Articles on this Page
- 03/26/13--21:00: _Kislay Chauhan - Fi...
- 03/27/13--10:00: _Ryan Quinn Flanagan...
- 03/28/13--09:49: _Richard Schnap - On...
- 03/28/13--13:30: _John Harper - Two P...
- 03/28/13--18:30: _Matthew Wilson - On...
- 04/01/13--09:07: _John W. Sexton - Fo...
- 04/03/13--12:08: _Jean Amery - One Poem
- 04/05/13--17:22: _L. L. Kelly - One P...
- 04/08/13--20:52: _Robert P. Hansen - ...
- 04/10/13--21:00: _L. Kinney - Two Poem
- 05/09/13--19:05: _Holly Day - Three P...
- 05/09/13--20:11: _Bruce Edward Litton...
- 05/09/13--22:12: _A.J. Kaufmann - Thr...
- 05/10/13--11:30: _Gregory Liffick - F...
- 05/10/13--21:00: _Benjamin Joseph Bie...
- 05/11/13--08:00: _Maurice Devitt - On...
- 05/11/13--17:05: _James Shrader - One...
- 05/12/13--05:00: _Carol Oberg - Three...
- 05/13/13--06:00: _Anna Gaccione - One...
- 07/31/14--12:47: _David S. Pointer - ...
- 03/26/13--21:00: Kislay Chauhan - Five Poems
- 03/27/13--10:00: Ryan Quinn Flanagan - Two Poems
- 03/28/13--09:49: Richard Schnap - One Poem
- 03/28/13--13:30: John Harper - Two Poems
- 03/28/13--18:30: Matthew Wilson - One Poem
- 04/01/13--09:07: John W. Sexton - Four Poems
- 04/03/13--12:08: Jean Amery - One Poem
- 04/05/13--17:22: L. L. Kelly - One Poem
- 04/08/13--20:52: Robert P. Hansen - Three Poems
- 04/10/13--21:00: L. Kinney - Two Poem
- 05/09/13--19:05: Holly Day - Three Poems
- 05/09/13--20:11: Bruce Edward Litton - Two Poems
- 05/09/13--22:12: A.J. Kaufmann - Three Poems
- 05/10/13--11:30: Gregory Liffick - Five Poems
- 05/10/13--21:00: Benjamin Joseph Biesek - One Poem
- 05/11/13--08:00: Maurice Devitt - One Poem
- 05/11/13--17:05: James Shrader - One Poem
- 05/12/13--05:00: Carol Oberg - Three Poems
- 05/13/13--06:00: Anna Gaccione - One Poem
- 07/31/14--12:47: David S. Pointer - One Poem
Tides in absorbed sunlight, dry sand desert
Whitish glare, seeking mirror boats
Where time is dried, moments sweat
Music in flames, days on the roots
Dewdrops of morning search shadow
Where sun is more leaned, cleaned but hard
The outsized branches, curvy eyes of leaves
Stony feet the sharp fingers digging surface
The labors with spades mining the place
Small spiders with sewing tensing wounds
Blocking airs impelling to breath high
With black and white scenes and sky
Turning years of hooks and scissors without rain
Striving bones, sore throats of birds and beasts
And then steady rocks of bronzed silence
Little weeds the waiters of years
And no one dares, no one hears
Only the tails of trees bounding water
Spongy blue ribs spread out of chest
The boats only mirages peeping far away
Forever a mirage alone never gets any meet
Dazzling waves decorate them hanging mirrors
The last storm all forgot but still the signs there
Desert fencing borders far of the crowds
Where only cheerful nights smile
And afternoon songs are tired unto evenings
When all the stars dine together
On sand-sheet, sand with resting eyes
An Old Age
A mechanical heart, desolated
Standing solemn around weaving silky water
Water of eyes, inveterate healer
On grass of sorrow by wind directing ways
Lifted breath burden on the lungs
Frightened gazes of nerves hugging heart
Dripping sights of memory in front of legs
The day of last heartbeat of his words
Dissolving in fog of all directions,
Peeping shadows of memories from cloak
Someone almost lost the grace of life
And somewhere pulses thunder to get out
Rotten skin with blooming sights and spirit
The layers of irregular breath stiffened
Where every valley is not straight to cross
Distinguished desires without any complaints
Certain limping stick in hand for way
Every step, summing up a journey
Dull head, digging shoulders, wide glasses
Which seems something binocular badges
Lost quartz of teeth, shrugging expression
Occasional smiles filling lonely times
He just needs help to cross that road
And lakes of sorrow and solitude
And listening last seasonal singing of birds
Every step with folding calm days in arms
Preaching eyes of life need assistance of love
An old man carrying belief of life, belief of life
Slowing prints, waves take a walk
With numbed faces for one end
Once again looping fear was formed there
Over still eyes of snails by offshore wind
Some striding crabs around coastline
Tear-stains the patches by seaside
Along wet sand I would like to retire
Stillness of darker truth and my life
The misty colors in straight sun strings
Inaudible songs of seagulls and seabirds
A misty silence, a moving street
The drops steal my back footprints
Two lonely rooms, my soul, my shadow
Over and over, many times through my breath
Thick peeling off earth’s surface under feet
Setting up a dream-house through seashore
A single dream, floating with every ray
Rising different gleams, different dreams
Over and over till end to end
A breezing ghost, with siren sound by ears
And in far away blue waves
Binders of my breath—
Many things unsolved there spread stones
The diaphanous destinations change stations
With every tide, with every wobble
A dried log of life witness there from years
Broken both sides and dubious eyes
That was the last meeting with that log
At that last night, when dreadful wave came
Then all witnesses were ended forever
Face of The Nature
A painted face of nature, flashing sun
Feeble walks of days and nights on the face
Eyes the trees, mountains of different shapes
Our visionary guides for our journey
A little temple appears in dawn and dusk
Holding life to show us god for every question
Sounds of small bells bounded in the temple
A brilliant echo of nature and its voice
Street lights the stars for night to dream
The sleeping nature with a guard, the moon
A fortnight duty of moon caring all the ways
By tender lullabies of breeze and sea-waves
Smile, the rivers with radiant water and falls
Hairs the fringes and fragrance of the flowers
Forehead the horizon, emotions rise and set there
Ears of temples, churches and mosques where
Elusive brows of sun and moon rays on eyes
Watching shyness with garden of red roses
The attempting joy and sorrow, gardens and grays
Anger seems little creepy with craters and bays
Foggy sights and seasonal feeling ever-changing
Snowing teeth when eyes raining or autumnal hair
Beautiful nature different in different regions
But same in all aspects, to care, love and inspire
Heart Of Wood
Somewhere a box filled emotions
Of wood, built round bit for life
Different cherishes keeping in
Supplying sets of dreams’ belief
A lock of ego, anger and hate
With key of help, kindness and love
The sides varnished with tender
A sort of wood flinching in fear
Slanted, corners of silence, spiritual
Stiffing to ground, burns in fire
Fire of love, hurt and desires
Wrapping cloths of seasons boiling
Lonely narrow boxes...
Strange boards made of wood
Devouring colors of surfaces
Edges broken, steeping to ground
An old tomb, with torn boundary
A monument lasts for a breath
Breath that unlocks lock, loneliness
Wooden box, clouds, rains and keys
Sunlight heals it up, an artifact
Parallel conditions, stars run above
May be one day, we put it as monument
Lonely, only memory of old swarms
When it used to have everything
Heart of wood, now in a museum
Motionless, a show for strangers
Having life, all of wood, to be painted
Or to be burned to warm some
Kislay Chauhan is a computer engineer, 25 year old, He has written four poetry books “ Takhir,” “The Vague,” “Once And for All” and “The Edges of The Spirit."
The Phone Cord from The Wall is a Twisting Snake of Wonder
It has been very quiet, of late,
the brown bag wisdom of half-eaten sandwiches,
much dish soap on the window sill without comment,
me, sitting here in my undershorts
on the couch
watching a carpet beetle rediscover America,
Columbus of the many legs,
a favourite of buckwheat whores,
and there is no telling how the knives in the wall
I hear life is unpredictable, that’s what they say, right?:
expect a mudslide and a yellow parakeet arrives,
drain flies in the margarine, and
Not to worry, though,
I’m as sane as the next bed
still defecating in the bowl
and hanging postcards on the fridge
Which reminds me,
I must remember to check the flashlight
so there will be shadow puppets
on the wall
Less than 20 000 kms
and his tires
are already bald.
And he is balding too.
We are both 30
year old men-
reasonably healthy -
seems to come to a man
all at once.
He combs over
some of it,
but we both
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a happily unmarried proud father of none.
He believed that churches should all be burned down
And women were either stupid or mean
As he filled his loft with a thousand recordings
Of punk rock idols who had early deaths
But when he heard the toll of Sunday bells
Or the lilting laughter of a passing girl
He knew he could never collect enough noise
To drown out the echoes of his homeless heart
Richard Schnap is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of print and online publications.
now among a question
i can’t ask,
and in seeming more so than waiting,
there’s something larger
inside this being, getting nearer—
softly let it ask of me, then,
conflagration angel—whom i thought
as but a pausing desire from my lips—
what of which needs buried, and what of me needs burned
in opal air held high,
unlocking the rounds of peace and war
from tunnels of vast, darkened messages
i’ve scratched out, and cried into,
from the heart of a cold statue watching
space go by, in the moon’s silver light—
in feeling done, or tired, or blinded,
with waiting for an incandescent
answer to come,
what else can i do
but naturally fall within a joyous range—
i’m waiting for the true moment to happen,
but sometimes i do see how so very much
it doesn’t occur to me why i believe
it’s actually not already
happening right now, and only right now—
like when letting go a spot
i’ve been gazing at on a stream,
it feels as i’m itself sliding along clear rivulets,
without any focused particulars,
or boundary between—
i tend to heavily stick around, hovering
at either frustrating extreme of best and worst
self-fascinations; and i will do this
till i see what really counts; all of me
must come through the parting thought
that i’m any more than a moment—
John Harper is a graduate of the Writer’s Workshop at Iowa, and has published his poetry in literary journals like Diagram, Mid-American Poetry Review, Cutbank, Spinning Jenny and Zoland Poetry. He was a book finalist with Four Way Books, and has a chapbook called PEEK-A-BOO TERRAIN.
wings of hair
plume the perfect plummet
Speak, Write Say, Hope, Do, Move.
Speak, write say, hope, do, move.
Say there is still something left to fight for.
Write these few lines a sad tribute.
Hope that every second I've spent has not been in vain.
Say, that each day I feel a little stronger.
Write that my convalescence is nearing its end.
Hope that I have enough strength in me to fight again.
Do not fail, do not fall,
Write that I see myself reborn in that reflection.
Hope that those cold blue eyes will be rekindled with fire.
I do still believe in all of this I swear I do.
Move forward, once more to the barricades.
One more time I will speak,
I will say I crossed the long chasm of despair.
Say I knew there was something on the other side.
Say that there is always more.
Write that I don't have all of the answers.
Write that my revolt is far from over.
I have so many days left to live so many fights left in me.
Write these lines down as I feel my heart pump.
And I hope I will keep up the fight.
And I hope that my words will not fall on deaf ears.
And I hope that I am not alone.
And I hope that you have not forgotten who I am.
|Jean Améry received a Masters Degree in Arts, in History. He's been previously published on The Cynic Online Magazine.|
the memory of
with the grim reaper
splattered on the stair way.
New paint and carpet
is no disguise for
such a desperate act.
we must wait our turn.
Budging in line is considered to be
the height of selfishness and rudeness.
In this instance,
with selfishness and impatience
being the cornerstone of our relationship,
I understand your reasons.
I must forgive you.
It seems the soul collector needs an assistant.
His workload has become unmanageable.
Too many suffer, waiting in the queue,
while others are taken too soon.
Lorna Kelly uses the pen name L. L. Kelly, and makes her home in Denver Colorado. She lives with her daughter and her cat who often unknowingly serve as muse. Lorna has been sharing her poetry on: http://l-inque.deviantart.com/ https://www.facebook.com/LLKellypoetry
joyfully in the third degree.
All over the walls,
a child covering the halls
with a matchbook crayon.
Red in color,
black in sight,
just like a fiend
creating an agent
who roams only at night
to carry more of the curtain
and alarming the sound
on free verse and antiquity.
It's only relative, you see,
in the eyes of what used to be
a smiling understanding.
Contorted and distorted now
into classical splatterpost.
Tears will not run for you
when lies are what you hand out.
Destruction for power
in a manipulated population.
If that's what the prize is
then smoke is what you dance with.
B Side Track
for the game.
plastered in the masses.
Give me a rest
from the crime.
I found more,
hidden behind smiles
and inside the eyes
of drowning liars.
These strange hearts
beat bad, a bitter song,
that cries out
for more glamour
to last for a life time.
The swindle still rings
in my ears
with the beginning underfoot,
confusing the connections
waiting and turning,
for an end.
bounce life in a game.
Blames one thing for another,
replacing the light
to fabricate what was once
I am not blind
to side wind on the B side.
to the opinions
while waiting for truth
to come alive.
L. Kinney is a metrical and free verse poet, writing in diversity and classical distance.
Holly Day is a housewife and mother of two living in Minneapolis, Minnesota who teaches needlepoint classes for the Minneapolis school district and writing classes at The Loft Literary Center. Her poetry has recently appeared in The Worcester Review, Broken Pencil, and Slipstream, and she is the recipient of the 2011 Sam Ragan Poetry Prize from Barton College. Her most recent published books are "Walking Twin Cities" and"Notenlesen für Dummies Das Pocketbuch."
Remembering Fahrenheit 451
Coldest depths of space,
Remote and weightless darkness,
Void between relations
Surrendered to indirection—
No fire could burn
As absolute zero would seize
Functions meant for a world.
Tight money clenched
Until girders break
Holding up ceilings and bridges,
Vanguard endures unknown.
A child emerges
From the stars’ womb
And begins to shape the world anew
As suitors of the old vanish,
Penetrated by arrows of an Odysseus
Vagabond and bare, peer of the father
Tending to his son.
Knowledge and art fills the child
As does bread and water.
Light is added to darkness;
Air stirs in light’s heat.
Wind resembles world’s whorl.
And the moon’s appearance,
Fragmentarily appearing behind a cloud,
Is like the father’s shattered face
When smoke shifts over a lonely fire.
Flood of Dreams
Forests drain darkness, leaden light pours
Onto plains pursued by molten flames.
Omaha shimmers a steel suit.
Downpours dropped from tiers
Of eastward roaming thunderheads
Glaze a merchant gazebo like pottery.
The dark insides of purses and wallets
Complement knee sockets above wet concrete,
Pedestrian sway approaching day’s work grind.
Bodies feed a beast of energy—
Wood fires here once warmed settlement hearths;
Electronic signals extend the city globally.
Supercell hailstones like littleneck clams stripped,
Eaten, their broken shells discarded
Like wampum on a stone floor—
Rain flows over pavement and through soil beyond
The open door, swallows and reproduces stone
Like the calcium armor of mollusks,
As if fluidity at once seeks
Dark of oblivion and light of being,
Form mineralizing, time suspended,
Ground stable in gravity’s equilibrium
As fingers’ presses link an electrical storm.
Confused in Omaha’s lit glare, desperate
For a drink as if rum will dissolve the constellation
Of neon inspired illusions within himself,
A banker sits at the raw bar,
Forks a living clam, and douses
Horseradish and ketchup, slamming the rum
Bruce Edward Litton's poetry appears in Ocean, Small Brushes, The Fauquier Poetry Journal, other journals, and will soon appear in Columbia Review.
show me, great sailor
a womb of dismay
unconquerable African dusks
w/ which maddening tyrants
play, chaos drags them, lords
of bagpipe orbits; midnight masters
grading flame, ashes of every
breathless zeal to give what’s never renewed
back to the cloud fleet: soarings, circlings
native rhyme bulks
from eternity springs ancient sting w/ flesh
peoples, grace, Dante's rapture
kind crime of mourning
are you still heralding the fire
now that sun's been betrayed
moon quartered, last quiet carcass,
once the fruits I could smell through me
in ecstatic prayer
brave Spanish master, show me
flocks of mind, your arrogant
blinding religion, can you soar on such
throne? hell’s cataract you climbed
pendant minds? inspiring lightnings?
today’s transfigured ruins
Soul's Eagle God
whirl yourself where
planet's sunrise takes it to the mountains
gloats in huge brains, rising from Earth's trashcan
black cosmic blood wings chant: to hell with fortune & generations
finger head & liberty
let’s blend the larks w/ weeds
bone nation horror
no man's embrace
that chaos of a city
once great lionic soul, human lung ice field
boasts the flies
on & above ocean breaths
starry justice's spirit
sparks, blood-eyed tramps,
mines, days, flowers: apex gory nights
must-have caves of the region
to all the monsters of America ghastly, of and about
the guns, thyme, false love, heaven feed columns – all that
& more, the subliming slime teaching me
w/ hastened dreams of every slain child
I lit up words that warm it
when demons slain saint’s people, okay,
what have I forgotten, by stagnant milk
& hamburgers, I merged w/ what destroys me
souls echoed love
freedom’s columns said goodnight
true were those ages
now sun attunes my freedom
to invaders’ simple tongues:
wing-whir blood church floorshow
Great American Novel (Condensed)
chapters you read – surface that
face the doctor
who seems to come
from lower breed
of fake ignored revolvers
& stranger covered
obedience to the devils
and rare submissive crew
putting your beard
through outvoted peering
pamphlets you read – inside that
in kinetic print
that images fooled you
i peer at black panes with merry awareness of the dead
a neon pack stuffed with idioms adorns me i once
docked in the bay area and ate out a girl at a diner with a
waitress hotter than etude nine
i might attempt to i might remain awake and elude violent
dreams but the source of her depression rages below the
surface oh at night mister gandhi
might have ben
Benjamin Joseph Biesek is a bastard poet who claims that time is just a concept and doctors are magnificent, and he is available to talk via Skype if needs be.
Is this what
you were born to:
the sound of thunder
in an upstairs room,
on the palm
of your hand -
sweat of blue ink
a childless life -
set to zero
and in this fixed fragment
only the silent song
of a passing bell?
Maurice Devitt has just been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and in 2012 was runner-up in the Cork Literary Review Manuscript Competition, short-listed for the Listowel Writers’ Week Poetry Collection Competition and had poems accepted by Orbis, Abridged, Skylight 47, Southword, Moloch, Revival, Boyneberries, Paraxis, Weary Blues, thefirstcut, Red Fez, Spinoza Blue, The Galway Review, Other Words: Merida, Stony Thursday, Ofi Press, Bluepepper, The Weekenders and Smiths Knoll.
When She Comes
First one I remember
it is Christmas Eve. Outside
my bedroom window colored lights are strung
along a bending length of fence in the cool Florida night.
In the morning there will be fog.
Her knees are saddled
against the plates of my pelvis,
anchoring her. Each time her back wall—
where it tents—clamps down on me painfully
her eyelids flutter and her lips part vacantly. Beautiful, she falls
backward a bit, arching as if against a headwind. Impaled
on my modest length of mast, her arms lift outward
as if to catch the wind. Lifting outward
as if crucified. Each time
I have to shake
In old Dallas,
in a converted Victorian,
pink curtains filter streetlight
like a scarf draped over a tiffany lamp,
like an ancient house of burlesque.
Atop me she swells.
As an athlete she
excelled, all points of her body
graded on the curve. She leans forward, clasping
her hands behind the base of my skull, elbows finding purchase
in my collarbones. A Muay-Thai fighting clinch. Her wails resonate
through the groaning, antebellum building, and when she spasms, the hiss
and spit of a lawn sprinkler spigot, a warm spray in choppy bursts.
When we rise to survey the damage the pink sheets are stained
wet with the negative impression of my form. The lighter,
dry trunk of my torso forking into two legs.
A crime scene outline,
Central New York
in winter. The frozen mouth
of the Mohawk Valley. The most beautiful, married
mother of two, a born-again Baptist in a town full of Catholics.
If her balding husband were a better Christian
she wouldn’t be doing this,
Her icy blue
bedroom eyes and swollen,
clichéd lips say otherwise. With me
above her hoisting her hips, the sweetest nectar
branches along the peach fuzz of her lightly scarred navel
then converges in a narrow torrent between her breasts. With her
above me we ruin my roommate’s air mattress, the stuff pooling in the seams,
to my wrist where I support my weight to sit up. We flip over couch
cushions once, then again. Eventually we burn wounds
into our knees and along our spines from the old,
rough carpet. The floor there is wet for days
and cold as outside the snow
James Shrader's nonfiction has appeared in the Florida Review and Awosting Alchemy.
Did you see me fall against the house
When I put my cigarette butt in the pop can
And after popping back up from my knees
Fall, back, again, on my butt;
I wasn’t drunk at 9 a.m.
Nor still tipsy from the night before
But it hasn’t happened again
So it’s hardly even a thought now-
Unless someone, like you,
Saw me fall, pop back up
Only to do it again that
On the dry deck
In my winter jacket
Scarf, hat, the gloveless hands
Of a serious outdoor smoker
And called all the neighbors
Your entire widespread family
Then posted the video of it
On your facebook page
Then it would be a thought
Worth my sweaty alarm
Because you could be anywhere
Everywhere I am falling next
One time after another
Picking myself up all alone
Unless I am broke can
And can not pop up.
Sunshine Makes Rain Impossible
The first green grass
Is that linguini piece
Growing behind the wood stove
That exhales wide tubes of smoke
Without inhaling ever and
The thermostat’s set at 67
But its 75 inside again with
Most of the windows open.
It’s time we let the
Fire burn out and in bed
Before dawn decide
To make that long trip
To town because
There are not enough
Blankets in this house.
On the opposite wall the cheap print looks
Remarkably like you hanging for real
But lifeless, the fake eyes bulging wet-like
Above the proud manipulations of your generous
Head and long neck sawed off, glued tight to
An oak board nailed sturdy onto knotty pines
Someone ages ago went searching the virgin woods
To cut down, hand saw and plane, varnish yellow
The walls and ceilings with deep grooves for winter flies
And spiders to nestle their own in safe hiding
As the years turn the cabin planks shiny orange
Waiting for others to go back out
Search deep in the quiet November forest
For your kind my dear. You poor deer
God made smart enough to grow, to even crown
Your head with a mighty rack for all to wildly pursue
The glorious boast-- Got One
to take and eat then show the rest of you off
No knife no fork scrapes anywhere, you’re magnificent
Alive in multiple memories, some of you buried in white
Forever hiding, collecting inches of freezer burn
but with us. Still.
Carol Oberg has published widely with Blue Mountain Arts, Inc.; was one of three featured poets( ten poems published) in Ancient Paths Literary Magazine, issue 16, in 2010; in the fall will have a poem published in The Fourth River (Chatham University). She and her husband are retired on a small inland lake in Michigan's Upper Penninsula.
Upon a Neglected Wall
The sun’s gaze lands
Upon a neglected wall
Usually hidden by darkness.
Light wakes the colors.
Rosewood and russet greet each other.
They begin to dance
Back and forth across the bricks.
Dust stretches towards the light
Having been confined too long
On sills and awnings.
People rush back and forth
Like mindless worker ants, blind
The sun slowly turns its gaze.
Darkness gradually gains power,
Once again suffocating the wall.
The secret is lost in the dark
Until the sun grants it life again.
Maybe then someone will stop
And find the joy in stopping.
Anna Gaccione was born in Virginia in 1992. She has a black belt in Taekwondoe and attends Shorter University.