the tale modern instead of medieval,
Would we still call the Piper a man of great evil?
We’d insist that it’s wrong that the parents lamented,
Because all the village’s children consented.
In a Home
Based on Michael Bunker’s grandmother (b. 1909) as described in his book Surviving Off Off-Grid
I
Old, blind, and helpless, Grandma’s all alone--
Bed, radio, phone, and nothing stimulating,
Indifferent care-crew members--
Unwanted, worn-out human unit, waiting
To be no more than carvings on a stone,
Like all that she remembers.
Her rural girlhood mostly was the same
As that of Cain and Abel’s unsung sister
And girls throughout the ages:
A large, extended family to assist her
In growing food and cooking over flame--
The meals were thus their wages.
Her farm work done, she played out in the hills
With family dogs and lambs and half-grown neighbors,
Her sisters and her brothers,
And in her teenage years, thanks to her labors,
She married young with now-forgotten skills
To be six children’s mother.
Her parents both had been allowed to die
At home, fed wood-cooked meals, with kin surrounded,
And prayers read by their pastor.
My mother calls her poor, but wealth abounded,
All traded for a snake-oil salesman’s lie
That soon became her master.
II
The media said to buy consumer goods,
Electric labor-savers from the city,
And be assimilated,
Or Grandma’d be an object of their pity:
A third-world widow living in the woods,
Still undomesticated.
She had to pay the corporations back
As an electric-power-and-plumbing renter;
She sold her home for schooling
To be a nurse in some big birthing center,
Where now she’s just a name upon a plaque
Right near where vents do cooling.
Her children couldn’t care for her old age
Once on the hamster-wheel of debt and earnings,
And so they pay some strangers
To keep her, full of home- and family-yearnings,
Locked up just like a sparrow in a cage,
Away from age’s dangers.
When family-hunger hounds her like a ghost,
She calls her past in area codes scattered
Across this once-free nation.
She calls old comfort from when family mattered
To chatter, be in better times engrossed--
Times smashed by modernization.
You may recall, she’s blind, can’t see the phone,
And so she speed-dials one of us at random
And prays that one will answer.
Convenience and consumer greed in tandem
Ensure that once we’re old, we’re all alone--
Modernity’s a cancer.
Domestication
Japheth (JAY-feth): Noah’s son, ancestor of Europeans and other northern peoples who domesticated dogs
Some decades after Noah’s Flood,
Some wolves smelled boiling beef and blood
Over fire in Japheth’s hearth.
The wolves slinked by around his garth,
Sitting patiently for meat--
A novelty: a well-cooked treat.
The children called the wolves by whistle,
Tossed them dirty guts and gristle.
Japheth’s wife threw boiled bones,
No good for humans, hard as stones,
Out the windows, on the grass,
Devoured by the lupine mass.
When the wolves kept coming back
For a new, delicious snack,
Sitting down beside the shrubs,
Japheth took their sweetest cubs,
Gave his children these as pets,
And kept the best as breeding sets.
Today, across the great, wide waters,
A lot of Japheth’s distant daughters,
Taught to be career-ambitious,
Vent suppressed maternal wishes
Through wolves’ descendants’ shame and dolors
By pushing them in human strollers.
Poetry by Ethan McGuire
APOCALYPSE DANCE
If I am honest with myself I know
The world around me teeters on the edge
Of something great—for good perhaps. Or not.
I only need to step outside my door
To see my city and our sweat-and-blood
Achievements. Some of which we earned, and some
Of which we stole or halfway stole from gods
Who lived within the boundaries of this land
Before our mothers knew our fathers’ names--
These awesome, awful prizes which may vanish
Before I even turn around again
To value and appreciate their worth--
Our city’s hardest-won accomplishments.
We may deserve to lose them now. Or soon.
We are, all of us here, together—dancing,
Ignoring our collective shivering moment,
In time with tunes that oscillate between
The chilling and the fiery—engaged in dance
With no one other than Apocalypse.
DAMNED WINTER
The Winter was too warm.
The season was too short.
The rain was rarely ice.
The blanket spread too thin.
The seeds made sprouts too soon.
Tree blossom flowers froze.
The earth was not quite cold
Enough to rest the World.
PATIENT HISTORY
After Amit Majmudar
The doctor—Swift, a specialist, I think--
He really only babbled on and on--
Not like a brook which chuckles over stones
But like old fingers on a keyboard’s keys.
He spelled out his dire diagnosis, fast,
With complicated sentences and words,
Yet it translated, all, to me as this:
Only, “It is what it is,” and, simply, “Well,
These sorts of things will happen sometimes,” too.
I walked out of his office with a haze
Completely interlaced throughout my brain.
That irksome lump my wife had pointed out--
The aches, the weariness which woke me up--
If I had been the type to bother folks,
Perhaps we could have caught this sooner then.
Still, no, that never was my way at all,
So I guess I’ll just drive home and tell my wife.
Poetry by Michael H. Brownstein
1939: EVICTION DAY
We planted cotton
and scarred our hands,
came home to make love
and fell asleep instead.
Greed is a wicked half-sister.
You filled your hands with it.
For a moment
color lost its importance.
I stand with others
holding my infant son,
every one of my possessions
along the highway
defining our misery.
-- In 1939, New Madrid County, Missouri’s plantation owners evicted both black and white tenant farmers and sharecroppers from land they had farmed for decades. The federal government had offered a check to help the workers. By evicting them, the plantation owners were able to take the money for themselves.
HIS STORY
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
and we forgot the others, some who died,
for refusing to move. and then there were the
Harriet Tubmans, smart and original,
his story denied them their true place
and found them another. She became
the head of the underground railroad,
a woman with headaches who could not read,
but really one of our greatest spies
who could memorized Confederate orders
and pass them on word for word to Sherman.
Other women of color freed thousands of slaves,
but his story could not let Tubman be
and she became somebody else.
Two was enough to make me uncomfortable,
but there were others: Marva Collins
home schooled her children into fame
and yet what of Augustine Witt and Barbara Appleberry
and all of the others who did what she did
and gave the credit to everyone else.
His story is his story, personality
of the ones he wants us to know.
Let it go: Without Jo Ann Robinson
there would never have been a Dr. King.
A Crack of Light
By Kenneth Vincent Walker
A crack of light is
All we need to strip
The darkness of its
Mystique, to peel it
Away, to loosen its
Grip, to expose the
Darkness for what it
Is. At the velocity of
Light darkness is cut
Into ribbons thin of
Cascading particles
Of dust sent from the
Heavens by the hand
Of God; a gift for Man
To redirect his passion,
By faith, put into action
The way as it is written.
Shrine of the Blessed Virgin
Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin
Shrine of the Blessed Virgin Mary Still Life,
Montreal, Canada 1963
Rows of votive candles in glass cups ascend
toward heaven, illuminating relics, rooms
where the faithful have cast aside their crutches
and wheelchairs, rediscovering the mysteries of
walking, straightened curved spines and permanently
bent backs, saying the High Mass in Latin as they
come between the plain, worn wooden pews toward
the altar, staggering, lost in a trance, palsied
fingers shaking, reaching out for the hard Shrine
wafers, the Pentecostal wines locked inside a
series of rooms with no windows and no outside
sources of light; outside, the pilgrims ascend
toward the promised land, over the hard stone steps
on their knees, genuflecting, heads bowed in prayer
as they come, black strings of rosary beads clutched
in their left hands, climbing, they leave dark
spots of blood on the worn smooth stone.
Meditation Garden
This is where
I wrote
my first poems
Zen poems
at Omega
a kind of exercise
in faith.
The insects
recall my being here
bearing the disease
of memory
treating all of us here
as if we were
an infection
One by one
we are
released
from sorrow
This is
the purpose
of open
air shrines;
the wind bent
pine limbs
near Buddha's head
The Moon Rising Over St. Hernandez
White crosses lean toward the hard
packed earth, dead faces are contained
behind glass the living use as mirrors
looking inside at the pale reflections
of a world measured by decaying wood walls
and rusted tin roofs, the full moon
attacks, drawing the heat upward
from metal deserts ribbed by sand and
by sirocco. Sculpting mountains
in the mind, the moon rises over
St. Hernandez. Pariah dogs lie down
in the dry, rutted streets too weary
to howl, too afraid of carrion birds
and the cracked bells in an adobe
tower sounding the hour, returning
voices stolen at high noon from
their ancestors hiding among the shadows
cast by used cars dumped among cactus
and grass, too stiff in the sun to move.
The faithful remain unseen, burning
candles for the restless spirits
trapped between two worlds in
St. Hernandez; someone is tuning
a Spanish guitar and someone else
is slicing cheese from a wheel
waiting for the sun but there is
no sun, no light, no new life here
just the moon.
Collage Art Cards: an assemblage
for Steve Dalachinsky, too soon gone
He sent post cards of the hanging
from Desolation Row, trans-
continental railroad dead man riding
snapshots of the ruins taken from low
flying aircrafts, bomb laden blimps
tiny men in swaying gondola dropped
incendiary devices from, imagined the
effects of exploding, post-apocalyptic
hand grenades on the remains of
what passed for Western civilization,
saw the shining path of jazz police,
forged through thickets of riot geared
barricades, bunker breastworks, then set
the lithium battery under growth on
fire using tiki torches and flame throwers,
asked the old testament god where he
wanted the killings done, sharpened
Exacto knife blades on the heads of
graven idol mules and fatted cows,
spoke to the spirit guides in tongues
the way snake handlers and faith healers
do, and learned all the secrets of what
lies inside, the way artists will.
Quiet
Recording
the sounds
of wilderness
becalmed,
Nature un-
adorned;
the more
recorded,
the more
Silence
becomes
Poetry by Michael H. Brownstein
Entrances
When Dorothy reached the door,
she tried to open it. It was locked.
She knocked once, again a third time.
She stood at the doorway, paused,
wondered if she should go back,
thought about the long ride,
the long walk, the golden escalator,
the light at the end of the passageway,
and she looked at the door anew,
the light nowhere to be seen
and she politely asked for assistance.
A voice came from the other side:
Sorry, it said--a man's voice?
A woman's? It sounded like a child.
You have unfinished business.
Take thirty steps back, a door will open,
enter it and you will see what we need.
She thanked the voice, walked thirty paces,
found a door that opened to her touch,
walked inside and listened.
Silence. She turned. Silence.
Then she saw a face she knew.
She understood what had to be done--
She grabbed her hand and said,
I wasn't much of a friend, was I?
No response. How do I fix this?
No response. OK, I get it.
Dorothy took her other hand,
kneeled, and asked for forgiveness.
The woman faded, the door closed,
another person arrived and another.
So many she could not keep count,
but she had faith, she had direction,
and one by one she corrected her mistakes
until the room began to glow,
its surface changing into a garden,
and everywhere she looked,
fresh fruit and freshly baked bread.
She sat down and began to sob
until every tear she shed fell to earth
as raindrops of gold and silver.
Keeping Faith Alive
I cannot explain how this works or that,
but I hear the wind sow psalms through the horizon,
know the shape of clouds tells what is yet to come,
find awe in a muddy stream quilts the prairie grass,
and thank a wet weather waterfall
for telling us peepers will thrive another season.
MY SON TAKES HIS DAUGHTER TO THE SYNAGOGUE
My son and his wife go to the synagogue
The Friday before Rosh Hashana.
After days of heat and humidity, sun stroke,
Sweat, mosquitoes and giant horse flies,
Rain and then more rain, a cold rain, the grass
Slippery, the street a small stream and a pool.
Their three month old baby lays in the car seat
And doesn’t wonder what is going on
During the service. She is quiet and peaceful,
Attentive and thinking. This is now her world
And this is now their world. The Ark is opened,
The congregation rises, the congregation prays,
Bows at the right moment, sits when they are told,
And when the service ends, everyone--my son,
His wife, their baby girl--head to the backroom
For fresh bread and pastries, grapes and chocolate.
Outside it is still raining. Inside everything
Full of honey and the smile of a newborn
Bright as an evening star rising in the north.
The Whiskey Priest
By Joshua Frank
Based on The Power and the Glory by Graham Greene
I stand condemned because I am a priest,
Condemned to die by law here in Tabasco,
But as eight years of memories I’ve pieced,
I see my priesthood’s a complete fiasco,
For, stupidly, when all priests fled oppression,
I stayed down in Tabasco for prestige,
So now there’s no one who can take confession
Or chase the devils who my soul besiege.
Oh, why did I assume that I could stay
When others had the sense to move away?
I cheated on the Church with young María,
A woman who could never be my wife--
No need to search God’s Word like at Berea
To know we stole His fire for making life!
I can’t repent of having made my daughter;
For love of her, I’m headed straight to Hell.
This morning, like a lamb, I face the slaughter--
I’d have more courage if with Christ I’d dwell!
And yet, had I that moment to redo,
For her, I’d sacrifice my soul anew.
I’m damned, for, like a sheep, I’ve gone astray.
My thoughts turn to my daughter; she’ll be seven
And reach the age of reason. God, I pray,
Please help her gain eternity in Heaven!
I weep, because I’m Father to all laymen,
But favor she who’s made from half my genes
With all my love and wish to save—such shame in
Being a priest, ignoring what it means!
As Jacob favored Joseph among his sons,
My heart toward no one but my daughter runs.
I risked my life—for what? The rare Communion,
A few confessions for the village folk.
If I am damned for my illicit union,
Dear Lord, let them be spared the devil’s yoke!
I’m only here because someone requested
I take confession from a dying man,
And quickly turned me in to be arrested
As all along had been his Judas plan!
Perhaps it’s best that such a worm as I
Be sent to prison, all alone to die.
I grab and chug another flask of brandy
With guilt of all the deadly sins received.
I could be richer than a Spanish Grandee
If I had just denied that I believed!
I’d have María and a hefty pension,
My daughter, sons as newest plants in youth,
If I had just succumbed to the pretension
And turned my back forever on the Truth!
My sin annuls the fact that all those days,
For God’s Most Holy Word, I’ve kept hard ways.
I turned a home and family down for nada.
I turned away from God by one grave sin.
I’ve neither now. His angel-saint armada
With flashing, flaming swords won’t let me in,
And as I fly to Jesus, He’ll deny me.
I’ll fall like lightning to the Lake of Fire.
Even the Blessed Virgin won’t stand by me;
I chose to burn in Hell for my desire.
So, chastity is nothing to disparage;
Don’t be like me! Save all those things for marriage.
It soon shall be as if I’d not existed.
I’ll meet God empty-handed, nothing done.
In Heaven’s book, my name will be unlisted.
I’m useless, barely ever helped a one.
A few confessions, endless bad example,
Ignoble death—this legacy I leave.
Eight years to serve my fellow man was ample--
How easy sanctity was to achieve!
In doing good I had too much restraint,
Yet all that counted was to be a saint.
God’s Finger on Whittaker Chambers
By Joshua Frank
Based on Witness by Whittaker Chambers
My baby miracle so dear
Smeared oatmeal on her face;
I saw her perfect seashell ear,
Curving like a vase,
The pinkest little fiddlehead,
In spiral like a scroll.
How could blind chance, inert and dead,
Make such a pretty bowl?
My little Ellen is my heart
That crawls in human shape.
How could this masterpiece of art
Be just a baby ape,
Just random carbon molecules
Assembled here by chance?
Such bland beliefs are fit for fools,
I gathered at a glance.
This bubbled up against my will;
I shooed the thought away.
Such anti-Communistic swill
Could lead me far astray.
For if her ear was by design,
Then Who was the Designer?
Design must mean a Hand Divine;
No other hand is finer.
Through all that time, the thought remained
As little Ellen grew.
My faith in Godlessness grew strained;
God slowly changed my view
Through Ellen’s ear, which He designed,
And now the angels sing--
I left the Communists behind;
I follow Christ my King.
Let There Be Light
By Joshua Frank
A friend put forward that I write
Of light that flashes at conception,
Of fireworks when genes unite
In the woman’s body, out of sight,
And God decrees, “Let there be light!”
And greets His child with great reception,
And the zygote’s surface flashes white
In space that’s darker far than night.
My friend turned out not to be right,
Fell victim to a science deception.
Yet still, God sets each soul alight
And in all His children takes delight.
Three Poems by Mykyta Ryzhykh
Snake catchers
Snake catchers are proud of their work
The jungle is the birthplace of dangers
This is what snake phantom pain looks like
Fingers trying to feel the wind
Rusty leaves tickle the belly
Laughter turns into intimidation of the enemy
Deceitful fangs threaten with poison that actually does not exist
The gaze searches for a house that no longer exists
Baby
A baby in a cradle screams near the church of the forest
The Magi are afraid to go into Dante's void
Mother jailed for attempting abortion
The baby is alive but there is no one to take care of him
The hermetic madness of the future Jesus
To suffer because you will not be crucified.
Maker
A child makes snow from bread crumbs
The rusty eyes of the grass are still green
A child creates dreams
Dreams shape a child
Mykyta Ryzhykh
Winner of the international competition Art Against Drugs and Ukrainian contests Vytoky, Shoduarivska Altanka, Khortytsky dzvony; laureate of the literary competition named after Tyutyunnik, Lyceum, Twelve, named after Dragomoshchenko. Finalist of the Crimean ginger competition. Nominated for Pushcart Prize. Published many times in the journals Dzvin, Dnipro, Bukovinian magazine, Polutona, Rechport, Topos, Articulation, Formaslov, Literature Factory, Literary Chernihiv, Tipton Poetry Journal, Stone Poetry Journal, Divot journal, dyst journal, Superpresent Magazine, Allegro Poetry Magazine, Alternate Route, Better Than Starbucks Poetry & Fiction Journal, Littoral Press, Book of Matches, on the portals Litсenter, Ice Floe Press and Soloneba, in the Ukrainian literary newspaper.
Three Poems by Alex Andy Phuong
Thankfully Faithful
Humbleness and humility
Living with sincerity
Having the audacity
To display authenticity
By coping with reality
And contributing to society
While respecting the boundaries
Of proper propriety,
And faith in miracles
Through personal belief
Really could result
In anything wonderful
With no need for grief
For it really is
A hopeful relief
When striving to soar high
Rather than fear
The mystery beneath
Fear and doubt
For that is what
Life is all about
A Pledge of Good Faith
Faith and trust
Are absolutely a must
As well as
Being noble and just,
And even if the ends
Justify the means,
There is actually no reason
To be so mean,
So be reasonable
And believe
In the power of being good,
Even if it means
Just helping around the neighborhood,
Especially since faith
Is a way to believe
In understanding
How to relieve
The burdens that plague humanity
So that the mind
Could be a rest
While striving to be
At a personal best
Faith in Something Higher
Having faith
Includes both the heavenly
And atrocity,
But even with the burn,
The willingness to learn
Allows for the earning
Of knowledge and understanding,
And even if real life
Appears demanding,
Dare to become
The last person standing
To demonstrate the power
Of the human spirit,
And then lift oneself off the ground
As a way to become found
So that the sound
Of natural wonder
Could make people ponder
The purpose of being alive,
And then choose to thrive
Rather than just survive,
And soar like never before
Through fiery passion
And personal determination
Sherlock Holmes
By Mike Mesterton-Gibbons
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had learned to hate
His own creation, Sherlock Holmes, whose fame
Eclipsed the works the literary great
Regarded as more worthy of acclaim,
Like Poison Belt, White Company and lots
Of other highbrow novels few had read.
Could Holmes be made to fade? Sir Arthur's plots
Killed Holmes in Switzerland. So far, so dead ...
However, two years later, Holmes wore tweed
On Baker Street again: he had been spared
Lethality by fans who yearned to read
More ace detective stories. No one cared
Especially for Arthur's other tomes ...
Sir Arthur should have loved his Sherlock Holmes!
I Spy (With My Little Eye)
By Kenneth Vincent Walker
I spy with my little
Eye something gone
Awry in this world of
Mine. Secrecy and
Clandestine meetings
Have now come to
The forefront, out from
Behind closed doors,
Out of the shadows
Onto the main stage
Floor. You may choose
To ignore the facts but
They wreak of espionage;
Cyanide tabs, chloroform
And heart attacks leaving
Behind trace remnants,
Tracks, that behooves one
To explore all the evidence
Which tells a sordid tale
Behind crime scene tape,
Spent casings and blood
Spattered walls dripping.
Lady Scammer
By K.A. Williams
I was targeted for a
scam earlier today.
In the parking lot a woman
with a dog walked my way.
"There's a reward for this dog
I found," she said to me.
With one free hand she showed
me her cell phone photo - "See?"
The dog's picture with '100 REWARD' showed on the screen.
"I really need money for my
prescription for codeine."
"We can split the reward if
you'll give me fifty now.
You keep the dog." Warily
I eyed the small chow.
Just then a man came toward us
and said, "Ladies, that's my dog.
She got unhooked from her leash
while we were out on a jog."
I said, "Why don't you show him
the photo on your phone?"
She mutely handed him the dog
knowing her scam was blown.
"She tried to scam me," I said
to him as she hurried away.
"I hate scammers," he said.
"I'm a cop but I'm off today."
"Hold my dog and I'll see if
there's something I can do."
He handed me the dog and
headed off to pursue.
I followed quickly and caught
up with them both at her car.
"I'm a cop and you're in trouble,"
he said. "Indeed you are."
"I don't see a handicap
placard or plate anyplace,
but your car is parked in a
handicap parking space."
He handed her a ticket - "It's
a two hundred dollar fine,
and I strongly suggest you
pay it by the deadline."
"I'm not paying this," she said,
and tore the ticket in two.
"I'm leaving right now and
there's not a thing you can do."
He stood behind her red car
and pulled out his cell phone.
"This is Troy and I need a
tow truck at Fifth and Keystone."
"You'll see the red car in the
handicap parking spaces,
and send a detective who's
working any scam cases."
If she had run off she wouldn't
have gotten very far.
She just stared sulkily at the
cop and stayed by her car.
Soon the tow truck and an
unmarked police car rolled in,
and Troy greeted the
detective inside with a grin.
They both parked their vehicles
and came over to us.
"I'm Detective Barnes, unlock
your car door, don't make a fuss."
She hesitated for a moment,
then did as he said.
Her sullen demeanor had
changed to one of pure dread.
"There have been reports of
a female scammer in this place,"
Detective Barnes said as her car
was towed from its space.
I handed Troy his dog that I'd
been holding all the while.
"You could be asked to testify
if this case goes to trial."
So I gave Troy a name and
address, only not mine.
"But this was my first time,"
I could hear the woman whine.
I could see the detective
didn't believe her tale,
as he put her in his car
to take her to city jail.
She was such a dumb scammer
she deserved what she got,
and now I would have to
find me a new parking lot.
Murder Among the Orientals
Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin
In a Lonely Place
“You know the old proverb: caught together, hanged together.”
Phillip Kerr
Life for him had become a kind of
slow sleepwalking event, a strolling
out into the dark: physically active
but mentally unengaged. What he
was doing had become an unreliable
narrative whose main characters thinks
a Neighborhood Watch meant high
powered binoculars and telescopic
lenses for spying, Peeping Tom style,
on others. Thought of police call radio
transmissions and dispatcher highlight
reels and job descriptions, as easy listening,
especially the white noise and static in
between incident reports, crime status
updates of felonies in progress and graphic
car crash descriptions. Frequented all
night bars with six AM happy hours
for graveyard shift works, off duty
detectives and beat cops, hospital workers:
nurses and doctors who never need sleep
but always need bracers, cocktails to level
off the high-speed zones, they have been
operating in. Looks as if he’d spent the last
twelve years of his life running numbers in
high risk areas and had all the scars to
prove it. Looked and felt right at home
among all the professional travelers with
Nighttown life styles. Blended in with all
the lost souls of life at the low end of nowhere,
one among many who shied away from
the light. If he ever fell asleep, he would
wake up screaming, assaulted by all the dead
men and women in his dreams, people just
like himself, who’d never known what it was
like to live.
Martha Washington Hotel for Women, New York, N.Y. 1986
Sealed inside this airless room for three
months is a nightmare of living.
Detective Garrity of Midtown Manhattan,
"The Busiest Precinct in the World",
said, "You might find the room a bit of a mess."
Piles of rummage sale reject clothes,
overturned drawers, paper bags of the
incomprehensible: unmatched keys,
cigarette butts, crumpled foil packets,
emptied cat food containers, dried cockroaches,
inessentials like checkbooks, passbook savings
receipts, Social Security cards in several
different names and DOB's lay among
the religious tracts and travel brochures
to a hundred different countries she didn't
believe in. Her notes revealed that we
were in a simulacrum world of planets X,
Y and Z of which this one was unclear.
One thing was certain: we would never die
in this life because this is the life we live in
after death. It must have come as a real shock to
her when the real end happened. I tried opening
a window, sealed by 75 years of dirt and grime
to let oppression out but failed. I watched
the unreal figures five floors below
on 30 East 30th Street through a space
she had cleaned in the grime to see through.
Femme Fatale
You could meet one anywhere:
a lounge, maybe. Where she stands
leaning on the bar, one foot on the rail,
bright red dress slit up the thigh,
showing a lot of leg like Kathleen Turner,
before the weight gain, ranking up the body heat.
Or she could walk into your detective agency
to report a missing husband in Act One,
who would turn up dead by Act Three
and a whole labyrinth of graft, corruption
and murder would be revealed by Act Five
like the insides of a cadaver used in an
anatomy lesson, and the woman who had
the most to lose, whom you loved, would be dead
at the wheel of a convertible while you
watch, unable to prevent what must happen next.
Or she could be a seductress who killed,
not so much for pleasure but for profit:
is a black widow in an off-the-shoulder dress
who could deflect even the most moral man
from his sense of right and wrong.
Part Veronica Lake, part Mary Astor,
part a blonde Rita Hayworth, holding a gun
she won’t be afraid to use in a hall of mirrors
like some demented Lady from Shanghai
on a kill or, to be killed, mission.
Or she is the wife of a short order cook
in a diner on the edge of some Death Valley
desert and she, like all the others, wants her
husband dead, and before you know what
happened, you are caught in a honey trap
with the murder weapon in hand, and there’s
no way out, and you think, “I’m in hell now,
but it was a long, wonderful road to paradise
getting there.”
Murder Among the Orientals
Charlie Chan and one of his,
very Chinese American born,
native sons, would have solved
the mystery in a trice or three black
and white reels of thirty minutes each,
or whichever came first.
Maybe he thought if he dressed up
like a latter-day Confucian, let his
finger nails grow as long as Howard Hughes’,
and spoke in fortune cookie phrases that
suggested something profound but were
really vague and meaningless, he would
become an ace detective, world famous,
much sought after, and able to command
high fees.
That the actor who played Charlie was named
Howard Toler and didn’t have a drop of
Chinese blood in his lineage all the way
back to before Buddha, only encouraged
his fantasies.
“I mean if he could do it, why not me?”
Forgetting you actually might have to know
what you were doing and that Charlie was
a made-up person, like fictional, and that
all things were possible when you were
a creation of someone’s imagination.
Lost Girl
for Karen Wilson
& Suzanne Lyall MIA
Her face didn't belong
on every telephone pole
or store window in a
twenty-mile radius of
the Uptown Campus
but neither had the other
one’s, who disappeared
much the same way exactly
thirteen years before.
The cops were saying
there wasn't any connection
between the two,
that their getting gone,
to the day, was an awful
coincidence, that thirteen
was an unlucky number,
which no one would deny.
Every time I turned toward
the register to record a sale,
I couldn't help recalling
what detectives had told me
on the QT years before.
That this guy was a sicko,
and it was a guy,
And he was very smart,
and he had probably
left the area, but
he would be back.
Looking at Suzanne's
face every day for
two long months
I knew that what they
had been saying
was right, but who
could I tell?
Post Card to Thompson
Dec. 13: T Monk
I wrote a poem once called
Self- Portrait of the Artist with Thelonious Monk.
Everyone who read it,
quite understandably,
thought it was about the jazz pianist.
In fact, the inspiration came from
a book jacket/ author portrait,
of one of America's greatest,
prolific, virtually unknown, brilliant writers,
Percival Everett, with one of his mules
who he named Thelonious Monk.
Everett used to
raise mules, I don't know if he still does,
but it is clear, from the snap he dug that mule.
Maybe as much as the man's music.
You'd have to ask him. Everett that is.
He probably would appreciate
the sleight of hand trick with the title,
given how he is a master of
narrative sleights himself.
Especially in his novel,
Assumption, which begins with a cop
investigating a murder,
with the typical detective point of view.
Everett misleads you to think he is a good,
hard working, dedicated cop,
an assumption you probably shouldn't make,
as in, you fucked up (to paraphrase Animal House)
you trusted the author.
Turns out the cop killed the babe
and took the drugs.
He was a thorough going bastard.
Totally unlike what you were
led to believe early on.
I wrote the poem prior to reading
Assumption. I feel as if Everett and I
were kindred souls on
the subject of Point of View.
After all point of view really is everything.
I must confess, by the time
I finished Assumption,
I was saying damn you Percival Everett.
You cheated. But did he, really?
Poems by Alex Andy Phuong
Reflective Detective
Searching for an answer
To a mystery
Doing anything
To cope with reality
Solving a riddle
Without being stuck in the middle
Realize the truth
Beneath a disguise
Being reflective
While playing the role
Of a detective
Literary and cinematic
Unique character
Attempt to solve and resolve
To uncover and discover
A perceptive perspective
Beneath the Disguise of Spies
Figurative figure
Figuring out a mystery
Attempting to live
With authenticity,
And even if some mysteries
Never find a solution,
Realize the beauty
Beneath a disguise,
And then do more
Than one would ever realize,
And see the reality
Of living life
Rather than worry over
Any form of strife
Solve and Resolve
Mysteries full of secrecy
Can hide the truth
That defines reality,
And as detectives and spies
Attempt to discover
The solution to a crime,
Also try to ponder and wonder
About the beauty of the sublime,
While also knowing
How reality is subjective,
So be reflective
And have a positive perspective,
And then see how to make the world
A better home for all
For the mystery of living
Could just be as simple
As simply being
A human being
The Beauty of Unity
By Alex Andy Phuong
Knowing why the caged bird sings
Is very different from Marilyn Monroe’s diamond rings,
And even if diamonds are a girl’s best friend,
Some friendships turn to love
While others fade away,
And yet today is the only day,
So have a choice to lend one’s voice
To wake up and say
That today will be a great day
With the decision to cope with reality
And respect proper propriety,
For the manners that people must follow
Could allow for a more civil society,
And social commentary is essential
To remind people of the fundamental
Aspects of real life
That could allow people
To finally make use of the present, moment
Rather than dwell and lament,
And make time well-spent
By spending it in a way
That will allow our many voices to speak
So that voices could hopefully result in rational choices
Every day of every week
To finally help the meek seek what they truly need
Rather than succumb to selfish greed
To form a state of unity full of elegant beauty.
United State
By Alex Andy Phuong
A state of being
A way of living
Along with the choice
To lend a voice,
And find a way
To use today
To spread liberty
Across the land
While offering
A helping hand,
And choosing to care
For one another
Can create a
Sense of civility
Unlike any other,
Especially since
Striving for more
Can unlock the mysteries
Behind hidden doors,
And while no one knows for sure
What life has in store,
Simply find a way
To uphold dreams
Full of wonders to behold
To form a life that could be
A narrative that is truly bold
And pure as gold
With enduring lessons
That must be told
Unite with No Need to Fight
By Alex Andy Phuong
Transcend to amend
Chaotic disorder,
And organize
To realize
The calmness of peace,
And release
The pain that comes
From resentment,
For there really is
No need to lament,
And then choose
To spend time and money wisely
By budgeting accordingly,
And then know
That there is no need to fight,
Especially since violence
Is never an ideal solution
To problems that arise,
And instead,
Live with sincerity
Rather than
Hide beneath a disguise,
And then celebrate
With a sense of unity
Along with the acknowledgment
Of the beauty of diversity
For the world is full
Of color and splendor
That make life itself
A story full of wonder
Meerkat Society
By Mike Mesterton-Gibbons
Majestic eagles soaring in the sky
Eat lunch by swooping down to catch their prey,
Except if there's a meerkat standing by,
Resolved to warn all others: hide away!
Known far and wide for working as a team,
A meerkat gang takes turns at every chore.
Togetherness is how they stand supreme.
Supporting kith and kin's what they live for ...
Once also our own species, humankind,
Cooperated more along life's road.
I hope we can rebuild those ties that bind,
Embracing what defines the meerkat code:
That since divided you are bound to fall,
You live as all for one, and one for all!
(First published in Grand Little Things)
Poetic Trilogy by Joshua Frank
The Campfire Sing-Along
Four families sit down in a circle at camp
By pines lit by sky white with stars and a fire
And, one by one, people start singing along
When one of the fathers picks up his guitar.
The children, excited to hear the guitar,
Will always remember that night in the camp
When all of the families were singing along
As one single voice that encircled the fire.
The logs turn to ash; night is fading the fire.
They stop one by one, with detuning guitar
And voices too tired for singing along,
And children get carried to tents in the camp.
The fire put out, all are plodding along
In the camp, with their minds filled with song and guitar.
Synesthesia
The violin plays shades of blues
The viola moans its tones of oak
The cello hums rich autumn hues
The colors rise in curves like smoke
The piano plucks its bubble notes
Myriad colors float and pop
Each horn, an orange circle floats
The flutes shoot out their dark blue dots
The circles vibrate till they stop
Harmonious colors fill my thoughts
Walking by a Baseball Game
While walking by a baseball game,
I heard the National Anthem play.
Though toward my homeland I feel shame
That God and good are cast away,
I stopped, removed my hat, and placed
My right hand on my chest, my heart.
I bowed my head, and down I faced
Till past the Anthem’s final part.
I hate my country’s wicked ways;
Despite this fact, my heart, I knew,
Still would, until my final days,
Beat true for red and white and blue.
This reverence came as a surprise,
But love of country never dies.
Poetic Trilogy by Richelle Lee Slota
The Argument
Anna McAllister brought Buckshot his lunch at 3 a.m.,
working graveyard shift at the sewage treatment plant.
His arm around her, he radioed the back-half
operator, after front-half checks, where he’d be
working on some trouble he was having.
Buckshot laughed with Anna: “Now I got this great job,
Let’s pay down the damned credit cards
and try for a baby. I gotta a warm shine feeling
and I ain’t even had a snort. Have a little party,
you and me. Pluck the damned rooster for dinner,
unless you want rabbit.” Anna shook her head no.
“I’m worried about my mountain man taking this
city job. What’s it gonna do to your soul?”
Warming to old arguments and love,
he laid their blanket, thermos and sandwiches
on the steel floor of the unfinished diversion tank.
Anna stood his flashlight against the wall
capped with a Dixie cup, throwing their gestures
up the curved steel sides, all the gauges reading zero,
the top open to the stars.
Afterward, they ate, slouched, touching back-to-back,
looking up at the sky. Buckshot talked softly
about the tank’s hydraulics, how, no matter what
she thought of him, and no matter what
the gauges said, this night would always fill it.
Monday Morning
As I get up she moves over
into my warm depression.
Blue pants, blue shirt, blue socks.
In the mirror all that’s old.
In the kitchen fix the lunch.
An apple or an orange? An apple.
Search for the easy bologna,
a block of cheddar. Cut to the heart.
Sharp. Put it on pumpernickel.
Next, breakfast cold.
Willie comes in,
climbs my lap in silence,
helps finish the cereal,
follows into the bathroom,
pees while I shave,
carries my sack lunch to the door--
everything I need.
The Chicken Barn
The night we moved in the chicken barn, storms
shook the roof, and the wood stove wouldn’t light.
You decided where the bedroom would be.
Next day we scrubbed the buckled floorboards grey,
We put in electricity, blew out the neighbor’s lights.
The worst place we ever lived, cheap food tasted expensive,
a grey and white horse no one rode was our friend,
and all the homeless chickens. How much privacy.
The dark outside the door, the light within.
Poems by Junaid Shah Shabir
Do You Miss Me?
Out of those bushy woods, that are green as my memory, and
overgrown like your irrationality, you were always waiting
for me to emerge and walk to you,
——do you remember?
Under the summer sun, that was dazzling as my love, and
hot like your conspicuous thought, you were stealing glances
at me from the corner of your eye,
——do you remember?
Amid that academic stress, though not as nerve-racking as your
perfidy, that had blurred your days and nights, you would
only feel you when you were with me,
——do you remember?
Tired of preparing those lab reports, which required slicing of
a parrot’s brain— after the bird had been slain, you would
only like to read the poems I wrote,
——do you remember?
That moment when you lost yourself completely in me, like the track
of time would be lost by both of us when we were together, you
cried and thanked me for finding you,
——do you remember?
The evening when we lay down under the open sky, I reminded
you that we are peeping into the past when we see the stars, and you asked
if we could somehow look into the future and see our little cottage in
some woods by a stream,
——do you remember?
Now, when you sit outside in the sun and your sight falls on those
bushes by your house or you wonder at the stars from your deck,
or just want to get lost in someone again,
——do you miss me?
Mayhem
When the richest nations come together to bomb
some of the poorest people on earth
for their crime of standing up for some of
the most downtrodden people in the world;
When some shipping containers call for joint action to strike
while the churches, schools, hospitals, refugee
camps and homes of Gaza never bat an eye;
When the wholesale slaughter of mankind is patronaged by some
powerful leaders in the world who are made to dance to a tune
played remotely some thousands of miles away;
When your fellow countrymen sleep
on open streets in sub-zero temperatures, and women
are forced to drop their babies before they are born,
but you must pay for the wars you don’t want;
When you enjoy your dinner minutes before
you feel sad for the mothers butchered, and
the children torn to pieces;
When Jesus lies under the rubble in Bethlehem, but
you must celebrate your Christmas anyway;
When the new year brings nothing new to the people helpless,
yet for the firecrackers, you must spend money countless;
Humanity, my dear, has died an artificial death, and
you have turned into a robot programmed to work
for the magnate to get richer and annihilate the poorer.
Fuck Privacy, She lives in Me
The unlock PIN of my laptop is still
the day of the month in the year
I met her.
If it happens--
I drop my
laptop and she finds it,
She will have access to
everything I have saved.
But what do I care about the dry academic papers
being seen by someone who dwells in
the basement of my heart!
One who has settled in the whisper of my thought,
and to whom I make myself vulnerable through my frailty.
What are electronic folders and documents when
one has loitered through my dreams
so many,
— and knows my fears all!
She is aware of my idiosyncrasies and trespasses
into my thoughts and memories.
Let my laptop be lost and then found by her,
She will find herself permeating the poems
that I write for her.
Author’s Bio:
Junaid Shah Shabir is a PhD literature scholar at The University of Texas at Dallas, USA. He is a fiction writer as well and enjoys writing traditional Ghazals in English. So far, his works have
appeared in Life Writing Taylor & Francis Online, Asiatic: IIUM Journal of English Language and Literature, Jaggery: A DesiLit Arts and Literature Journal, CLRI, Criterion, IJOES, Red Fern Review, etc.
A Light That Unifies Darkness
By Michael H. Brownstein
the moon reflects itself in the dark,
a white lit shadow as if the sky were a body of water,
perhaps a simple mirror.
Both parts--moon and reflection--
hang for a bit to the west
and then somehow come together as they head south.
Poems
By James B. Nicola
One to Another
It’s not that I’m nobody, but nowhere.
That makes me everybody here, to me.
If you were here you’d take up half my share;
But I’d be grateful for the company.
One and the Same
A day in downtown Worcester, Massachusetts
Superb and supine paper cuts, 21st-century,
incisions of a moment's inspiration,
beckoned from one glass showcase in the same room
as, opposite, the standing ancient jade gleamed.
Simple yet byzantine,
a whole world out of one bright mat of red,
or one matte block of green. In other cases,
lapis lazuli, turquoise, alabaster,
agate, ivory, red-brown carnelian,
all polished, pure though textured, like perfection.
The Chinese, Japanese, and Medieval
rooms, like a blow directly to my brain,
blared the refrain of how the world was made, all from one piece:
a rooster or a rabbit, then
a family at their loom,
a countryside with trees, beasts, populations,
a cosmos out of chaos, every piece,
in two dimensions or an upright three
carved or cut,
concocted by caprice,
the undeniable oneness of each all,
the silent secret,
a clarion call.
After the museum I went down
to Southbridge Street, to the Coney Island sign
so big that it would fit as well in Brooklyn
as in the heart of my old commonwealth.
There, frankfurts, ketchup, mustard, buns and chili
were turning quickly into all of us,
as jade turned into pilgrims, saints and hills,
all Red Sox caps and roly-poly parents
all toting trays and sodas to our seats
all joshing with Worcester’s own broad patois.
After my chili dogs I bused my tray
and others. A small boy, another fan,
did likewise for the tables on his side
of the room. Our paths intersected at
the garbage station. Neither of us wore
our caps indoors (we were the only two).
Good dogs, I said. —The worst. I laughed. —I know,
I smother mine with chili. —I like onions.
That’s all we said. It was enough, though, to
remind me that there was a difference
if only in our ages, spices, toppings.
originally published in Out of Nothing: Poems of Art and Artists (2018),
Shanti Arts, Maine
One Thing We Might Do About It
Let's all take Trayvon as a middle name.
Then there would not be one Trayvon less in
the world, but more. Many more. Do the same
with Matthew Shepard's name. Let's champion
the slain. Let's teach the next generation
to choose someone to whom justice has been
denied—life been denied. At twenty-one
or eighteen, let's take their name, so the sin
unanswered hear our answer. Take on two,
three, five, as if each were a relative--
they were!—or ancestor or saint. And who
can say they would not have become one? You?
Let someone with the name of Trayvon live.
It's not much, but is one thing we can do.
originally published in Refractions, 2020
By James B. Nicola
One to Another
It’s not that I’m nobody, but nowhere.
That makes me everybody here, to me.
If you were here you’d take up half my share;
But I’d be grateful for the company.
One and the Same
A day in downtown Worcester, Massachusetts
Superb and supine paper cuts, 21st-century,
incisions of a moment's inspiration,
beckoned from one glass showcase in the same room
as, opposite, the standing ancient jade gleamed.
Simple yet byzantine,
a whole world out of one bright mat of red,
or one matte block of green. In other cases,
lapis lazuli, turquoise, alabaster,
agate, ivory, red-brown carnelian,
all polished, pure though textured, like perfection.
The Chinese, Japanese, and Medieval
rooms, like a blow directly to my brain,
blared the refrain of how the world was made, all from one piece:
a rooster or a rabbit, then
a family at their loom,
a countryside with trees, beasts, populations,
a cosmos out of chaos, every piece,
in two dimensions or an upright three
carved or cut,
concocted by caprice,
the undeniable oneness of each all,
the silent secret,
a clarion call.
After the museum I went down
to Southbridge Street, to the Coney Island sign
so big that it would fit as well in Brooklyn
as in the heart of my old commonwealth.
There, frankfurts, ketchup, mustard, buns and chili
were turning quickly into all of us,
as jade turned into pilgrims, saints and hills,
all Red Sox caps and roly-poly parents
all toting trays and sodas to our seats
all joshing with Worcester’s own broad patois.
After my chili dogs I bused my tray
and others. A small boy, another fan,
did likewise for the tables on his side
of the room. Our paths intersected at
the garbage station. Neither of us wore
our caps indoors (we were the only two).
Good dogs, I said. —The worst. I laughed. —I know,
I smother mine with chili. —I like onions.
That’s all we said. It was enough, though, to
remind me that there was a difference
if only in our ages, spices, toppings.
originally published in Out of Nothing: Poems of Art and Artists (2018),
Shanti Arts, Maine
One Thing We Might Do About It
Let's all take Trayvon as a middle name.
Then there would not be one Trayvon less in
the world, but more. Many more. Do the same
with Matthew Shepard's name. Let's champion
the slain. Let's teach the next generation
to choose someone to whom justice has been
denied—life been denied. At twenty-one
or eighteen, let's take their name, so the sin
unanswered hear our answer. Take on two,
three, five, as if each were a relative--
they were!—or ancestor or saint. And who
can say they would not have become one? You?
Let someone with the name of Trayvon live.
It's not much, but is one thing we can do.
originally published in Refractions, 2020
Onto Raising Helen
By Kenneth Vincent Walker
The face that launched
A thousand ships, that
Personified beauty and
Elegance, enhanced at
A glance that it drips in
An acquiescent trance.
The face that bore the
Souls of many driven to
War’s carnage of plenty.
Regarding cowardice the
Penalty has always been
Swift and unrelenting in
The ancient world with
No circumventing the
Certainty of a painfully
Excruciating demise;
Yet for her extraordinary
Beauty were the devout
Who sacrificed their lives.
Postcards from Your Dream Dates
Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin
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.”
The Ten Foot Drop
This where the beautiful people
came, the Euro trash, debutants
who slept with bad musicians in
second rate bands and bragged about
it after; the actors with no parts,
TV producers with no new series
credits, almost familiar faces best known
for stuff no one talked about; the failed
derivative artists, focus groups for
aspirants to be among the rich and
the revered soon to be the beautiful
and the damned, the naked and the dead;
free verse beaten poets of a new lost
generation that can no longer read;
grade B actresses trying to move up
a level from starring beneath some of
the best in business, moving from hard core,
to soft, and back again, too old for roles
they once craved; child actors with morals
charges pending, two stints in rehab,
another soon to come. This is where
they hook up, where a dealer is assumed
to supply designer drugs, not the person
who sells your Art, an agent, someone
who procures, a pimp with another name,
this is where they dance, ear drum busting
music forbidding conversation, like the movie
“The Hunger’ the only elements missing
some punk dude in a blue lit cage singing,
“Undead, Undead, Undead….”
and the high classed, blood sucking creatures
of the night, and this is where all the light
is artificial, overhead, illuminating faces
plaster cast or waxed, masks sliding free from
their foundations, flashing: red, blue, green,
yellow, undead, undead, undead.
William Randolph Hurst’s San Simeon Blues
like the ladies in the 'loo' with
Marion Davies, where the social
club goers could meet and drink
undisturbed, undetected, pulling on
pints of hard whiskey hidden in
toilet tanks, swapping tales of sexual
exploits, lover's quarrels, illegal
back-room abortions, initiating the neophytes
in games adults play. Like the masquerade
parties the beautiful people structured
around a theme for the occasion
of a sophisticated debauch, not so much
a Roman orgy as a Midsummer's Night Dream
party, Marion the mistress of impersonation,
playing the role of the wife lost in
an Arcadian fantasy someone else was
unmaking. Like a dream of an unfinished
Xanadu, a perfect world ending in a New
raw Deal managed by Stalin's president FDR,
a man with the effrontery to demand a taxing
of the rich for a redistribution to the poor,
for unionized labor and an ending to
the yellow journalism, all the paper dreams
of wealth and fantasy had built foundations on.
Inside San Simeon, incomplete, the last
picture show, privately screened, is
a silent one.
High School Hell Year 1967
for JA RIP
The family went all to hell
and no one saw it coming,
least of all, her, said her
best friend's man before he
electrocuted himself in a
freaky accident. That didn't
make her any less stressed
spending 90 minutes every day
listening to her get hysterical
on the phone or in the halls
around school. “I'm not one
of the beautiful people,”
she said, ”but I'm tough
and I can take it but
I'm sick of getting pushed up
against I don't know what…”
Which eventually turned out
to be several cases of beer,
skinny dipping a warm spring,
freshman year of college after
noon, drying off in the to
the floor GTO, listening to top
40 hits in the dull grey areas
just before dawn when the lanes
change unexpectedly and
everything that happens thereafter
comes in low and fast and head on.
Post Card to David Thompson on New Year's Eve 2018
Beautiful people. What was it Zappa said about Beautiful People? "Beautiful People, what a drag." If it wasn't him it could have been. They look so smug, so hormone infused, it's enough to make you puke. Look as if they'd just emerged from the cloakroom and didn't get their clothes back together right. Or exchanged items. On purpose. And like, who really cared?
The guy so convincing, later, in "Milk" as a
gay guy and the woman as mass murdering
former hooker. Makes you wonder.
Brings me back to being sick unto death of the beautiful and the damned long before I was out of my 20's, long before I knew better about, well just about everything....
Entertainers, all of them stayed in the hotel I was working in. They blend together as one huge amorphous blob of nada. All except Engelburt Humpadick. I got to deny him service. What a thrill that was. He ordered a round of bubbly for his new friends. I was unimpressed, said, "It's past time, The bar's closed.” I'll bet no one ever said that to him before. Or ever again. There would be others I’d diss, of course. But he was the first and the most satisfying. You always remember your first.
"
"HI DIMETRODON!"
By Daniel de Culla
At the Dinos exhibition
The child, the children, my children
Want to reach for Dimetrodon.
Although they know these no longer exist
Because they are prehistoric
One child has taken a rod
Another has picked a flower.
"Dad, Mom!
I want to give it to Dimetrodon
To play with me!"
And I gave it to Dimetrodon.
"When we go out for a walk at night
And come to haunt
The shooting stars
With the castanets
With the mortar
And the tambourine
Makes the moon ring,"
The prettiest boy says.
They are leaving the tent
Already leaving
More than four dinosaurs
Remaining alone and crying.
A Scarlett Southern Belle
By Alex Andy Phuong
Hester Prynne rhymes with sin,
And the scarlet letter is a mark of shame,
But when it comes to the game
Of surviving a war,
Vivien Leigh won Oscar gold
In one of the most epic stories ever told,
And within American drama,
Being Blanche DuBois,
A frail English teacher,
Made Leigh strike gold again
Long after the California gold rush,
And even though this
Delusional and dysfunctional character
Depended on the kindness of strangers,
Vivien Leigh was no stranger
To cinematic audiences,
For all that she did
For the art of filmmaking
Resulted in high-caliber performances
That were truly breathtaking
Advent Calendar
An Acrostic Sonnet by Mike Mesterton-Gibbons
Anticipating scenes behind a door
Denotes December. 'Tis the month when we
View advent calendars, with twenty-four
Emerging symbols of festivity.
Not needing cash, our calendar is still
The antidote to living costs, whose rise
Can dampen Christmas spirit if a bill
Arrives; our calendar still mollifies
Lean years. Though opened many times before,
Each door surprises us anew this year:
Noel lights, holly, sleigh rides, choirs and more
Delight us when again they reappear--
An Advent calendar's simplicity
Reminding us that Christmas spirit's free!
DREAMS
By Galen Cunningham
In my dreams I am always reaching the venue
before the band, the café before it is open,
and the movie before the date has been set.
And when I get there, I wait long enough
to realize I am far too early and must depart.
Never do I see the band, people, or date;
but in my dreams, I walk towards them with
the certainty that I will find what I came for.
So, I stroll and wait in my dreams for anyone,
and everyone, but content with finding no one;
as I know in my heart of hearts that it’s only
the Dreamer of Dreams I’ve come to meet,
before I must wake up and see if he has delivered
on any of the promises he made so long ago.
MEAD OF POETRY
By Galen Cunningham
The wind that pushes the moon
Against sides of the sea,
Tossed me across the world,
And forced me to swim North.
It carried me to a wooden seat,
Emptied me of dark briny sea,
Then plied me with bread, meat,
And the mead of poetry.
Great flocks of ravens
Covered the sky in darkness.
Six drunken dwarves
Laughed at me from a wharf
made of ash and letting go.
But the wind that pushes the moon
Against the sides of the sea,
Scattered the ravens;
Blew the pants off the dwarfs;
And pushed me up ahead.
When I get North of Heaven and Earth,
Every terror of the air will gather o’er me,
And guzzling our Mead,
Together, we’ll raise a chant,
As the wind pulls poems from our mouths.
FEATHER
By Galen Cunningham
When the night ends to reveal what nestled
Around the lovers in their damp twigged bed,
And what it meant to their freedom,
She will turn, and without speaking,
Fly to where the trees are huge,
And the sky, always fragrant and blue.
Someplace warm but fair (probably Spain).
Once he has put away his mourning dove moans,
Trades poetry for hard and true work,
He’ll build a latter to the heavens, climb it,
And see, how always viewing thing from below,
Skewes the vision. Then, with paper wings,
New resolve to wider vision, will descend
To some fair land (probably France).
Then he’ll see partly into what obscures
Those lovers nesting only to fly;
Whose sole rest lies on the air of the wind--
Who long for neither Heaven, Earth, nor the love
That sits below those going above--
That are only satisfied by the enchanting idea
Of sweeping up the past and flying off.
II
From river Bidassoa flows an estuary dividing
Spain and France—changing every six months--
And there they’ll meet again, in Ile des Faisanas,
Isla De los Faisanes, Pheasant Island;
Though none can tell what feathers they’ll have,
Who they will then be, or if the Treaty of Pyrenees
Shall benefit them; only that they’ll exchange hands,
And thank the other for their cursed blessing.
For they were birds of the same-colored feather,
Until they became destructively together;
Praying, damning, if the other was there or not.
And dawn didn’t wake them into song, but pierced
Like lightning that burnt the bushed hills of Basque,
Incinerating what could not be put out by themselves.
Two Romantic Poems
By Sochukwu Ivye
Sochukwu Ivye, Chukwuma Livinus Ndububa, is an English-language enthusiast as well as a Literacy specialist. He’s an ESL/Phonics instructor at a school in the capital city of his state of origin. Sochukwu particularly enjoys metrical poems and writes some. He hails from Isseke, a town in Eastern Nigeria.
Serenade to the Feathered Freedom
sleek maestro in the playhouse of the air
doing the sparse dance steps which pirouette
and give her plumage a poised silhouette
your silken sea of rhythm perms my hair
fleeting melody soaring through the sky
the rhythm of the mundane your wings sing
stitching into the sky tales which times bring
attentive souls have a nurse from on high
brief thoughts in the hearth of the firmament
your wings dipped in the palette of the sun
brush brilliant strokes over everyone
the heavens and flight earned an ornament
through the breeze your ethereal notes waft
each flutter of your wings creates stories
for the earthbound and heavenly glories
the resonance realm you curate aloft
those eyes mirror the labyrinths you skim
caught by scenes beneath, reciting a spell
the hush in the breath of vague skies you tell
here, the aero-dweller of choice: my hymn
the garden of earthly moments grows means
like an envoy from the sky you descend
bearing nature's message, making a friend
like a winged sunrise you herald new scenes
your descent overwhelms character traits
like a stanza of a panegyric
instilling verve into each soul's lyric
in the heart your approaches paint portraits
when you glide by, faces young and old smile
sleeping hearts wake to ponder your feathers
your aura tends each who poorly weathers
these visits are a dear norm but awhile
are you guided by emotion or chance?
now, you will wing down with a benign grace
then, the path of the wind will sway your pace
your visits are like an erratic dance
eager hearts wonder what your wish could be
how you switch from boldly nearing people
to fleeing to the height of a steeple
you want to socialize and still be free
in my head these mysteries of yours thunder
I share my hopes in my lone worlds with you
but about these mute words you have no clue
our joint moments birth my joy and wonder
the jewel on high, my doubts are my wrongs
are you an eye on life's unfolding scenes
or some cheering herald by random means?
indeed magic girdles your wings and songs
cameras try to freeze your grace in photos
recorders trail your habits and actions
to grasp your likes, schedules and reactions
sadly each trick bears obstructive hollows
“aerial resistance”, cry heartsick boys
you fly down drawing sweethearts to yourself
to wing off turning their zest to a shelf
the lovelorn unveil shelved arts to craft ploys
treats, tunes and fragrances test your senses
dancers perform complex routines at speed
to earn a duet with you or your heed
no crafts nor landscapes break your defences
in varied novel ways your stalkers toil
reading the atmosphere some do not doubt
to know when different settings you check out
each pursuit plants its seeds in barren soil
are you meant to be cherished from afar?
freedom does maybe enhance your beauty
to live and let live seems like the duty
some hearts are closed to you; some keep ajar
to own you no longer intrigues shrewd hearts
some now prize but the joy of your presence
and not to snare your fugitive essence
still not your mixing from your freedom parts
you prefer your broad sky to someone's hands
as you wish to share your allure and bliss
the boundless sphere you are not set to miss
you want to taste the air, waters and sands
friends serve seeds and nuts to convey regard
one is moved by your right to not be claimed
to laud your choice to rove the skies untamed
now frolic without being barred or marred
to requite friends’ love you leave surprises
each to little gifts or charming pranks wakes
or your resonant tunes while the day breaks
more kindness flows from friends of all sizes
fond children who yearn to befriend you gaze
by the fear of fetters your heart is wrapped
to recall a bird sheds its sheen when trapped
each captor’s step puts you in fleeing ways
you may have a nest or cage you obey
so you learn to thwart plots to hunt you down
and practice your flying skills around town
may your hopes thrive tomorrow as today
Your Calves, For Instance
Let my thoughtful note find you from behind
my words are not coy nor are my eyes blind
Without a doubt, throw your back to my front
back hugs please women, if I may be blunt
You will love this cuddle you stir from sleep
and, my stamina, your warm build will keep
Your hind traits gleam, even from a distance
I deem those gleaming calves a fair instance
Like the skin of well-shelled boiled albumen
like a bulb beaming many a lumen
A baby's bottom; the texture of silk
sweetening healing honey; nursing milk
How you root and grow such stirring aura
daunts the blossoming of native flora
Your eyes watch from the top of your stature
these limbs, aerial views cannot capture
These legs are private traits of your physique
napping passion in my calmness they leak
I fall disarmed judging what their mien holds
they drown craving minds as the gluteal folds
These legs are primed to urge their devotee
to climb, in their strayed thoughts, the apogee
Only a hot spice could grow me thus warm
I look nowhere else; here, my lot takes form
Your gentle whispering relieves my nerves
shrill trombones of lust still before your curves
These limbs stretch to a prouder tomorrow
may I know those days and more to borrow
You boost my sinews beyond their confines
let my eyes find you when my health declines
When my hands find you, I will bow in bliss
to have won earth, and leave nothing to miss
They decide and rule your postures and gait
mirroring your pulse, the rigour and rate
They yet give you the poise your gait trusts in
compelling calm through gentle and lush skin
As curvy as her smiles; the glow they beam
The softness of butter; as sleek as cream
Ballerinas' prayer; the poetry of limbs
proud columns of fire, killer of stray whims
Leaving imprints of elegance and pep,
the ground beneath you vie to kiss each step
Your fair soul is well-turned within each stride
in truth, charm and vigour fill this lithe glide
Now I discern how footprints bless the ground
yours bear secrets of longing that confound
There is something in them that dazzles eyes
leaving just a spell on your calves and thighs
Divine temptation, the world halts and stares
craving eyes come closely to make you theirs
I am drawn to how these legs announce you
for on a woman's stride, her stripe rings true
Poetry by Joshua Frank
The Christmas Party
How festively the spacious home
Shimmers with red and white and green
Like Independence Day in Rome
As lights and ribbons deck the scene!
The party guests all laugh and chat;
On cookies oven-fresh they fill.
They gather ’round (imagine that!)
A tree that towers like a hill.
Romance now saturates the air,
All couples under mistletoe.
The dateless guests don’t seem to care;
They’re swept away by joyful show.
In grand finale, caroling,
All burst in song and sing with might,
With “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing!”
And “Jingle Bells” and “Silent Night.”
Side by side, we watch the party
In the movie on our screen.
Community so bright and hearty
In real life never have we seen.
Who could we ever have that with?
Folks today don’t go out much.
Like Tantalus of old Greek myth,
We look, but we can never touch.
Two Empty Chairs
“We did the NFP [natural family planning] bit for awhile [sic]... and have felt revulsion over it ever since. During that time we might have had at least two more children.” Letter to the editor, Seattle Catholic, 2002
Two empty chairs, each in its place--
The kitchen table’s vacant space,
Where our six children see the chill
Of unworn seats, both standing still
Like Tiny Tim’s by the fireplace.
We timed the marital embrace
To procreate at slower pace.
That empty phrase means none shall fill
Two empty chairs.
Our family planning did erase
Two precious souls we can’t replace;
We chose ourselves above God’s will.
Their nonexistence buys each frill,
And never shall their presence grace
Two empty chairs.
First published in The Society of Classical Poets
“Decrease the Surplus Population!”
“Decrease the surplus population!”
I hear our modern Scrooges say.
It’s preached all over every nation:
“Decrease the surplus population!
Defeat the scourge of procreation!”
Though God commands a better way,
“Decrease the surplus population!”
I hear our modern Scrooges say.
THE TREES OF WINTER’S GRACE
By Michael Brownstein
Introduction:
The Sacred Trees—oak, willow, ash, date palm, wild plum
The Trees of Prosperity—holly, box, ivy, bay, laurel, conifers, oak
The Druid and Christian Tree—evergreen, oak
I
Snow is always cause for courage,
and love,
a need to pray, forgiveness,
warmth.
II
It was then the small boy came knocking,
the wind a blizzard of disease and frostbite,
and the old couple opened their home to him,
offered him from the little they had,
hot apple cider, a stew of potato, warmed flour.
They gave him the warmest place in the house
and covered him with extra blankets they themselves used.
In the morning, he was gone and they had slept through
the snow drifting in piles covering their door.
He left no tracks, he took nothing with him,
but when the sun came out and the day’s frost began to ease,
they saw the beginnings of a grand tree,
its leaves pointing to heaven, its branches laden with fruit.
III
Years later the child now a man found himself
in the Germanic forests near a town buried in snow.
He saw the people kneeling before a great oak
and he knew it offered support for the spirit,
but little for the belly or the pregnant.
He chopped it down when the people slept
and when he began to cut it into firewood,
they woke frightened and enraged.
He stood his ground, raised one hand
to where the tree had been, pointed with the other
to show them what was to become
and the people watched as the ground moved
and a fir came from the seeds of snow and earth,
its branches laden with gifts of greenery,
food, fruit, nuts, and roasting meats.
He married a year later, a princess of Viking strength,
a woman who held a staff larger than a tall man
and liked to color the long nights with stars and rainbows,
fruits and fresh bread, venison and anything green.
Together they wandered the Northlands
bringing song and trees that remained ever green
even during the dark of the winter
when the sun slid beyond the ice for its long sleep.
IV
The Arabians chronicled his adventures later in life
after the Qur’an, after the solistice of the Druids,
after the closing of the Germanic book on Winter’s Magik,
after the last celebration of the Roman festival Kalends.
It was told by many who claim they saw it with their own eyes
how one winter when famine had struck the land
and water had dried up, great snows came from the north
burying everything and the people were not prepared.
Then a man with a beautiful wife walked among them.
They stopped in the center of the village,
blew into the night, and the wind stopped,
the snow cleared and suddenly trees were everywhere,
great laurels and firs, bay and ivy, their leaves strong,
their scent the perfume of warming and good health.
They say winter was hard that year, the hardest in history,
but that morning the people found clothing for the weather,
supplies of dead dry wood at each tree’s trunk
and enough food to last until the coming of summer..
Snow never fell again in that region, but when that snow melted
great wells formed across the land. The trees
shriveled in the heat, petrified into sand and stone,
formed shapes to hold clear water,
and the shadows of the two people are still there
imprinted in the shadow of sand dunes,
carved into rocks holding clean water,
etched into the bark of the sacred date trees.
The Twelve Pubs of Christmas
Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin
Christmas Shopping in Pine Hills
Off campus, low rent student ghetto,
next to the encroaching ghetto ghetto.
Illegal rent-by-the-week, no security deposit,
no references, cash up front, slum lord
palace rooms. Holiday houses for
Thanksgiving, Christmas holiday B&E/
electronics shopping bonanzas; willing
fence, retail seller on 24-hour alert for
fresh incoming, in one door, out another,
never-to-be-seen again-by-original owner
marketplace. End of semester, free for all,
slightly abused furniture, curbside treasures,
better than anything City Mission, Salvation
Army Store has on sale. Unregulated, no-
license-needed-just-bring money, one
entrance fee buys what’s on offer beer
and jello shot parties. After the shooters
and the E and the never empty beer
cups, stumbling home alone into mugging-
was-never-so-easy arms. Squad car
armies, uninvited guests to overflow only,
“bring on the dawn parties.” Spot your kids
in cuffs, or about to be, You Tube Videos.
There-goes-law-school arrest records
even the best downstate lawyers can’t
make go away. Bad dope by the bindle,
back handed power shake sales.
Midnight OD Express trains to Albany
Med ER, low rent district, long weekends
begin on Thursday traditions, white faced
pale angels on a slab. Toe tags omit
conversation starters: what year you were,
what your major was, your sign.
A Juliet of the Spirits
What is striking, at first, is
La mujer angel descending
into the Sonora Desert,
black, below the waist hair,
a mane spreading out in the wind,
wraith like above the left hand,
fingers spread wide as a distended
claw, a blackened silhouette against
bramble thickets, encrusted stone,
in stark contrast to the full,
white cotton sheath of her dress
billowing, dragging in dust
and low flowering cactus.
She is a figure, portentous, captured
in black and white, the breadth
of the desert below her, distant hills
shimmering, lumps like tumors
on the landscape, eternal as an other
world image from Bergman or a Fellini
Juliet of the Spirits betrayed in this
one by the strange recorded voice
of El Brujo, The Wicked One, speaking
the language of another place;
the message she is carrying down
with her from the cliffs is a coded
one that tells us secrets that could
only be learned in a land of the dead.
12 Pubs of Christmas
Last days celebratory mood,
outlining a liquid station of the cross,
dressed in Cratchit clothes before
the Scrooge and Marley Christmas
bonus checks: torn painter’s pants,
in-the-rough work shirts, disposable
everything for the long crawl home.
Some have a six-hour time limit,
others four, staggered stats, stumbling
finish.
One team is on a short beer ration
with baby Jamie sides, others tall
stouts with depth charge sweeteners
inside; white lines and roll your owns,
in the gents or on the road, between
stops; half way to stretcher service
and wheelchairs.
Three quarters of the way to destination’s
end, their faces are a whiter shade of pale,
look like death camp tourists one stop from
the flame; their designated driver has
a hearse.
The Ceremony
Everyone is applauding long before
anyone has seen the bride or the groom
as if directed by the archdeacon
of antiquities, crew chief of the burnishers
of pews, rows, and rows of them so bright
and slick, they repel the occasional rain
that falls through the place where a steeple
would have been before the church was converted
by Navaho warriors to a hogan to let the Great
Spirit in, to allow the smoke of healing fires
Escape. Here on the edge of the Southwestern
Desert, as arid as Martian wastelands, interplanetary
penance portals, lost seekers are referred to after all
the earthbound sanctuaries, sainted places, have
been exhausted, all the sacred temples, burial
mounds, caves of redemption, warehouses for icons
played out by the faithful, standing in ragged lines
to touch the worn wooden effigy of Our Savior
of the Souls, Our Lady of Pent-up Frustrations,
Our Burial Mound of Reclining Statuary, Our
Souvenir Stand of Holiest Waters, confections
blessed by on-premise priests, blood from
the stigmata of virginal suicides, made in China
facsimile glow-in-the-dark missions, Christmas
tree ornaments, the wounding lance of the unhealing
seekers after holy grails on display, not available
for any price yet, not even what was yielded from
the passing of the offertory trays, bequests left
by patrons of the sacred arts, tax exempt foundations
exploring the possibilities of unified field theories
involving Native American Folklore and Medieval
Christian Idol Worship, they who clear the center
aisles for easy passage from one state of being to
the next, they who scatter dried herbs and scented
liquids, part aphrodisiac, part aromatic, part soporific,
specifically made for vision inducing hallucinogens
so that when the high priest looks up to view the anointed,
it is unclear exactly what he sees, what he should say,
how the ceremony should proceed and when it does,
what it means.
Daytripper’s
They were as regular as highly calibrated
clocks, pin point punctual every day for
five o’clock hours of happiness during
the week, drinking supper and sometimes
lunch, when business was slack, only making
personal office appearances to check the pink
post-it while-you-were-out-messages left
by a skeleton crew of junior staff or AA
faithful, sneak reading their pocket Bibles
the way they used to guzzle airplane bottles
of bottom-shelf-no-name vodka they kept in
suit jacket pockets or in handbags the size of beach
cabana carryalls, their hard-core drinking days
so over they no longer felt shame or embarrassment
about how they used to be and what they routinely
did, trying to maintain their cool when faced with
ghosts of Christmas’s past in the form of their
fellow office workers, though their co-workers
could tell how they really felt now, it was all there
in their eyes, all you had to do was look.
Tale of the Hawk
By Kenneth Vincent Walker
Whereas, this clever
Rabbit once thwarted
The Hawk by finding
Cover beneath the blue
Spruce tree’s boughs.
The Rabbit was quite
Resourceful, proud of
His accomplishment,
That he had eluded
Capture and becoming
A meal for that Hawk.
However, the Hawk was
Patient as she stalked
Perching devout just in
Eyesight awaiting the
Rabbit to venture out.
The waiting hours crept
By for our prey seemingly
Lasting forever and a day;
And then finally the shock,
The Rabbit became a meal
For that persistent Hawk,
A feast, a bloody buffet.
November 22nd, 1963
By John Creekmore
In those days I was a child,
And I thought as a child.
I saw him once, when I was
Fifteen, a few days before
The election.
He spoke on the field
Behind my school, and I
Recall the crowd and the
Struggle to see between
Shoulders.
I cannot remember what he
Said that day, only his youth
And the redness, the thickness
Of his hair,
For only grandfathers had sat
In that chair, men whose hair
Was as white as my beard
Is now.
They had taken care of things,
As far as I knew, and shielded
Me from the thunders and screams
Far away,
And now he sought that chair,
And it was fine by me, for I
Was a child and I thought as
A child, and so I wished him well.
He won the election and took
The wheel and steered through
The peaks and valleys,
While my small world stayed
Much the same, sealed away
From the thunders and screams,
And even when the eagle and
Bear locked eyes in the seas
Off Cuba,
I knew he would win as the
Grandfathers had, and he stared
The bear down to submission,
And there was peace, or so it
Seemed, except for a small place
In Asia,
And the months rolled by and my
World changed little, until an autumn
Friday.
I recall the moment when I heard
He had died, seared into my mind
Like a flashbulb:
"Some man shot the President!"
A boy cried out, as I stepped from
The class to the hallway,
And I thought, it cannot be, over and
Over, until a tearful Cronkite confirmed it.
The rest of that day is lost to me, except
For a few fleeting pictures: a tall man touching
The Holy Book, the blood spattered widow
Beside him,
A small man with a pursed lipped smirk, which
Would be gone by Sunday,
And others which escape me now, but
Return with but little prodding.
Sixty autumns have hurtled past, and
Sixty more will claim me,
But I still recall, in perfect detail,
The shock of that sundering moment,
For I was a child, and I thought
As a child,
But after that day, nevermore
In memoriam
John Fitzgerald Kennedy
May 29th, 1917-November 22nd, 1963
A Fairytale of New York
A Short Story Collection by Alan Catlin
Watching the Planes Land at Albany County Airport 1973
Mother sits behind the wheel of her
white, slant-six Dodge, push button
automatic, radio tuned into a mix
of fading in and out country western
music and current pop tunes enhanced
by in-between stations static, mood music
for watching planes land, pointing to
the landing gears retracted for touch
down on the nearby runways just beyond
the chain link fencing.
She explains the mystery of flight to
her two young charges, my sons, who are
just out of diapers, boys enthralled
with it all: the noise, the planes so near
overhead, her words explicating a new
physics of flight that began in a far off
childhood fantasy land of men with magic
wings and extrasensory, extraterrestrial
powers of levitation, spanning several
dimensions of time, space, and levels
of existence, transcending this world
and the other unseen one, a place well
beyond the confines of history and logic,
though she adheres to the sacredness of
received wisdom, told these fanciful stories
with such conviction, such authority,
they might as well have been gospel
handed down by prophets disguised as
tellers of good night fairy tales holding
tickets to a far-off place of dreams as if
there might have been a way out of dreaming,
a way back to a land where men lived
without wings but flew nonetheless.
Bobbie
could be the wicked witch
of fairy tales and dreams
in soiled terry cloth robe
and spindle thin fingers,
her baby doll safely resting
in the crook of her arm
waving at the others just
beyond the nursing home's
doors, beckoning them to
come in for last snacks before
supper, of donuts, tea, and honey.
Grim Fairy Tales
The ones mother read
to me appeared to be
written by two brothers
from a planet resembling
this one. Were written
in a language only she
could understand now
that they had moved on
to another place unlike
anything at all. The one
she liked best was of
a boy my age who went
walking in a forest and
was taken by harmless
appearing creatures who
were said to be fairies
but were actually demons
called by another name.
Their primary purpose
was to abduct children
on their own, never
allowing them to return.
The end.
A Fairy Tale of New York
The place she spoke of
as enchanted looked like
a slum three weeks into
a garbage collection strike
to everyone else.
Sitting on a derelict park
bench she described the
magical gardens and
fairylands hidden amid
the lily pads that were
a short walk away though
what I saw looked like
toxic waste in stagnant
waters where only mosquitoes
could breed and spread disease.
“You always refused to see
the magical places,” Mother said,
“Always refused to see what
I told you to see, even the
fairy tales of New York.”
“Especially the fairy tales
of New York.” I wanted to say.
But what would have been
the point; she saw what
she wanted to see and nothing
would change her mind.
Water Babies
Mother called the hotel
pool the old swimming hole,
saw the world through dark
glasses as something impenetrable,
unknowable as the mermaids
she spoke of as her sisters of
the sea.
Babies born here, on these virgin islands,
were christened in chlorine as all true,
water babies must be, even those
who saw her speaking after dark to
static shadows and heard the answers
to questions impossible to pose.
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.
Back When
Snow White
Met
Prince Charming
*
A Poetry Collection by Alex Andy Phuong
*
Since the Last Rinse
Snow White asked the seven dwarves
If they had washed their hands
Before supper time,
And the purity of water
Is surely sublime,
And by rinsing
And allowing
Negativity to wash away,
Keeping clean
Is much greater
Than being mean,
And then see
How to make today
Better in any way,
And while no one truly knows
What the future holds,
Dare to create
The greatest story ever told
By being more than bold,
And let the narrative of life unfold
While staying as pure as green and gold.
Arm Oneself with Charm
Flora magically gave
Prince Philip
A virtuous shield
And a sword of truth,
And despite the
Inevitable end of youth,
Making use of
The present of
The present moment
Can help oneself
Be oneself,
And the ones who
Do more than just
Act like a Prince Charming
Can do what they must
As well as establish trust
To continue magical tales
Far beyond fairy tales.
Raise the Gaze to Amaze
Within the mystery of life
Lies sensation paired with perception,
And as people perceive and receive
Messages about how to live,
Some might never ever forgive,
But for the opportunity
To believe in possibility
Offers hope beyond compare
So that people could do more
Than they would ever dare,
And sharing stories
Reveals history
And lessons from the past
While also knowing that showing
The miracle of individuality
Can promote diversity
As well as inclusivity,
For within reality,
People live and do
While only some stay loyal and true,
And truth be told,
Righteousness is a wonder to behold,
And through sharing ideas
That could hopefully inspire
People to help one another
Would there be
Paths to a greater reality
That would continue
The story of the Earth
So that all people
Could recognize their own worth
For birth must have happened for a reason after all,
And within the crowded room
Of a fairy tale ball
Could there possibly
Be that one special person
Who would unite before midnight
While being much more
Than the fairest of them all,
Especially since no one knows what life has in store,
But the act of opening doors
Goes far beyond doing chores.
Fair Maiden
By David Thorpe
*
Fair maiden, I love thee not
as I derive pleasure from the fragrance of spring blossoms,
for their beauty is no match to jealous breezes,
which scatter, unceremoniously,
their faded, frail petals.
*
Fair maiden, I love thee not
as I take delight to hear dawn`s feathered minstrels,
tuning my summer days to highest spirits,
of which, to my despondency come autumn,
I am grievously deprived.
*
Fair maiden, I love thee not
as I marvel a winter`s sunset,
burning the heavens with its crimson flames,
ere the darkness devours its prey,
releasing it on morrow`s eve, at nature`s will.
*
Fair maiden, for I love thee more than nature`s prodigies:
thy gentleness, which sooths the wounds of my defeats,
thy caring countenance, which calms my tortured nights,
when the moon its clemency mine anguish denies,
thy unbounded love, which feeds my soul
and blesses all my days with bliss.
*
Three Poems by Kenneth Goodman
perfect penetration
Perfect penetration of skull center(s)
sidelessly : is already one deLight
elixir unity, unexpelled from Eden
& in-hearing silently,
hollow jewel(s)
‘tween the temples
mating God
body.
bliss bliss bliss
Nonfixation on one’s senses
isn’t stupefied, just no longer
dumbfounded by
in
vs. outside; or
post vs. pre--
rested in the most sublime sabbath
activity, mindful of the stable field
atoms are empty . . .
bliss the essence of
bliss self-aware
bliss knows
thought-free.
mindfruit on EdenVine
Actual GodFace aglow : AH
holy hollow shine, nourishes
mind-fruition nectar
on EdenVine.
Where the Vine is narrow?
Central channel(s) liberate.
Where the Vine is sideless?
Skullpits & God
body mate.
A Landscape of Diamonds
Poetry Collection by Michael H. Brownstein
"When so much is hard
and everything’s colored gray,
grow roses in your heart."
- Michael H. Brownstein
Dearest Deborah
Sometimes behind a curtain,
An antique closet with a hundred pieces of gold
Or a young man carving Jatoba wood into frames
Or monarch butterflies, milkweed, and healthy hair.
And behind the door, a simplicity of sound.
And in this room, the sweet sweat of huckleberry juice.
I cannot choose enough of any of these.
I can choose you, like a forest of rain.
Never is it enough to seek a clean place
Freshly imprinted with the small of your foot,
Decorated with the easy touch of your fingerprints,
And all of the breath in my world
Has this need to be knotted with
All of the breath in yours.
Will crab grass grow stronger after the storm?
This part is not in me. I can
Build a porch, change a fitting,
Lay out a pallet of down. This is in me.
I can quilt a blanket,
Tune the strings of my kora,
Find a place to be with you forever.
And later, when you come upon me late,
It will not matter what came before.
I am in luck because of you.
Imagery In Love
After thirty-five years of marriage--
and counting--
Deborah L., my soul mate,
is as beautiful as
dawn
sprinkling its shadow
across diamond and landscape
pink salamandra
In the Morning It Will Still Be Okay
This is not who I love. This is not what I love.
Love is a god-stone, thick and sometimes valuable,
strong-wristed, one arc of a finger
stretching.
Love has the weight of god, the weight of Eve’s sister,
water mixed with salt, n pink and ordinary,
thinly veined and iridescent, the sigh of sun
arriving into day’s orange blue.
This is who I love. This is what I love.
An evening of chimneys and cloud,
feather and frog, green eyes.
You.
3 Petrachan Sonnets on Love,
A Villanelle on Lost Love,
and Another Poem.
By LindaAnn LoSchiavo
= = = poem # 1 sonnet = = =
Fire Without Witness
Illicit lovers have always had more
Perceptions than the terms to translate these.
All language first serves functions that appease
Old-fashioned family values and deplores
The discourse of intercourse explored
Unfaithfully. Who do you call this squeeze?
The mouth will stumble on this noun and freeze,
Beloved infidels, whom words ignore.
What can we call illegal happiness?
It’s fire without witness, luck on a ledge,
Where sanity does not apply. I take
Your name inside where my guest thrives unblessed.
Thick scents won’t stick yet keep me wet, on edge.
Still undomesticated: buzz, rush, ache.
= = = poem # 2 sonnet= = =
In the Bride's Boudoir
Applauding the assembling dawn I wake.
In two days, we'll be married.Sunshine's mine,
Its pink flames feathering nude clouds defined
By daybreak, still caressing mountains, lakes,
Extending soon towards me. Dreams make me ache,
Seeded by you, her son who will refine
My womanhood— — asleep till we combine.
You are my sunshaft, fueling blood's outbreak.
Il sole mio, with you, dark is light
Enough for me. The wedding's nights away!
My lover's sleeping shadow's moon-caressed
For now, while girlishness packs up, polite,
Deserving white, though ready to waylay
That angel, under drapery of flesh.
= = = poem # 3 sonnet = = =
14 for a Friend
This poor word love my tongue is stuck with fails.
Such "love" that makes tomorrow's news is pale
Compared to mine. Observing two entwined,
Their bodies lit with love, all centered fine
In future's dawn, I must protest, suggest
That love, like sun, takes pleasure in the West.
Its fond regard through distance is no less
Than present tense arpeggios in breasts.
We overrate the storminess of chords,
Think less of statues green-aged on their horse,
High-riding air paired off — — though not consorts.
Views change on bridges, standing there above
It all. Though language plays me false, words move
Towards him whom, not possessing, my love loves.
= = = poem # 4 a villanelle = = =
Valentine Villanelle
Although I've made it holy in my mind --
Our sweet hypnotic love, my fantasy --
That place I left by your side was not mine.
Confounding me with sounds my heart refined,
Unsteady dreaming fanned hyperbole.
(Instead I've made it holy.) In my mind,
Stored, polished memories of us still shine,
Attaching me to what was not to be.
That place I left by your side wasn't mine.
Love's air is thin. Love's words breathe hard, designed
To signify rich unreality --
As though I've made it wholly in my mind.
She drinks you dry, so here you are, inclined
Towards me, embracing chance illegally.
That place I left by your side wasn't mine.
My parents named me for Saint Valentine.
A martyr's passion is his ecstasy.
But though I've made you holy in my mind,
That place I left by your side wasn't mine.
= = = poem # 5 = = =
Atom and Lady Evening
The worm turns, the snake stalks,
Again you come on tiptoe
The garden is green though too dark to see
By these candles, cornered, down low.
Lady Evening, Mistress Midnight: with flowers
Of sadness,you pay what you owe.
An apple cheek raised, admired, then felled
Since sanity's coming too slow.
Heat welds our hot bargain, this sweetest cheat!
Curtains certain. Shhh. No one else knows.
We angle love for a minute-hour:
Where does the time go?
Taking this thing in hand, head on,
Leave a ring in my tub when you go.
Courting chances, nibbling knowledge,
Discarding the cards that say "no,"
The truth is clear but too hard to see
By a furnace regulated below.
You, darling, atom of despair, need insist
And resist, desist yet persist — even so
My private portion of heaven and hell,
A prison I'll never outgrow.
Beatrice & Cornelius in NYC
By Thaddeus Hutyra
From his book "New York City Romance"
You know, Beatrice, so good to be with you here in New York City
Truly the Olympus of the modern times build by us, the humans
To me you yourself, Beatrice, are a stunning goddess in this city
One in the first league, together with Athene, Artemis, Aphrodite.
Ah, Cornelius, look I am blushing, I prefer to be one of the crowd
As all those carefree women around with smile on their faces
No need for me to feel exceptional, really I do not feel so
Let’s enjoy the wonders NYC brings upon us so splendidly.
You know in your presence I am feeling as if in some wings
Of all ecstasies there might be, forming the wings so diverse
That it is impossible to guess anything specific, just the winds
Of this marvelous city that never sleeps, so fresh, so mystic.
Beatrice, you are right, in my arms you are a bird with wings
The gods of the Olympus NYC is play themselves music to you!
___
Love Among the Ruins
Poetry Collection by Alan Catlin
Love Among the Ruins
During the air raids
we used to hide
in out storm
cellar
It was so exciting
being in love
that way
After the war
it was never
the same.
Love?
We were walking along a beach and found an old object that appeared to have washed up on shore. There was no date anywhere on it that we could find. Inside, were just a few objects; a loaded six shot hand gun, a neatly wrapped packet of girlie magazines and some rumpled aluminum foil which once may have contained something of value. Also, oddly, there was a picture of my exact twin brother standing on this very beach with a black patch over his right eye. His face is inscrutable. I never recall seeing him like this before. This must be a form of love.
Melville the failure
Depressed
Disengaged like Bartleby
His love gone
Literally
A stake through the heart
His cold
Long suffering wife might have known
About an affair
He was a cold father
His son’s avoided him
His daughters lived in fear of him
A son committed suicide at 18
The wife had all the money
He had nothing
Gave up novel writing
To Write the epic poem no one reads now
Nineteen years as a customs inspector
Not a black mark against
Pleased his wife that he was gainfully employed
Writing nothing
Billy Budd
Oh, the injustice of it
What did he think about working the docks on his job
Hard to imagine
They spelled his name wrong in an obituary
Poor Henry Melville
Once a popular novelist is
Dead
From The Love Song of J. Robert Oppenheimer
for Ed Sanders and for Tom Nattell
This is what he sees:
The future:
Concrete re-enforced by steel, sound proof bunkers, toadstools
of the Nuclear Age erupting everywhere along a stark, barren desert-
scape where the forests were, fields of crops, plain's grass;
Monolithic oblong watch stations, long narrow slits for gun
placements, tools of observation; these posts spaced evenly along
contaminated ocean shores glowing at night, not from plankton but
rotational remains, half-lives longer than the written history of man;
Spectacular sunsets, impossible coloring: viridian, burnt sienna,
Prussian blue, Kelly green, cobalt blue; chemical stains instead of
night fall;
Deserted cities, population centers, enclosed linked malls and
outdoor ones; remaining free-standing structures devoid of life, commerce,
human interaction, civilization; the giving and the taking of mercantile
life;
Underground passages, caves of the isolated and the feral, tribal
instincts renewed; uncontaminated food stuff the universal, precious
unit of exchange;
Night creatures crawling out from below under covering of
darkness. scavengers armed with rude implements, anything that may be
fashioned into weaponry;
Historical monuments, libraries, universities, all the literature,
art work, musical scores reduced to kindling, insulation, protective
covering from the sun, extreme elements of cold during nuclear winter;
Newly transformed, the human condition as a sideshow of freaks,
deformants, the multi-limbed or limbless, those functionally blind or gifted
with extra sight, extra eyes that either see a past with no future or a future
with no past: nothing linked, nothing learned, everything new, only the basics
left: survival, food, water, sex;
Territorial imperatives.
Back in the day I had boyfriends
with names like Blitz or Bash or
Boof and if he looked as of hadn’t
showered or slept since Sonic Youth
was the rage, and was the drummer
in a band, or sure, it was true love.
Amazing how long you can live
in a fantasy world of the drugs were
good and plentiful and everyone was
having sex like there was no tomorrow,
no consequences at all. It might have
gone on forever if I hadn’t woken up
one morning in some squalid dump of
a squat, who had a fixed address in those
days? everything was just so, impermanent
anyway, there I was: unwashed, naked,
bruised in places a nice girl doesn’t talk
about and I felt, well, used. You know,
well past your sell by date. If I were a listed
book on Amazon that had Acceptable as
the condition, it would have been a gross
exaggeration. I realized it had been like three
months or so since my last period and I
wasn’t going to be able to pass for the lead
singer of the grunge band I was fronting
without some major adjustments. So here,
I am; I’m the girl who thought she had the
world buy the nuts but who had forgotten
why she thought so.
Shirts with Another Name
You’d think a guy who wears
work shirts with another guy’s name
on them might have something
to hide, though he shrugs the suggestion
off, says, “I buy them by the gross.
They’re cheap and if you have enough of
them you only have to do laundry like
once a month. Who cares whose name is
on them.” Introduces me to his latest,
five-star woman, orders them both some
Baby Jays and beer chasers.
I wondered how he scored one of those
almost beautiful women, someone who
makes up for what she might lack in beauty
with raw, unadulterated sex appeal:
the lips, the pout, the body of Bardot
in her prime. And knows it.
“What could a guy who buys shirts
in bulk do for a lady like this?” I almost
wondered aloud. “She’s married.”
I said, “Figures.” to myself and waited.
“To a guy who gives her everything
she needs but love.” She smiles, mock
shyly, licks her lips, a move only I can
see. “He’s mobbed up.” Shirts with
another name made a whole lot sense
to me now. I thought of other guys
that ran afoul of “mobbed up.”
Guys who died of heart attacks in their thirties,
guys who had never been on a boat in
the ocean in their lives, who went deep sea
fishing off The Keys and were never heard
of again, guys in race cars to hell, slow
leaking fuel, their asses on fire. I could
see now she liked a hard loving man but
she liked to see his hot blood run, better.
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.
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.
(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.
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 ©®
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,