A Poem by Thomas Piekarski

Fished Out                                                                     

                                                                                                       

In the twilight of her Irish eyes                                                           

she smiles, unfurled at last,                                                               

fished from river Oblivion.

 

Famine remains a thing of the past,

and yet she’s gaunt, forlorn and longing,

lacking spirit, with nary a soul in sight.

 

How a load of fresh potatoes

might surreptitiously spark

her brightest epiphany ever.

 

 

 

Thomas Piekarski is a former editor of the California State Poetry Quarterly. His theater and restaurant reviews have been published in various newspapers, with poetry and interviews appearing in numerous national journals, among them Portland Review, Main Street Rag, Kestrel, Scarlet Literary Magazine, Cream City Review, Nimrod, Penny Ante Feud, New Plains Review, Poetry Quarterly, The Muse-an International Journal of Poetry, and Clockhouse Review. He has published a travel guide, Best Choices In Northern California, and Time Lines, a book of poems. He lives in Marina, California.

Two Poems by Taylor Graham

Puppy Horde

 

What's that, behind the computer?

Just Loki, into everything 

she shouldn't.

A pile of important papers

on the floor. The box

of old cables & connections, misc 

hardware we don't use 

but it might come in handy some-

day. Now she's

off down the hall, leaping 

on the bed - rummaging the bedding -

What's this? Her raw-

hide bone tucked between our 

pillows. She drops it

on a stack of floppy-disks, out-

dated software, not-quite-

castoffs.

And from the pile

of Very Important Papers

she carefully extracts

the single glove she loves

to chew.

Bad dog? A hoarder, 

just like we are. 

Except, she knows exactly

where she left each 

treasure, and

where and how to find it.

 

 

 

 

 

How Things Work

 

This house of many mysteries

where we live - secret cubby-holes 

and water-lines that don't show 

on the plans - it puzzles every 

handyman who comes to fix us.

And now this puppy has chewed 

a peep-hole in the wall, exposing 

what's not up to code; 

excavating faulty cable that might 

disconnect us.

She's showing us what's beyond

our ken - the too-long hidden, 

the broken and the whole -

things we didn't even know

we have a need to see.

 

 

 

 

 

Taylor Graham is a volunteer search-and-rescue dog handler in the Sierra Nevada. She's included in the anthologies Villanelles (Everyman's Library) and California Poetry: From the Gold Rush to the Present. Her book What the Wind Says, poems about living with her canine search partners, is due out later this year.

A Poem by Craig Kurtz

I don't fear the sun

 

now I feel your pull. Stronger than

clouds, you have cool metabolic

moisture exiguous as rings of

Neptune. You're fibrous, I never

thirst.

 

I don't fear the sun anymore

since you started sparkling like

geodesic ice. You are soothing ether

of clairvoyance, the milk of

trust.

 

I don't fear the sun because

your nuzzling roots inhabit

timid breaths of balm. You have

the assurance of shade, the sway

of sea.

 

I don't fear the sun since you

are gelid crystal calming argent

combustion. You have diaphanous

mist & empyrean mien in

treasure glass.

 

 

 

 

Craig Kurtz lives at Twin Oaks Intentional Community where he writes poetry while simultaneously handcrafting hammocks. Recent work appears in Out of Our, Randomly Accessed Poetics, Penny Ante Feud, The Bitchin’ Kitsch and others. His first record, The Philosophic Collage, 1981, was reissued by BDR in 2012. He has been a staff writer for Perfect Sound Forever since 2003.

Three Poems by J.J. Campbell

slice of utopia

 

the end of days dance

in your head as your

only child buries your

feet in the white sands

of a tropical beach

 

this slice of utopia is

your personal hell

 

a nightmare you never

envisioned or cared to

think would ever exist

 

you can't help but think

this is some form of

slavery and you can't

understand where the

happiness comes from

 

ill-equipped and never

prepared the demons

understand what must

be done

 

you son laughs as the

water rushes over his 

feet

 

tears stream from the

corner of your eyes

 

when does a nightmare

ever have a happy ending

 

 

 

 

the princess myth

 

choking on the memories

of the princess myth and

other little girl fantasies

that somehow got twisted

in the minds of dirty old

men

 

one day it's the end of the

world and you're seeking

revenge for nearly 40

years of being shit on

 

the next you are begging

for forgiveness and

wondering what all the 

fuss was about

 

so whatever makes it

work in your mind

 

i'm an asshole

a hypocrite

 

some fake fuck that is

a one trick pony and a

rather worthless human

being

 

you never want to upset

the crazy bitch that thinks

she's on the right path

to whatever she believes

better is

 

don't feed the animals folks

 

certain creatures simply

belong in the zoo

 

behind glass

 

amusement for kids

on a field trip

 

 

 

 

bleed out rainbows

 

tattoo your mantra

on your hands and

take those fists and

knock down all the 

walls holding us

back

 

let the blood drip

on a blank canvas

and call it art

 

there's bound to be

some snob willing

to put the comma

in the right place

 

especially if you 

bleed out rainbows

and the fairytale

of a happy ending

 

whatever the fuck

that is anymore

 

 

 

 

J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) lives and writes on a farm in Brookville, Ohio. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at The Camel Saloon, Dead Snakes, ART:Mag, Zygote in My Coffee, and Gutter Eloquence Magazine. His first full length collection of poems, Sofisticated White Trash, was recently published by Interior Noise Press. you can find J.J. most days on his highly entertaining blog, evil delights (http://evildelights.blogspot.com).

A Poem by Elysabeth Faslund

Cleopatra's Victory

 

This Nile goes on forever. Before, beyond gods.
The gods gaze once. I am almost gone.
Sipping this chaliced Nile would make me eternal sand.
Sands of eternity are forever.
I will be in forever.

Who was Isis, beyond salvation for her brother, Osiris.
Who was I, beyond sarcophagus for Ptolemy.
Only lotuses ask, swarming banks of this Nile.
Only lotuses answer lavender voices.
I will be in forever.

Raise this chalice to my lips, then. Antony is dead.
Raise this Nile to flood legend over the world.
Lay my head up to see gods' turned backs.
Lay Roman legions under my feet.
I am forever.

 

 

 

Elysabeth Faslund lives in Theriot, La.  International, professional poet, changing with the times, but not the place.  25 miles from the Gulf of Mexico is not a place to be for the beginning of hurricane season!  See ya'll around FEMA way!  Send salami, as there'll be no place to spend money!!

Three Poems by Tony Yeykal

THE OCULIST'S PATIENT

                                      Rise and look around you....

                                                                ON A CLEAR DAY

                                                                                        Alan Jay Lerner

It was as if by flipping a lens

I witnessed the world in that phoropter -

clear as baby skin and crisp at the edges.

Like the veins in leaves were mountain streams.

Like a pubic hair was a tall pine.

Later we stood in the alley behind his shop,

smoking and smelling Chinese food,

with me trying to describe what happened -

the bestowal of a mystical gift

on an unworthy without forewarning.

Being a paid devotee of science, of course,

he would have nothing to do with numinosity.

I almost completely understood,

having been there myself before the exam.

Yet there were spirits all around

in perfectly pressed tuxedos, ballroom gowns.

The iris of a cat was an obsidian ring.

An orphaned hubcap a full autumn moon.

 

 

 

JIMMY UNDER GLASS

Jimmy has ballooned behind bars,

minnow to blowfish,

and frankly it suits him.

The kid's been hard schooled

by the pack of tattooed Darwinians

suspended inside this aquarium

holding disinfected handsets

while searching the besieged eyes

of mothers and wives and girlfriends

weary of upending their hearts

twice a week for thirty minutes

to shake what remains back into the tank.

Slices of Jimmy's ear and nose

were first to go. Then his wristwatch

and gold chain. Then his t.v.

He's seen heads split on cinderblock

and vanish down toilets.

So the weight really does become him.

He's learning to cover his ass.

Enlarging not to perish in these depths.

I congratulate him on the phone.

What else can I do?

Reel him in for a seafood buffet?

 

 

 

THE RECIPROCATOR

He marked the unpaid candles

he lit at the side altars

of the musty old cathedral

in a little spiral notebook

his buried mother

had kept in her big purse

for reminders and grocery lists.

If he got answers

the saints would get their due.

It otherwise remained on the books.

So far he'd lined through

a court-halted eviction notice

and forgiven utility bill.

Eight successful plasma donations.   

Ten quarters went into the slot.

Winter showed no mercy.

He mixed grain alcohol with orange juice.

Scraped the bottoms and sides of jars.

Slept in jeans and gray sweatshirts.

Late mornings he laid a taper

on the black wick of another sorrowful statue

before finding a carrel in the library

to carefully record his entry

while unthawing the ice in his bones.

 

 

 

Tony Yeykal's poems have appeared in Art World Quarterly, Blackheart Magazine, decomP Magazine and Emprise Review. He is a part-time distributor of medical goods to India, and has periodically granted himself long stretches of time to read, write, reflect and idle away the days. Two poets he holds in esteem are Joseph Brodsky and Robert Creeley.

 

 

Two Poems by Denny E. Marshall

Litter Bug

Words can (shake
Spear) into the skin
And play
Right on to (thee
Ate her) books
Dance to music
Call out pages
While all (litter
Sure) has a place



Control

Loneliness is like a pillow
A short…
distance is fine
Still from fifty…











                                 …feet
It won’t protect you
Sometimes I wish I were really alone
And the chiffon demons would leave
There not mine anyway
Too, have cupid’s arrow-smiths
And the other one
Exit my sub–conscience mist




Denny E. Marshall has had poetry recently published and rejected.

A Poem by Steve Klepetar

Mongolian Grill

He eats lunch here almost every day, stands in a long
line contemplating: peanut oil or hot sesame or something 

squeezed from black mushroom or root?  He rubs
his hands. Today he offers up his suit to grill, blue fibers

hissing in the wok, foaming to a glaze with bok choy,
pea pods and ears of miniature corn.  He adds a hank

of graying hair, a handful of teeth from his jaunty grin. 
All around the day darkens; pigeons gather on windowsills.

His mind is filled with memories and salt. Women
dance for him in a trail of limbs.  A waterman, he finds

himself locked in this continent of ice. The rhythms
he feels have frozen in his blood and his hot breath

rises, forced from a dangerous mine.  All the canaries
have died, the white mules rebellious and strange,

their red eyes aflame with fear.  He smiles
and his greeting confirms emptiness and his childless

arms.  Who are these wives he loves still, broken
fragments of some great entanglement?  Whose dog

has he chased through a cluster of wild, white birds? 
He thinks his home might lie in another country,

where blossoms have a different taste and every word,
mispronounced, is carved into the cavern of his open mouth. 

Steve Klepetar teaches literature and creative writing at Saint Cloud State University.  His work has appeared all over the U.S., as well as in Canada, England, Northern Ireland, France, Australia and India.  His latest collection is Speaking to the Field Mice, recently released by Sweatshoppe Publications.

Two Poems by Martin Willitts, Jr.

Anise

            (Pimpinella anisum)

   

Canopies of while umbrellas with licorice taste,

where are the dreams you promised?

 

Dreams have secret meanings until they are broken.

My wife suggests that I am foolish,

 

you are for menstrual cramps. No wonder wishes lead

to nothing. No wonder rain rises from earth to sky.

 

Nothing is what I thought it was. My wishes are wrong,

tasting of black-licorice rain.

 

 

 

 

Tanka

   

Three unripe persimmons are yesterday

not wasting words

with the nothing it has forgotten

telling one secret

generation to generation

 

 

 

 

Martin Willitts Jr has four full length poetry collections and over 20 chapbooks including recently, “Late All Night Sessions with Charlie “the Bird” Parker and the Members of Birdland, in Take-Three” (A Kind Of a Hurricane Press, ebook, 2013). His forthcoming poetry books include “Waiting For The Day To Open Its Wings” (UNBOUND Content, 2013), “Art Is the Impression of an Artist” (Edgar and Lenore's Publishing House, 2013), “City Of Tents” (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2013), "A Is for Aorta" (Seven Circles Press, e-book, 2013), "Swimming In the Ladle of Stars" (Kattywompus Press, 2013),  and he is the winner of the inaugural Wild Earth Poetry Contest for his full length collection “Searching For What Is Not There” (Hiraeth Press, 2013).

A Poem by Lance Sheridan

and in her eyes

delinquent children skip rope in a street,

steal moments of sanity

fire hydrant water washes away the dirt,

the remains of a previous day

bare feet feel the pull,

the weak suffer

hot black top city pavement,

taxi tires melt

in place

meters ticking,

ticking

one fifth of a mile comes out

of knock off

wallets,

purses

preacher in a church laughs a

hallowed laugh,

abscond with holy water,

abscond with collection

plate change

does the steepled fingers before

inserting a key in a benz

police officer taps on window car

glass for a slice

of a holy pie

sandlot slide zone in an empty lot,

once, a building,

once, families lived

now watch 

sandlotters play, know of caliber

handguns hidden under

bases

plans of shooting the messenger

shooting the landlord

tenant

but, hands still cold from 

winter frost

on glass

vagrants kick stones through brittle,

crisp mornings;

on a damp sidewalk, collar up to

be inconspicuous, 

i perchanced,

looked up 

at a solitary Victorian window,

she, with black lace on hands,

with black lace covering

a beautiful look,

i climbed into her eyes,

became a part

of an expression,

she handed me a deep silence,

had a story

held it up on written paper,

black ink dripping onto Victorian

rug, words 

formed in a small, dark puddle,

crept through fibers into 

cracks in a planked,

uneven floor,

resident below placed them neatly 

in a dirty mason jar,

closed with a rusted, uneven lid;

i invited myself up,

she opened a door, slowly,

somewhat reluctantly

i asked to read what was left 

on parchment

a life like a prow in still waters,

yet waves broke

broke her spirit,

i sympathized,

she kissed me

with blue delicate eyes;

on her finger, mark of a 

wedding band

the husband, an undercover cop,

found dead in an

abandoned factory,

birds nest in 

broken window frames

she cried, eyes now hollow

like potholes in 

waxed tabletops,

"i cannot possibly fit myself into

this world any longer,"

she turned away and gestured 

for me to leave,

beyond her look, beyond her veil,

she stood by a lonely

window

waiting,

waiting

for her love to return...

Lance Sheridan—

Published writer—Bits and Pieces to Ponder/Self-Help/2002 

Published poet—Poet Interview on November 8, 2012 by a Salisbury University Journalism Major/Salisbury, MD; poem 'Night into Day/Goodnight Till the Morning Sun'/11-12/napalmandnovocain.blogspot; poem 'Night into Day/Goodnight Till the Morning Sun' has been accepted for inclusion in the 2012 Best of Anthology, Storm Cycle

blog—deadheadingpoet.wordpress.com; has received over 75,000 views since June 2012. One poet on my work, "Whoa … ur writing is incredible." April Pardocchi

Three Poems by Christopher Kenneth Hanson

Soon Lit Doves

 

Void, where my heart lay bare

to the disconsolate sea- 

Vacant still weeping- 

By bridges made in sill, 

Or yonder:

By the night 

by the soon lit doves

in void where traffic utters 

of staunch fray- 

The callous vapidity-

ergo as stoned jive:

keeps some here muttering, intangibly-

seeking clouds of better debate 

Now void, the night by the soon lit doves. 

Bare to, the disconsolate hipsters- 

Vacant here weeping by bridges made of sill

So still to cry, the soon lit doves.

 

 

 

A Cemetery Of Daisies

 

A limestone statue of a vagabond saint; 

The Pacific Ocean breaks across shaded dunes- 

Lift gentle lips and pull through to tide 

Now, a stem of this tall tulip training With the candied orange tongue, 

And the fire engine red petal-of gleaming hues.

 

{*}

 

Rows of fresh picked daisies line her copper pockets as Karen runs to shore, her small feet slushing in the wet blanketed sand. I have seen her briefly And in her brilliance she would save

many of the dearest, Though too many here, have been laid to rest.

 

 

 

A Wayfarer, Cursory

 

Spence, sprawled at dawn- his pillow case, 

a bed of leaves Stuffed animals line much of this, 

{his open space}

 

One animal, Spence calls Tycoz, the tiger. 

He pets the frothy mane of Tycoz and exclaims- 

What a polite and precious lady cat.

 

Now- Spence may look up after a spell, 

And address a few other pets by his kind words-

     But what he could really use is some change.

 

 

 

 

 

Christopher Kenneth Hanson (ckhanson81)

ckhanson81@gmail.com

http://sites.google.com/site/ckhanson81}

https://www.youtube.com/user/ckhanson81

https://sites.google.com/site/indieartsl/

Two Poems by Judy Hall

Open Fire

 

I first noticed his ears

Which were too large for his head

And seemed to hear whispers

Unexpectedly

 

His hair was trimmed closely around

These olive ears, olive skin

So unpale against my freckled blueness

Dark where I am light

 

I get these passing fancies  

Obsessed with dusky collarbones

My mind going somewhere

 

Disallowed

 

Into some experimental fire

 

My carnal world is a rich inferno

Embroiling my bare skin

Setting alight my sugary heart, an

Erotic crème brulee

 

My own world is in conflict with the world without

My lascivious nature is what the psalms warn men of

Women like me have always cause consternation

Chastised for salaciousness –

Edicts are made about women like me

I will not be possessed;

Absolutely feline in nature, no one can discern my name

Only my lover knows how to entice me back home,

Both content with my humors,

My desire to be petted and then left alone.

 

So call me what you will as I take in the oliveman

Take him in as I please –

My body is my own;

My lover knows my mind and loves

The fullness of my flame.

 

 

A Poem from the Editors

Dear Ms. ___________________

Thank you for your story.

We aren’t saying that it sucks

We are just saying that it doesn’t fit with our vision.

At this time.

We know spent hours on this story.

It’s obvious that you craft your stories well.

But George didn’t like the father, and we think it may be that he has

Daddy issues himself, but we won’t say that,

And Rachel thought you needed more scenes

With less dialogue and more description of the

Hospital room because we just couldn’t see it, you know?

When you say that the tubing hung around him like slithering snakes ready to strike

Are you implying that the juxtaposition of the snake to his head was like the birth of Christ?

Because we didn’t see that.

Please send us your work again,

Please use our online submission machine

Please don’t worry if you don’t hear from us for a year

There’re only us and two grad students here.

Yours truly,

The Editors

 

 

 

Judy Hall is a teacher of English both at the high school and college level.  She has a Masters in Literature from Rutgers and is an MFA candidate at William Paterson.  She's been previously published in Outsider Ink.  She lives in New Jersey with her husband, three children, a very stupid cat named Vladimir and an evil cat named Tonks and a number of unnamed fish.