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- 09/26/14--08:00: _Brenton Booth - One...
- 09/30/14--11:54: _Amy L. George - Two...
- 10/01/14--11:05: _James Brush - One Poem
- 10/04/14--14:07: _Mariann Garner-Wiza...
- 10/07/14--08:30: _Ross Knapp - Two Poems
- 10/08/14--08:00: _Marcie Eanes - One ...
- 10/10/14--08:00: _Tom Pescatore - One...
- 10/15/14--16:10: _Sheikha A. - Two Poems
- 10/16/14--09:52: _Sergio A. Ortiz - T...
- 10/28/14--12:38: _Fred Chandler - Two...
- 11/05/14--07:30: _Chrystal Berche - O...
- 11/06/14--08:00: _Margaret Boles - On...
- 11/15/14--09:35: _Sandra Ramos O'Bria...
- 11/25/14--10:01: _Benjamin Nash - Two...
- 11/26/14--08:00: _James H. Duncan - O...
- 11/28/14--07:00: _Richard Schnap - Tw...
- 12/08/14--09:41: _Timothy Pilgrim - O...
- 12/11/14--10:55: _Scott Wozniak - One...
- 12/13/14--21:52: _James Piatt - Two P...
- 12/22/14--16:01: _Stefanie Bennett - ...
- 09/26/14--08:00: Brenton Booth - One Poem
- 09/30/14--11:54: Amy L. George - Two Poems
- 10/01/14--11:05: James Brush - One Poem
- 10/04/14--14:07: Mariann Garner-Wizard - Two Poems
- 10/07/14--08:30: Ross Knapp - Two Poems
- 10/08/14--08:00: Marcie Eanes - One Poem
- 10/10/14--08:00: Tom Pescatore - One Poem
- 10/15/14--16:10: Sheikha A. - Two Poems
- 10/16/14--09:52: Sergio A. Ortiz - Two Poems
- 10/28/14--12:38: Fred Chandler - Two Poems
- 11/05/14--07:30: Chrystal Berche - One Poem
- 11/06/14--08:00: Margaret Boles - One Poem
- 11/15/14--09:35: Sandra Ramos O'Briant - One Poem
- 11/25/14--10:01: Benjamin Nash - Two Poems
- 11/26/14--08:00: James H. Duncan - One Poem
- 11/28/14--07:00: Richard Schnap - Two Poems
- 12/08/14--09:41: Timothy Pilgrim - One Poem
- 12/11/14--10:55: Scott Wozniak - One Poem
- 12/13/14--21:52: James Piatt - Two Poems
- 12/22/14--16:01: Stefanie Bennett - Two Poems
I swear I'll become like a monkey in the zoo,
flinging excrement at my keepers and
ever-ready to bite the hand that tries to feed me
under the guise of authenticity!
Humans are social animals, sure; so are chickens,
but neither is designed to live cooped up
with barely enough room to spread their wings!
The prevailing pave-every-parking-lot philosophy
makes even the run-down strip malls look spacious and pure.
Unless and until we actually get
the personal jetpacks once promised by the Future,
they can take these mini-apartments and
overwrought tourist fests and
grub that's more sculptural than edible
and just – save it, OK?
Save it until us old coots and biddies
who don't want to be connected with everyone we know all the time
die off naturally; can you do that?
Then the rest of you can bicycle to work next door to your squat,
where you'll do something prestidigital, get paid in virtual currency,
and groove on in that post-mod fantasy world
until all the zombie cows come home
and kick down the un-stable walls of Densetopia;
then burn, baby, burn!
Mariann Garner-Wizard is Texas writer and editor and a member of the Austin Poetry Society. She contributes regularly to The Rag Blogand to HerbClips and has authored or co-authored several books, including two self-published volumes of verse, "SIXTY" (w/ photography by Scout Stormcloud, Lulu, 2006) and "Didn't You Hear Me the First Time?" (Dharma Wizard on Lulu, 2013). Some of her performances in Austin's East by Southeast (ExSE) annual video poetry showcase are available on YouTube.
Futures so bright
Following societies’ grand design:
Twenty to thirty-wedding, make mundane money.
Thirty to sixty-Protestant wealth, children.
Sixty to ninety-compromised vacations, then dead.
Here at twenty-four, we still call each other honey,
Only two years wed--
Cracks are beginning to show.
The once in a while passionate sex--
The increasing glances of hopelessness
The spending free time on opposite sides of the house.
Coming down from the Wuthering Heights of happiness
Origin of love, lost in madness and chaos.
Here we are: a year later—divorce.
Neither wishing to see the other ever again.
Just another dark statistical dot of death.
Hipsters preaching doctrines
Far above the rabble in their luxury high-rises.
Triteness the only new anathema,
Only one unoriginal thesis
To add to the church door.
Bastardize the universal basics
Leaving all branded with the imperial words--
Too simple, too archetypal.
They babble on and on and on
Like that one annoying alcoholic aunt.
Graphic design along with materialistic I-Phones
And ridiculous oculus eyes,
Clearly qualifying one as omniscient critic.
They endlessly socialize and
Schmooze over sugar soaked lattes,
Showing off their status-booze on Instagram.
Thirty to forty something moms and dads
Inevitable inferiority complexes.
The freshest fad in the land--
The newest tritest archetype.
Ross Knapp is a recent college graduate with degrees in philosophy and literature. He has an experimental literary novel forthcoming and various poetry publications in Blue Lake Review, Poetry Pacific Magazine, Burningword Literary Journal, Belle Reve Literary Journal, Blood and Thunder Literary Magazine, Tipsy Lit Literary Magazine, and Clockwise Cat Literary Magazine.
I Once Appeared to William Blake in a Dream
I once appeared to
William Blake in a dream,
I was in mourning,
for daylight had passed onto night,
I was a shadow lurking
and he called out
to a vision of me,
it was raining outside my window,
there were long streaks and
gray streets, obscured,
I could not make out his cry,
it was muffled by oozing time,
by corporeal pain, by loosened screwed,
I tasted stale wine on my tongue,
he wretched at the smell
and I saw in that moment
I was but a phantom stretching out,
bleeding into void,
I was the nothingness sent to take him,
I was the coward stranger,
the burning savior,
I once appeared to
William Blake in a dream.
Tom Pescatore grew up outside Philadelphia dreaming of the endless road ahead, carrying the idea of the fabled West in his heart. He maintains a poetry blog: amagicalmistake.
I once lived in a desert,
I wasn’t born with a fickle mind.
to have me in an eternal, ambulant search,
for the scent of my soul has displaced;
but Coelho’s desert is vast
whereas mine fawns
if you visit my city,
for what the moon didn’t show
you will see the bloodless white
the sky is a dark-grey
or how the camel coloured shores
you may gaze at our honour-bound
so long as you keep it unclaimed –
the nocturnal winds are sharper
and your sheep would taste
if you visit my city
don’t be alarmed for the desert it is not,
because the moon does lose to an eclipse
Sheikha A. is the author of Spaced (a poetry collection published by Hammer and Anvil Books, 2013) and poetry editor for eFiction India whose works have appeared in numerous publications such as Red Fez, Mad Swirl, American Diversity Report, The Penmen Review, Danse Macabre du Jour, The Rainbow Journal, Sunlit amongst several anthologies as well. She currently writes from Karachi, Pakistan. Her real name is Umm-e-Aiman Vejlani.
A hand drew a face
Became a life
Was a reflection
Of the drawer
One a lie
The other a truth
One lived on
The other died
Everyone is set about moving
To the land ahead
The new home
But this all must be done
Before the sun sets
Before the evening
Before night comes
Where eyes go blind
To see the way
Where we're going to
What was to be
From one tablet
Of a great promise
All teetering on
The last of the faint light
Where here is rapidly fading
Fred Chandler is the author of two chapbooks, A Flying Frog and X Factor. He is a recipient of a National Endowment for the Humanities grant, a fellow of the American Film Institute, a member of the Writers Guild of America and the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. Fred's poems have appeared in Voices Israel, The Pink Chameleon, Splizz, Northern Stars, Black Lantern, KCET, Danse Macabre, and The Storyteller, among other publications. His website can be viewed at www.fredchandler.com.
By The Weir Near the Townhall
The swan's head is red
rusty almost bloody
the long neck reaches
to the river silt
searching for food.
He almost, but not quite
uptails it, wrestling with
the mud, ~ I look left
to the Cathedral, right
to the thundering weir~
up at a patch of blue sky
try to count gulls, ducks,
geese as they blend in
to this picture, ~ unlike
the lone white swan
with the red rusty marks
on the crown of his head.
Margaret Boles has been writing poetry since 1996. Her work has been published in the small presses worldwide, including such places as Poetry Monthly UK, THE Moon, Labor of Love, and Metverse Muse. Margaret's book "The Eye of the Tiger" was published with Sanbun Press.
Sandra Ramos O'Briant's is the author of The Sandoval Sisters’ Secret of Old Blood (La Gente Press, September 2012), which was awarded Best Historical Fiction and Best First Book by International Latino Book Awards. Her short stories and creative nonfiction have appeared in numerous print and online journals. www.thesandovalsisters.com has a complete listing and links, as well as excerpts from her novel.
in dark pencil,
in dark dreary portable,
in dark dreamy city lights
a boy is drawing a city in an eye,
lined in tall skyscrapers,
a little slice of moon,
dangling as if
Under a bridge,
the color of the skin,
the color of the rio choluteca,
the glue sniffers,
Benjamin Nash has a few poems published in Red River Review, Illya's Honey, Literary Juice, Southern Poetry Review, and others.
the mile-wide stormfront of pitch black western
rain, solid sheets, calling after us, roiling, lashing
across the Great Plains
the dirt in the air, cruel and hungry
boots worn from the eastern highways, rotting
pants stained by another farmer’s field,
no money, no going home,
men of karma crawling
into another starless night
speaking words from leather books
reading poetry aloud from skulls
explaining lives in order to lose them
a campfire nobody can see but us
we count water and days
we count miles and stones
we count laughter and bread
we count lovers and the warnings
that death leaves for us
in the middle of the striped highway
the trick to evading fate another day
is to taste the dirt in the air
and feel the earth move within your lungs
hear the nettles by the roadside speak of
every blood moon night you’ll share
between here and the sea
nothing else matters
nothing else matters
until it all adds up and away you go again
I pass by the cashiers
In their identical uniforms
A colony of ants
In a line of shoppers
Talking on cell phones
A company of parrots
While across the street
Students run for the bus
A herd of antelopes
And children walk by
Holding each others hands
A flock of doves
As down at the bar
Old men nurse their beers
A troop of buffalos
Waiting for the ones
That will carry them away
A murder of crows
House of Rain
Once it was the home
Of a self-loathing beast
Chained to himself
And a bird who once flew
Clear across the ocean
Until caught in his cage
Now it is a cave
Where two creatures hide
In a mutual darkness
Waiting to see
Which one will outlast
Their dwindling candle
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 prine and online publications.
Someone’s Son is Sprawled Out
The Evolution of Violence
Spewing scarlet rhetoric
Like broken glass
Over the unforgiven,
Justifying their lies
With selected ambiguities,
Words of alienation
Burning with crimson injustice
Condemn the innocent
Masses in ghettos
To everlasting poverty,
Unable to escape
The ego nothingness
Of the consuming flames
Of elitist hostility,
Sown in the minds
Of pitiable alienated youth…
In the end
Hatred and revenge
Is born in such
A Miniscule Speck in the Heavens
From Saturn there appears in the dark sky billions of miles away, a
tiny luminous dot: It is but an inconspicuous and insignificant chunk
of water and dirt in the midst of vastness, a tiny crumb floating in
the darkness of never ending space: The implication of earth being
such a trivial speck in the vast universe, fails to make an impact
upon too many minds. Far too often, humans feel their singular
greatness and importance is vast and everlasting. How can one not
understand that human hands in search of meaningless wealth are
destroying the little bit of soil on which we all dwell? What is the
importance of the accumulation of things, if it creates toxic air,
polluted streams, and contaminated oceans? What is the value of
continually amassing worthless objects, trinkets of gold and gems,
which are ephemeral? What does man actually need in which to live his
finite life pleasantly and comfortably? When will humans awaken, and
grasp the nature of what they are doing to the earth; what will our
future families have left, when this tiny speck of insignificant, yet
precious damp piece of dust is ruined?
Dr. Piatt is the author of two poetry books, “The Silent Pond” (2012) and “Ancient Rhythms” (2014). He has had over 585 published, and his poem, “In The Meadow,” was selected as 1 of the 100 best poems of 2014, and his poem, “I Am” was nominated for a 2014 Pushcart award. His books are available on Amazon, and Barnes and Noble.