Articles on this Page
- 08/05/14--17:51: _A.J. Kaufmann - One...
- 08/06/14--14:37: _Scott Vanya - One P...
- 08/07/14--09:30: _Trish Saunders - Tw...
- 08/08/14--08:00: _P.W. Covington - Th...
- 08/11/14--07:55: _Grant Tabard - Two ...
- 08/27/14--08:39: _Joseph Saling - One...
- 08/28/14--06:54: _Caitlan Johnson - O...
- 08/29/14--09:00: _Abigail Wyatt - Two...
- 08/30/14--08:00: _Stefanie Bennett - ...
- 08/31/14--09:00: _John Grey - Three P...
- 09/02/14--10:51: _Michael Brautigan -...
- 09/03/14--12:57: _Roscoe Matthews - O...
- 09/07/14--07:30: _Robert F. Gross - T...
- 09/08/14--12:01: _Donna J. Snyder - T...
- 09/09/14--08:30: _Ben Newell - One Poem
- 09/11/14--07:00: _Marianne Szlyk - On...
- 09/14/14--08:00: _Tom Hall - One Poem
- 09/18/14--15:49: _J.J. Campbell - One...
- 09/24/14--09:51: _Michael Ceraolo - O...
- 09/25/14--07:30: _Gary Beck - Three P...
- 08/05/14--17:51: A.J. Kaufmann - One Poem
- 08/06/14--14:37: Scott Vanya - One Poem
- 08/07/14--09:30: Trish Saunders - Two Poems
- 08/08/14--08:00: P.W. Covington - Three Poems
- 08/11/14--07:55: Grant Tabard - Two Poems
- 08/27/14--08:39: Joseph Saling - One Poem
- 08/28/14--06:54: Caitlan Johnson - One Poem
- 08/29/14--09:00: Abigail Wyatt - Two Poems
- 08/30/14--08:00: Stefanie Bennett - Two Poems
- 08/31/14--09:00: John Grey - Three Poems
- 09/02/14--10:51: Michael Brautigan - Two Poems
- 09/03/14--12:57: Roscoe Matthews - One Poem
- 09/07/14--07:30: Robert F. Gross - Two Poems
- 09/08/14--12:01: Donna J. Snyder - Two Poems
- 09/09/14--08:30: Ben Newell - One Poem
- 09/11/14--07:00: Marianne Szlyk - One Poem
- 09/14/14--08:00: Tom Hall - One Poem
- 09/18/14--15:49: J.J. Campbell - One Poem
- 09/24/14--09:51: Michael Ceraolo - One Poem
- 09/25/14--07:30: Gary Beck - Three Poems
Sitting in the sand, wrapped in
brain branches pine brainy
who would like a wife
in addition to singing moles
who wouldn't want to hide from the world
in coastal trees
& acid laced 7up
sitting in auroras entangled
before the morning light
sitting clothed in airiness
over the fresh bonfires glow
where are the Slavic girls
fun Sunday nudists
whom even anarchists chase away from the beach
hear the sirens already, war
article of clothing commando
-disappears- the corpse from the beach
there, in the naked Bar-Do.
A.J. Kaufmann is from Poznan, Poland. His work has previously appeared in ditch, Carcinogenic Poetry, Clockwise Cat, Red Ceilings and many other, mostly on-line, journals. He's the author of "Siva in Rags" (Kendra Steiner Editions, 2008), "Broke Nuptial Minds" (Virgogray Press, 2009) and other poetry chapbooks.
As Calliope and I Crawl into Bed Together
As Calliope and I crawl in to bed together,
it is with reckless
I write this.
Only 20 minutes to birth
this bun in the oven,
and she will wait
And I know, she has had
as I have had
as well as her.
Yet, none of them,
Kali (see "Oblivion"),
Death (see "Despair"),
and the many things
I have imbibed and ingested;
as she and I crawl off to bed,
so do you
sleep with love
just waiting to be born,
to be hatched
from out of your flesh.
And it will not be long,
'fore she and I
all the sheets
get down to it.
The love-making art,
where the rhythms
pound and earth
come rising out of us
we entwine all
"Sleep now," she says.
"You have done well," she says,
"to honor me.
and for you
I will do the same."
if there be
it is she who
sits beside me as I write.
We giggle a bit,
and forget our loneliness,
for soon we are
to crawl off
to bed together.
she and I do
"Make The Wild Stuff"
I leave you
coax a smile from your face:
In all the world
and uni-, multi-, or omni-
there is only 1,
only 1 you.
And if you are to hear
what inside you
wants to be heard,
you must sing at the top of you lungs:
"I am only beginning now to understand,
I can not die,
and all The World
Scott Vanya is an Austin, TX area poet. He has been writing for a long time and favors sharing his work at open mics where he performs extemporaneously and plays guitar. His work has appeared in Walt’s Corner, Manna, Perigee, Chicago Literary Review, Mobius, Cosmic Trend, Pitchfork, Romantics Quarterly, Artisan, Pegasus, The Neovictorian, and The Blind Man's Rainbow. He is author of poetry collections, Free for an Unlimited Time, Conduit's of the Sublime, and CarryAway Seeds. He operates Open Mics Austin, a blogsite that archives various Austin area open mics and performances.
I was born near the end of the runways
It is today
Primrose Hill, at Dawn
The city appears out of the fold,
like a great ghost leering over the horizon
seeking imperfection in the cut of the sky.
Purloined cloud vestments caress the tips
of the grazing dawn, strange marriage vows
encased in the blushing cheek of the sun.
A paradox of vision that scares the viewer,
the subconscious sighs,
a systemic fear of beauty, it'll swallow you in heartache.
A Bridge Over Moving Cars
a freedom ethereal,
a space suspended
hitched on the back of
electric piano notes
burnt from shadows that
linger under a
fortress of zephyr blankets,
manuscript of fog.
Harmony in the roar, a
montage of columns.
I am smoke beyond
the clouds, I am the Lord's breath
above moving cars.
Grant Tarbard has worked as a computer games journalist, a contributor
to football fanzines, an editor, a reviewer and an interviewer. He is now the
editor of The Screech Owl.
When I Sleep I Dream
When I sleep I dream, even though
I can’t close my eyes. But in my head,
I go away. Sitting at a piano
on stage, I'm illumined
by a single spot,
and I can’t see beyond
it's cone of light. I know
the theater's full. I can hear
the whispers and coughs
and the hush settling over all.
I raise my hands toward the keyboard.
They don't reach. I feel myself
move backward, rising from the stage,
but the music plays anyway.
I move farther away and then
I’m aware again of everything –
the nurses, the janitor taking the trash,
those three at the foot of the bed
who never stop staring.
Those three I can't tell about the dream.
They don’t know I dream because
my eyes don’t close and they can’t see
me go away. And they don’t know
when I come back or that I never left.
They talk to me. I see their lips move.
I feel them touch me but I can’t tell them.
I need their touch. It's the only way
I bridge the gulf between
their world and me. But I can’t
tell them, and they can't hear.
And then I dream again.
There is another way to make it stop.
I won’t know when it happens.
I imagine it will be much the same
As the dream. Perhaps it is the dream
but instead of keys, I’ll reach for their faces
and never touch them. Just float backwards
listening to Debussy, rising up.
Joseph Saling's first book of poems A Matter of Mind is available from Foothills Publishing. His poetry and stories have appeared widely in such journals as The Raintown Review, The Formalist, Poet Lore, Ohio Journal, The Bacon Review, Nothing No One Nowhere,and Carcinogenic Poetry. He lives in Metro Atlanta with his wife Sandy and their dog Yeats where to pass the time between poems, he writes stories, paints with acrylics, works on a novel, and makes a living as a freelance health writer and editor.
This is a weapon.
It was not forged in the fire-pits,
left to rot by Hades,
but instead originated here in my
clouds--the small domain I rule
without much interference.
This is not my weapon.
It was built for Zeus.
What would he do if someone
absconded with his lightning?
I would suffer. We all
would fall, stricken.
Caitlin Johnson holds a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from Lesley University. Her work has appeared in Boston Poetry Magazine, Clare Literary Journal, Eternal Haunted Summer, Fortunates, Momoware, Pembroke Magazine, Vagina: The Zine, and What the Fiction, among other outlets, and is forthcoming in Baseline Literary Arts Journal and Stoneboat Literary Journal
Our String Bean Girls
We have forgotten the ways of slow growth
and the harvest that derives from careful husbandry:
how the wintering earth shrinks and hardens,
protecting the new growth at its heart.
Our new spring crop, our string bean girls,
they are seeded and watered under glass:
their pink and purple kernels and pale green shoots
induced to scarlet brilliance too soon.
How painful to watch their leggy growth,
as they tremble on the edge of early fruiting.
Blessed is the harvest that ripens with time;
we, we tear them early from the vine.
(for the Kabul women’s poetry club)
'both personal and political’
it always is
poetry is personal
everything is political
even here, in the cosy west,
they lie in wait for us
‘they’ would have us believe
that the war is over
they would have us
put up our bright swords
'writing poetry is a sin'
but once our mouths closed on it,
once we had tasted
its clear, sweet juice
then we were lost to their authority
now many of us write in secret
‘we talk to the paper’
we talk freely
our hearts speak
it is better than the silence
that is death
A Pushcart nominee for 2013, Abigail Wyatt writes poetry and short fiction from her home near Redruth in Cornwall. She has been published in more than eighty magazines and journals and her poetry has been widely anthologized. Her website is at abiwyatt.wix.com.
Whoever's prophet material
Had best seek counsel
From the nation
Of the 'northern lights':
No velure head-hunter need apply -
No Moulin Rouge mudslinger -
No tyrannous protoplasm
Batting an evil eye -
The cold ground's
Imminent banter -
'Where man ends
The flame begins' *
And we will never
Or Jan Palach
Back together, again.
Tolstoy: Renunciation 2
Best forget why he's here
And from where he came;
If his step thundered
The blunt black bloodstone
Amid the roses...
The Crimea wasn't a parking-lot, then.
A September suburb
By a double
Into words -,
Into a peace
Stefanie Bennett has published 18 books of poetry, acted as a publishing editor and worked with Arts Action for Peace. Of mixed ancestry [Italian/ Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee] she was born in Townsville, Qld., Australia. Stefanie's latest title 'The vanishing', Walleah Press is due at year's end.
The Fairy Castle
It’s sad to watch
the wizards as they
duel with their lightning sticks.
Let’s hide behind the giant stones.
Let’s run away into the night.
The vines will embrace us.
The leaves will kiss us.
The water will speak to us
The snake said to put down the knife.
It is better to go around something
than actually have to confront it.
This is how you escape
from the labyrinth
that always takes more
than it gives.
The wizards will never stop fighting.
Only the moon cares about us.
Only the moon.
We will bide our time with the day.
We will make a deal with the circle.
We will never have to go back.
Our family is a pack of wolves.
It is once again the age of Aquarius.
A large question mark is sometimes better
than a little one, I guess.
The sun is up, and I’m finely starting
to get warm again.
Tunes sparking on the stereo.
Atoms are moving.
Time like a bandit is sitting on top of the fence
It makes the same kind of sense.
Leaves moving through the apocalypse.
Some guy is drawing a line in the dust
and pointing at it with a daedal index.
Scotch tape is better than tacks
or so the landlord thinks.
Life is kind of like a teeter-totter.
It’s good when someone else
is on the other end.
Michael Brautigan is a freelance writer, poet, literary scholar, and activist who graduated from UC Berkeley with a degree in English. He has been published in the Milvia Street Journal, Blink-Ink, Undergroundwriter, and Collective Exile and has been an active member of online writing groups such as the New Surrealist Institute, World Poets Society, Inter Dada, and Poetry San Francisco.
Let’s all agree that we’ve had more than enough of words
And the savage orders we all impose on words.
The felonious heart, scarred and worked over, condemned
To the tool shop, gear shop, sweat shop of words.
Grinding out the witless drill of not quite good enough,
Not quite what I meant to in the hatchet job of words.
The chain gang conviction to a hackneyed meaning
Sweating shackled beneath the warden’s eye of words.
Crack-brained schemes crafted in solitary, silences sharpened
Into caesuras, breaths pried between thick blocks of words.
The lock-step procession of penitential formulations,
Confessions forced out across the fortress of words.
The shoulder-to-shoulder lined before the firing squad
Against the wall blindfolded with a cigarette of words.
The slip in your bloodstream, fall and rattle into silence:
Nothing so dead as the aftermath of words.
Once they get what they want
we stop hearing about him
they get the bow and he looks
like death warmed over
relieved of command and of course
it never heals—that wound
festers worse than ever stinks
to high heaven—such a sucker
to swallow the standard issue
war time scams—camaraderie
and healing—the con games
of the generals and gods
he’s kept in his tent while
they put a new face—clean-shaven,
eager-beaver, bright-eyed killer—
on the Master of the Bow
keep this one confined to quarters
off the midway of History
cause it’s bad for morale
when the poison won’t come out
and you gag him—you’ll have to—
when he screams
Robert F. Gross is a nomadic writer, performer and theatrical director. Over sixty productions at the Bartlett Theater (Geneva, NY), the premiere of Kelly Burke's Zelda (London), Julius Ferraro's Micromania (Philadelphia), poems in The Camel Saloon, Epigraph, Dead Snakes, Danse Macabre, Sein und Werden, Philosophy After Dark. . .
“Think you’re escaping and run into yourself.” James Joyce
Throat chakra knotted in barbed wire clots words
about evolution, about relativity,
about earth science and epistemology--
how do we know what we know.
I yawn, and the world blurs.
The night, half-heard words,
chirping music, and
the body, that ragdoll,
are all part of a dream
while the men are talking.
our words turn the night to ocean.
We’re stranded in a lighthouse.
No, we’re safe in our sanctuary
where small oranges glow in glass bowls,
their scent and color brightening
this salty, mildewed room.
we each take an orange
and go out on the porch.
I break off a vine branch.
Its last leaf rides the dry wind.
Dark cats depart the house.
I say goodbye to you drily.
There is no more ocean tonight.
Sonnet: And bridges
The very dew of life lies soft and low,
Its faint humidity is mist to mind.
All of love’s senses must converge and grow,
As saplings that find and bind, a life intertwined.
Comes in from Nature as that is the base,
Upheaving the thick paint, pastels and a dove,
In the flush of your cheeks and the hue of all races,
Its the Northern Lights unleashed to color our love.
The most beautiful thing you will ever behold
Is the face of your child just a few hours old,
It’s a moment in life that can’t be foretold,
Six loves intertwined and made manifold.
Crack the shell of self love to another,
Bridges to each other, mother, son or lover.
The demented trudge the streets,
some salvaging cans, bottles,
laboring for normality,
in the madness of city life.
Others rave to themselves,
or passing strangers,
with mumbling incantations
from men possessed by demons,
abandoned by their meds.
Most homeless are inconspicuous
hoping to survive
a hostile environment.
unconcerned with the balance
between euro and dollar
allowing hordes of foreigners
avid for tourist experience
to aim intrusive cameras
at degraded spectacles.
I got off the plane,
my wife was waiting,
crying, glad to see me,
told me through tears
the bank foreclosed our house
while I was in Afghanistan
bringing democracy to tribesmen
who lost their homes in battle,
while I lost mine
serving my country.
Once the cry,
'Rome has fallen',
echoed in Europe,
no one mourned,
save a few Romans,
for those dependent
on the empire.
When America falls,
China will not assume
the burden of policeman
to unruly nations
that value sovereignty
the hope of peace.
Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director. He has seven published chapbooks. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City.