Three Poems by Wayne F. Burke

 

Stay up all night

and listen to the 

radio and

write;

the dark in me

spreads on pages

as branches scratch

in calligraphic

on the window, and

the snow sifts

and wite-outs' the 

dawn.

The sky is not sky

but lava

the birds swim through

at their own risk

and leisure, unlike

me, hurdling through

at 500 mph

in an aluminum tube

that incubates fright.

As the sun sets behind the 

ridge line, a truck driver

backs his truck

into a barroom's parking lot.

A girl, standing in front of the 

bar, puffs on a cigarette.

The barroom door swings open

and shut as

a pizza-delivery man

exits, and 

a bird, on a telephone line, dives

and disappears from

my sight--

all of which

has something to do with me

but

I am not quite

sure 

what.

Wayne F. Burke's poetry has been widely published in print and online (including Kind of a Hurricane Press Anthology).  He is author of eight full-length published poetry collections -- most recently, Black Summer (Spartan Press, 2021). He lives in Vermont (USA).

A Poem by Susan Dale

 

A Prophesy of Earth's Final Hours

Comes the night that swallows our feeble lights

And the moonstruck girl who sleeps under a gypsy moon

There is one day and a hundred years

Of the slow death of life

When burns a brazen sun

And howl contemptuous winds

There is a sad boy who

Stands under a broken bridge

And sells his songs

For a sixpence and a memory

There are loves' contortions: fierce, false

Spawning along a boulevard of broken dreams

And rains, cold that sing one kind of song

The barren sands, another

There are mystic dreads pounding at the door of dark

Songs ringing with the skirling music

That transcends earth and time

And at the far edges of yesterday

On the seaward side of tomorrow

Lamplights are fading

And the heavy-lidded eyes of the moon

Are closing on a fate that dares to dream

Susan Dale's poems and fiction are on WestWard Quarterly, Mad Swirl, Penman Review, The Voices Project, and Jerry Jazz Musician.  In 2007, she won the grand prize for poetry from Oneswan.  The Spaces Among Spaces from languageandculture.org has been on the internet.  Bending the Spaces of Time from Barometric Pressures is on the internet now.  She has been nominated on Jerry Jazz Musician for the Pushcart Prize of 2022 with her poem: To Paul.

Three Poems by Suzette Bishop

 

Dakota

Your name of prairie grasses,

of freezing months,

of winds carrying me off,

of blizzards making me lose myself,

of your gray coat turning to white,

of breath hanging in the air,

of sparks crackling from your just brushed tail,

of hooves making a sacred drumbeat against earth,

of smooth gait rivering toward ocean,

of mane's tendrils firing white,

of smoky dust rising after us.

Eclipse of the Moon

it leaves and returns

like you

feather laid against the moon

loosening into the profile

of a death horse

the moon her eye

remnants

of cloud signals

say don't feel afraid

the horse can see your envy

stomp it out

let it go like a feather

Dear Plexiglass Students

It's lovely to see your shiny selves again

after going online in March

and being off during the summer,

recovering from the screen,

from typing all day and into the early morning,

my eyes burning.

You are a sight for sore eyes,

so clear, see-through,

attentive and waiting,

seamless waves

rolling gently ashore--

     The live stream is lagging

     Press "Skip" to catch up--

Speaking through a coral mask

made at a bridal shop

makes me slow down,

pronounce every word carefully,

after months of rarely speaking.

I saw the usual things bout the syllabus.

your part, my part.

I didn't miss the sound of my voice,

or words in PowerPoints,

or textbooks,

or official emails,

or assessment reports,

or syllabi,

those word arrangements undertowing both of us,

wires ready to lasso us tightly,

finish pulling us under.

I've scribbled a few words on a pink Post-it note

I've placed in front of me:

Breathe,

Don't make it harder than it is,

Stay with me,

Focus on taking in the info
rather than putting out texts.

At the moment, that's all I have for us,

post it to yourself

and let it drop once it becomes a part of you

or no longer serves you.

Suzette Bishop has published three poetry books and two chapbooks, including her most recent chapbook, Jaguar's Book of the Dead.  Her poems have appeared in many journals and anthologies.  She lives with her husband and two cats in Laredo.

Three Poems by Anthony Ward

 

Battlements

I'd thought my life settled,

Like sediment in a half full glass.

When all of a sudden,

My stomach's churning,

The sentiment swirling

Dissolving into a glass half empty.

Did I keep you like a tree?

Pruned to my liking,

So you wouldn't outgrow your confinement

And dredge the ground,

That would cause the foundations of my castle

To crack and come crumbling down.

Now you grow to your full potential.

Rising above the battlements

With your head in the sky,

Your memories clouded.

Framed

The picture on the wall

Hung for half their lives

Homely to the outside world.

Every now and then it would tilt,

And stay that way for months

Before anyone would straighten it.

Other times it would be straightened every day of the week.

The back had been temporarily Fixed with masking tape,

For years, nobody noticed.

Then one day it was placed in a brand-new frame,

Though the thought of a new frame had been hanging for some time.

And it remained in its new frame until it was old.

The picture didn't face a window,

There was never much light shed upon it.

It shone mostly in the shade,

In full view of its banishment.

Cacophony

The Sound of the sirens increased with the silence,

Whether because or despite of it, I don't know.

Was it always like this that you just didn't notice?

When the world was loud in concert-

The city crowd.

A cacophony of eyes, like frogspawn

Flooding in a pool of faces

My thoughts fight like a stopped clock,

Stuttering for time,

Outfoxed by memories I wish I had.

How abysmal the duration of the moment undergone,

The blank canvas of inspiration drowned by buoyancy.

Anthony Ward tends to fidget with this thoughts in the hope of laying them to rest.  He has managed to lay them in a number of establishments, including, Shot Glass Journal, Jerry Jazz Musician, Literary Yard, Ariel Chart, The Metaworker and New Note Poetry.

A Poem by H. Edgar Hix

 

Across the Street from the Wishing Well

(Phrases from Playmates)*

Privacy is not easy to find

she says, 

and writes poetry

to know a measure of isolation

at Beverly Hills

has acquired a year-round taste for 

Christianity and a modest lifestyle

however, her plans call for a trip to

somewhere between indignation and outrage.

I think crocodiles can jump

into womanhood

looking natural for the camera

just relaxing on the surf-soaked rocks.

Living with her mother,

a sample snap-shot or two of herself

first born in

a lens click

I want to be

a small house not far from

a full moon.

Most of her poems are about

her life in a remote Alaskan fishing village

wearing a hat -- and nothing else.

she was just a lens click

a dormant volcano

a professional poodle

our unenlightened past

here's our hope

to provide shelter from the storm

that I was able to define only later

As a child

Thank God she's a 

field with lots of mud

during the latter part of World War Two

with a knack for covert maneuvers.

she lived until four years ago

looking back, she wonders why

I feel very close to large animals,

leather bikinis

romantic poetry

and amusement park

in the desert

girls like to stew their beds

with the sun

and metaphysics

with ice in it

You should live through things rather than be

a bumblebee three years in a row

come face to face with

the line of pompom-wielding girls

even own a television set

Besides, there's always next summer.

woodland nymph likes

ashes of Chicago

all around

In Los Angeles money and sex are

giving her a woman's body from which to 

get married, have babies and watch television

With the ashes of Chicago

always in motion

through the crowd greeting people with a laugh and

I'm concerned, this is utopia.

hot fudge and footlights

that she might go after, just for fun,

and afterward settle down to raise a family.

"I never really pursued that dream," she says

I've learned how to be

on an assembly line

She lives in a small house not far from

World War Two, Korea and Vietnam

exercises and writes poetry.  Most of her poems are about

what the hell a Moon Pie is

my parents tell me I shouldn't get

a real religion

my family

couldn't even go to McDonald's

here I am, living the dream

to provide shelter from the storm

in big wardrobe racks

but if I continue to stay here I'm going to have to find a horse.

fabulously beautiful woman

paranoid about getting fat

writes poetry

obsessed with tall, emaciated girls

When the arrow went through the guy's chest

I went out and bought some books that explained how

Things seem to have a way of working out

you can be a phenom

get past the dogs

feel the vibe 

be the last character left alive

dreamed of becoming

an anonymous model

riding off into the spotlight

tall, emaciated girls

whose sentences have the force of

sleeping

it's cold and you're naked

"I want to be the last character left alive

trying on hats in Ensenada

She steers clear of the fast lane

is always at the ready to flee

and confides that her secret ambition is to be

a promising threat

always been crazy about 

beautiful women

from popcorn peddler

She still lives in the thin air

the girl of your dreams

often screams at night

lives in a small house not far from

a brace of Dobermans and 

has "no desire to act,"

she likes to exercise her

nice breasts or

real religion

at random boutiques

busy making her mark in

lots and lots of hair spray

she said, "Wait a few years and then

I intend to study yoga and metaphysics

I've always wanted a Chihuahua

born in Jacksonville, Florida, and raised in

Christianity and a modest lifestyle

she smells like jasmine

in World War Two,

the hunted

not easy to find.

I believe very strongly in God.

But every so often I think, I sure hope he doesn't have a heart attack

to dramatize the dissenting viewpoint.

the line of pompom-wielding girls

Living in awesome beauty threatened by

a waitressing job

in Pittsburgh

the ocelot of often screams at night

Somewhere secluded, like

a beauty salon.

We discovered her at an exercise class

Not ready to go home and admit

the active pursuit of pleasure.

"I couldn't even go to McDonald's after class," she says.

but she likes to exercise her freedom

by not hanging up her clothes and not doing the dishes.

here's our hop for the future

barefoot

as an anonymous

peach in June

For those unfamiliar with Boston,

happiness is what counts, and

leather bikinis, as small as the law permits

"Somehow, I think that's significant," she says.

four-wheeling in a field with lots of mud

she's been at it a year and a half now and 

During her spare time

she's dead serious about getting that ph.d.

She also has her sights set on

a rest after good sex

with the sun

I can't compose music,

But every so often I think,

bring on the violins

awash in daydreams

you're reading

romantic poetry

so ashamed of being skinny

it was so violent they had armed guards

across the street from

the wishing well

I want to be

little doubt Brittany

from the ocean

in touch with her inner wildcat

*Each verse/poem is made of single lines from Playmate profiles in Playboy magazine.  Each line is from a different Playmate.  They are not meant to be taken in their original context in the articles.

H. Edgar Hix, like his work, appears here and there, now and then, but generally stays home.  Do a duckduckgo search and you'll find a few pieces, mainly poetry and flash fiction.

Three Poems by Jeffrey Zable

Wondering

You can't always bless what kills . . . 

"Why not?" asked the aardvark of the canary.

And just as the clock struck 7 the window opened

and the rain came pouring in, while I prayed it wouldn't

reach me in the tub, give me such shivers that I'd die

before I got the the towels on the shelf.

And with that I returned to my internal muttering

only to remember the time my neighbor banged on the door

while I was bathing.  "Let me in!" she yelled,

"I haven't a single lump of sugar and it's my last cup of coffee!"

"Mother isn't here!" I shouted back, and eventually she went away.

I rose from the tub, shook myself dry, and listened to the rain,

wondering if I'd make it through another day . . . 

Golconda

Yes, it's raining Englishman and all I can say is that

I hope that one of them doesn't land on me, because

I completely forgot to put on some armor before leaving

the house, something I must remember to do as the world

has become such an unpredictable place that one must be 

ready for anything.  Speaking of which I was walking down

the street yesterday in a part of town that I'd never been before

when some guy stepped in front of me and said, "You've no

right to have all the money in the world when I have nothing.

Here I can't even buy a sliver of a corned beef sandwich while

you can buy the whole city if you wanted to!"  Telling him he's 

mistaken me for someone else -- maybe the guy who originally 

started that online bookstore -- I took out my coin purse and 

deposited all my change into his outstretched hand.  "That's more

like it!" he said in a voice that reminded me of my late father

who once commended me for reading the financial section

of the newspaper and reporting that I learned something new

which I'd one day be able to apply.  "Good to see that you're

taking the initiative!" he said with genuine enthusiasm 

before returning to the comics section of the newspaper . . . 

The Final Test

"No, mother, I would never put a chicken into a pot without plucking

it first!"

And as the world turns--mostly to dust--I recall that teacher who said

to our class, "Your identity will be 90% complete by the age of seven,

and for the rest of your days you will struggle to undo the trauma 

that beset you!"

With that, I asked, "Then why even bother living if that's all that one

has to look forward to?"

To which he smiled and replied, "That's entirely up to each of us to decide.

Now, are there any more questions before I hand out the final test?"

Jeffrey Zable is a teacher, conga/bongo drummer who plays for dance classes, rumbas, and Latin music gigs around the San Francisco Bay Area.  His poetry, flash fiction, and non-fiction has appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and anthologies, more recently in Locust Review, Once Upon a Crocodile Raw, Defuncted, Fleas on the Dog, Uppagus and many others . . . 

Three Poems by Karen Neuberg

 

Sidetracked

I start with the intention to peel

the potatoes for a bubbly scallop

when I suddenly find myself

thinking they'd make better fries

only to quickly envision them

as hash browns for next day's breakfast.

It's like that with my writing -- an idea

comes to me in a way that feels

as if I'm channeling finger to finger

when suddenly "be more wild"

hurtles out of me as though it located

a path through a dense forest and I'm 

in the forest, measuring trunk sizes,

thinking about sentient life and looking

up at light patterns through leaves

while surrounded by sounds of birds

and scuttling creatures and breath.

I'm alive in breath. I want to pull it all

into myself.  Want to share it with the quick

of this world.  I don't want to waste

time or breath on worry.  But, there it is,

always pecking at me.  My liver aches

but I'm not chained to any mountain,

no eagle in a loop to tear my side.

Instead, I'm here with the potatoes

and my latest plan to keep their skins

and bake them, then split and slather them

with butter, sour cream, a dash of pepper.

Somewhere and Elsewhere and Everywhere

Agency of weather.  Of virus.  Of unrest.

Contingency planning, disaster planning.

History bleating, bleeding, bloating into the future into our eyes

crumbling into our bones.

Wind and rain rattling our doorways:

hurricane, tornado, downburst, cyclone, monsoon, derecho . . . 

Somewhere nothing remains upright.

Elsewhere, tremendous hours of watching

what's approaching.  And everywhere, everyone

knowing what's already arrived.

Just a Handkerchief of Thought

Just a handkerchief of thought -- there,

in its corner, the girl on a swing

is me.  My skirt lifts above my knees

& shrieks of joy carry through the years

past the moon and back,

through the waves, at the shore, around

the playhouse, into the kitchen, platter of sandwiches,

bowl of cut melon, my mother, still

young, holding out her arms to give a hug.

How I want to step in, step up

and introduce her to these two boys

whose hands I hold -- her great grandsons.

Karen Neuberg is the author of the full-length poetry collection,  PURSUIT (Kelsay Press) and the chapbook the elephants are asking (Glass Lyre).  Recent poems can be found in Big  City Lit, Nixes Mate, and MAINTENANT 16.  She is the associate editor of the online journal First Literary Review - East.